Loresongs

[shad0ws0ngs]

I am hoping to either get people to post the loresongs of different items.. with the item description itself.. or to let my bard, Japhrimel, loresing to it himself. Either one works for me. I have a few pretty nice loresongs saved such as a ring that creates shadowy full leathers, a pure coraesine falchion, a bloodsoul vultite falchion, some bow that does something or other and is nice, a massive stone mattock, and sand elementals. Any interest?

[WRoss]

you should sing to the kroderine plate

[waywardgs]

It'd be nice to have a compendium of this stuff. Some of it is already on Krakii.

[shad0ws0ngs]

if I can get my hands on it for a few minutes, I will. I'd love to sing to Nordred's gauntlet, too, even though it will kill me.

[shad0ws0ngs]

For a massive stone mattock:

Suddenly the ground beneath you trembles and shakes and you lose your footing and fall to the ground.

Rising out of the ground before you, there and yet, not there, an ernormous female stone giant. She looks at you sadly as she plunges her hands into the earth and pulls out a giant boulder which separates into twin stone giantlings. She drops the two giantlings and moments later they start to grow into full-sized stone giants as they orbit around the mother. Suddenly, one twin breaks from the orbit and crashes into the mother, driving her into the earth, while the other twin can do naught but watch in horror. Soon the murderous twin turns his attention to the other twin, who flees into the ground. The scene changes and you see the twin who fled standing before you. He draws a glowing sigil in the air, a star inside a circle surrounded by a half-circle. His mouth does not move, yet he speaks all the same, "What was torn asunder must be rejoined, what was buried must be uncovered, I give to you this gift in the battle against the usurper, use it well child of the earth."

The vision fades and slowly your vision returns to normal.


Anyone else notice the "an ernormous female stone giant"

[m444w]

You can sing to anything I have japh... just remind me.

[Praefection]

Go to River's Rest and check out their museum. Everything inside there has a loresong and it's a gold mine for a bard. I spent hours there on my first trip. :)

[Seizer]

I never saved a log of it but Alisaire had this item that would kill you once you plied through the whole song. Also any Iasha white ora items are pretty good. If you happen to meet Sovine ask if you can sing to his rush lion medallion. It has a good story.

[shad0ws0ngs]

I'll do that, thanks. The RR museum was a great source of loresongs. Each room had a few items that bards can handle and get loresongs off of. If anyone wants any of them, let me know.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Here is an interesting item. It's a party horn from the current CHE festival. The reason I personally find it interesting is that it has a lore song, yet also provides data. Previously everything I've sung to provided one or the other.

a silver party horn with multi-colored silk streamers.

>look horn
The party horn has an ivory mouthpiece, and a dazzling display of silk streamers in various shades of reds, blues, greens, and purples, along with silver and gold, hangs from the end. Each streamer has been embroidered with the name of one of the Cooperative Houses of Elanthia in elegant script. The streamers for House of the Rising Phoenix, House of the Argent Aspis, House of the Arcane Masters, House of Paupers, and House Brigatta also bear the number 20. Gold leaf engraving along the body of the horn carries a message.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O party horn that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


A silver party horn with multi-colored silk streamers in your hand vibrates slightly in response to your song, and soon your vision clouds. You see a small, rough frontier town set at the north end of the Locksmehr River where it empties into Darkstone Bay. You are swept over toward the northeast corner of the town to a stately structure on the western bank of the Locksmehr River guarded by a uniformed doorkeeper. The image of a jade dragon wrapped around a crystal ball rises from the structure and spins in front of you before silvery sparkles momentarily blinds you.

As the blackness dissipates, you find yourself moving toward a garden on the east bank of the Locksmehr River. A wood-framed manor rests within the garden, and an amphitheater is visible near the manor's entrance. The image of a silver dragon rises from the manor and swoops merrily around the amphitheater before the vision yanks you toward the center of town in a swirl of brilliant white and blue.

The movement stops, leaving you hovering over a cozy mansion tucked away and guarded by a stout gatekeeper. The image of a sapphire blue-tinted unicorn sporting a silver horn rises from the mansion and gallops toward you, dissipating just as it seems she may run right into you. You exhale slowly in response to the encounter as your vision clouds blue and gold.

When it clears again, you find yourself near the large square of the frontier town, lingering over the southwest corner. You see a proud mansion gaily decorated, with the sounds of music and raucous laughter pouring out. Suddenly, a streak of gold shoots into the sky and bursts into a shower of sparks that form themselves into three golden chalices. Shouts of appreciation can be heard from the mansion below just as your vision goes crimson with bursts of blinding gold.

When you can see again, you find yourself near a somber looking temple at the center of the frontier town, hovering outside a grand building. You sense a great urgency emanating from the building, and as you wonder over its meaning, a crimson phoenix leaps into the sky and explodes into brilliant golden flames. Just before your vision clears, you notice a small crimson phoenix on the building's roof where the flames had settled.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the party horn in your hand, and you learn something about it...

This is a small item, under a pound. In your best estimation, it's worth about 5,000 silvers.

>loresing O party horn that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
...wait 4 seconds.
>loresing O party horn that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O party horn that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


A silver party horn with multi-colored silk streamers in your hand vibrates in response to your song, and soon your vision clouds slightly. You find yourself still hovering over the frontier town, but it appears to have an increased number of buildings and is bustling with a large crowd of all races. Suddenly, everyone stops and gazes up at the sky over Darkstone Bay as a dazzling fireworks show begins, each set of sparkles forming a different image: a silver crescent moon cradling a scarlet owl; a silver lion; a pair of hands clasped in a heart shape outlined in green and silver; a silver-outlined oak tree; a blue and silver claidhmore; a green willow tree; and a silver sword pointed upright with eight purple stars surrounding it. Somewhere off to the distance, not quite within the town proper, a silver-outlined rose-and-tower fireworks display erupts.

You then find yourself being pulled to the north and hover over a town nestled within the snow and glaciers to see fireworks burst into the image of gold and blue polar bear's head. Next, you are pulled far to the east, over the lands known commonly as the Elven Nations, in time for another fireworks display of three moons outlined in white and red.

You feel yourself pulled once more, this time to the southwest of the Elanith Continent to a small town along the Tempest River near the Maelstrom Bay. An ivory streak shoots toward the sky before erupting into a display of crimson sparks that form themselves into the image of an open tome.

At last, your vision clears, and yet the dazzling displays linger momentarily before your eyes, causing you to blink a few times.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the party horn in your hand, and you learn something about it...

From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the horn is as a decorative one, perhaps. You are not sure exactly.

>loresing O party horn in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O party horn in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


A silver party horn with multi-colored silk streamers in your hand vibrates slightly in response to your song, and soon your vision clouds slightly. You are greeted with a parade of all sixteen images you had seen before and the faint ringing of cheers calling out, "Happy Twentieth Anniversary to the Cooperative Houses of Elanthia!" Your vision slowly clears, and you notice the silk streamers on your party horn fluttering slightly.
You learn nothing new about the horn.

>loresing O party horn held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O party horn held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

You are unable to draw anything further from the party horn.
You learn nothing new about the horn.

[Asile]

Here is an interesting item. It's a party horn from the current CHE festival. The reason I personally find it interesting is that it has a lore song, yet also provides data. Previously everything I've sung to provided one or the other.

a silver party horn with multi-colored silk streamers.

>look horn
The party horn has an ivory mouthpiece, and a dazzling display of silk streamers in various shades of reds, blues, greens, and purples, along with silver and gold, hangs from the end. Each streamer has been embroidered with the name of one of the Cooperative Houses of Elanthia in elegant script. The streamers for House of the Rising Phoenix, House of the Argent Aspis, House of the Arcane Masters, House of Paupers, and House Brigatta also bear the number 20. Gold leaf engraving along the body of the horn carries a message.

FYI, these horns have 4 scripts attached to them.

[Gsgeek]

Ok I have a few items I have saved loresongs from:


1. a silver captain's wheel pendant
The tangy smell of the briny sea comes over you as you begin to sing. You see a vision of what appears to be a young man on a privateer's ship. He is standing on the forecastle, looking down at the deckhands below as they swab the deck and check the rigging of the huge, billowing sails. A call comes from above and he spins to the rail to see what approaches.

Suddenly the deck below explodes in a frenzy of activity. All hands drop their mops and begin to arm themselves with a variety of deadly weapons. Off the starboard bow, the young man spies a four-masted merchant ship, trying desperately to outrun the privateers. He pulls out his dagger, and clenching it between his teeth, grabs a rope and gallantly swings down to the deck below. Running to the railing, he joins the other sailors in preparation for boarding the merchant ship.

The privateers pull alongside the merchant ship. Hooks attached to ropes fly through the air and boarding planks fill the space between the two ships. The young man joins the other sailors and crosses over to meet the armed and waiting merchant sailors. A short, pitched battle ensues on the blood soaked deck of the merchant ship. The sharp clang of steel fills the air as men on both sides fall to the swords of their opponents. However, the merchants are no match for the seasoned pirates, and they are quickly overcome.

Back on the privateer ship, the captain watches as large chests filled with gold, silver and gems are brought over and laid out on the deck. Several injured pirates are also being carried back aboard, one of them the young man. The captain's expression turns from one of joy to one of concern as he runs over to the young man's unconscious form. The young man has several large gashes across his body, one of which has cut open his shirt to reveal that the young man is in fact a young woman!

The captain picks up the limp form of the young woman and carries her below decks into his quarters. He returns to the captain's wheel and begins barking out orders to set sail. The pirates slowly sail away from the burning wreckage of the merchant ship and begin to pick up speed across the waves. At the helm, the captain looks to the horizon as tears stream down his cheeks.

As the vision begins to fade, you hear a barely whispered voice on the wind saying, "Dead men tell no tales."
You learn nothing new about the pendant.



2.sand elemental
The sand elemental shifts and swirls, its sands grating against one another to form a faint, high-pitched sound that echoes about your mind for several moments.

The sand elemental continues to sing in its strange, melodic voice of sand against sand and for a moment you catch brief glimpses of something fiery and red and all consuming for a scant few seconds.

As you focus your voice and stare at the sand elemental, your eyes are drawn to its swirling interior, and you find yourself lost in the haze of sand... until you are no longer staring at the elemental, but are somewhere else -- crimsons and russets bleed restlessly at the edge of the world, and mingle like ribbons overhead in fantastic, gargantuan waves of pristine beauty. You feel yourself drifting carelessly through the earth, bumping along rocks and encountering different soils -- heedless to everything as you have no body, only a conciousness that streams through the earth in swift heartbeats.

You once again find yourself lost in a vision comprised of the sand elemental's swirling body...
You drift along the currents of earth, and find yourself being pulled somewhere, heat surrounding you like an intense forge as a blinding light blocks your vision. You feel the sensation of ethereal being fading into corporeal existence, and your conciousness is bound to a physical form -- one comprised of hot earth and a twinge of flame. You flow in this new existence, never leaving the confines of the cavern you've arrived in, merely waiting and bathing in the essence from the tiny rip in reality, growing slightly as the years pass.
Then the vision ends.

You once again find yourself lost in a vision comprised of the sand elemental's swirling body...
You find yourself back in the cavern, feeding steadily off the essence bleeding from the nexus within -- others are there, as well, waiting until they too may venture out into the sands. But then, something changes. You sense presences that are only dimly aware or not at all aware of the flow, and you find yourself drawn to them, somehow. One of them reaches for you in your small hiding place, and you assent to their wishes, allowing them to hold you in your shard.
Then the vision ends.

Delving deeply into the elemental, you get a sense that it isn't very good at carving, isn't very good at holding objects, isn't very good at digging, isn't very good at creating a sandstorm, and is fairly good at morphing.
Also, it appears that it is fairly disciplined about flaying a hand, is fairly disciplined about hiding, is fairly disciplined about misbehaving, and is fairly disciplined about casting quakes.


3.a dark suede multi-strapped harness
As the song begins, the world dissolves into a grainy image of windswept tundra where a pair of hunters hide behind some scrub. Time passes, and a beast of burden lumbers past. The younger hunter stands, takes aim with his single spear and hurls it with all his might, yet for naught as it flies wide. The elder sighs as he watches the beast tramp away. He quips, "Too bad little brother, you shall feel father's bow across your back when we return home with no game." The picture dissolves away.

Sitting around a fire, the young hunter has grown and many rings adorn his upswept pointed ears. He sits tailor-fashion, stretching the hides of a tribe of fenghai he has slain in his trial of manhood. He stares at them with fascination, as he carefully scrapes the skins and alternately glances at the old shaman sitting before the fire chanting in an old, forgotten tongue. "Old one, in my hunt, I was burdened carrying an entire sheaf of spears and my stealth was less than I was capable of." The old man stares into the smoke, lost in thought.

Many moons have passed, and a group of hunters stand around a bier. The elder hunter intones a ritual as the old one is lowered into a pit lined with oil-soaked grass and sticks. The hunter, now a warleader in his tribe and considered one of the smartest in his village, removes the shaman's pouch and sorts through it. A single scroll with an unbroken seal is the only item that he has never seen, as the other items are common; a smoking pipe, various herbs and medicinal items, some assorted bones, and a slender willow wand. He opens the scroll and gazes fondly at the body. "You finally came to an answer for a young man's question." His eyes mist over as he casts a torch into the pyre, sending the old man home.


Sitting in a circle, the village elders chant ritual verses. The old hunter's son is ready to face his trials. His son straps on a quiver of tanned fenghai hide, adorned with many glass beads, and leather fringe from which old bones hang. The old man gazes fondly at his son and, reading from the old scroll, draws arcane symbols into the air. The single spear within the quiver glows softly a moment as it changes. "Take it," he commands. The boy grabs it and pulls and, to his surprise, it shimmers as he holds a spear in his hand, yet the one spear remained within. The old man lifts his head to the sky, and silently gives thanks.


Your song draws to a close and you feel the story has ended.


4. a five-ring carved hoarbeam runestaff

Melody and memory collide in a brilliant cascade of shimmering notes. Your surroundings suddenly fade and you find yourself in the middle of a deep forest. The canopy is thick, but the dappled sunlight peeking through provides more than adequate illumination. Just ahead, an elderly gnome trudges a well-worn path, leading an extremely fat grey pony. The pony plods obediently behind him, carrying an odd assortment of sticks in addition to his already substantial burden. In a burst of color your vision fades.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

Voice and vision intertwine in a dizzying array of color and tone. You find yourself inside a small one-room cabin. The elderly gnome from the forest path sits in a rocking chair with a whittling knife. Across his lap rests a large branch of ebonwood which he is carefully smoothing, tapering and shaping into a well balanced and beautiful staff. Working at an astonishing speed, he carves a sinister claw at the top end of the staff. A discordant note rises between you and the staff, pushing you into darkness. After a moment, the darkness lifts and you notice with a start that your surroundings have shifted.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

Song and staff struggle against your will creating a cacophony of crossed senses while the world goes black around the edges. In your mind's eye, you see the now familiar gnomish whittler still sitting in his rocking chair. After thoroughly inspecting his work, the whittler stands and walks across the room, dragging the staff behind him. From a petite chest, he pulls a tiny amber ball and deftly places it inside the claw atop the large ebonwood runestaff. He holds the staff up to the light and you notice a dark occlusion in the stone. It appears as if a long bug, perhaps a caterpillar, has been trapped within the amber. The threads of the vision begin to unravel and you are left feeling queasy and unsettled.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

At the sound of your voice, the staff yields easily and you are plunged once more into darkness. As your vision returns, you are confronted by a golden slit-pupil eye staring directly at you. With a sigh of relief, you recognize the eye as the decorative amber globe on the whittler's ebonwood runestaff. He appears to be hard at work on another staff, this time of silver haon. He has finished the basic shaping and tapering and is concentrating on the decorative carving for the top. Working carefully, he has roughed out a series of five interlocking rings. As he continues to refine his design, your concentration falters and you find yourself being drawn back to the present.

Roundtime: 12 sec.

Your voice vibrates in harmony with the staff, drawing you back once again to the familiar cabin. The whittler is sitting on a cushion with the silver haon staff before him. A collection of small jars and vials are strewn about the cabin floor. The gnome dips a brush into one and begins to apply some color to the carving of the five rings. Hanging on the wall behind him, you notice a well cared for painting of a stately gnome lady in profile. She is obviously related to the fellow kneeling on the floor. She is wearing a black dress, a white bonnet and white gloves in a style that suggests a generation's difference at most. As you shift your focus back to the wizened gnome on the floor, the vision ends.

Roundtime: 13 sec.

You attempt to withdraw more from the runestaff, but you are unable to trace the vision further.

Roundtime: 11 sec.
(not sure if theres more on this or not, was as far as I got)

[shad0ws0ngs]

a smoky obsidian ring: - makes shadowy full leathers
As you start to sing, your senses close in around you and you feel as if your thoughts are being pulled into a black swirling vortex that was the ring. Falling deeper into the vortex, you catch glimpses of dark shapes at the edge of your vision, faces contorted in silent agonized screams. Reaching the depths of the void, you hover at the edge of a fire-lit circle. There you watch as thirteen cowl-draped figures each dip a fist into the shattered entrails of what was once a magnificent stag. Raising their fists in one last salute, the figures turn as if one and point directly at you. From within their throats grows a hoarse chant, as it rises in tone and pitch a flash of light pours from their raised fists and slams into you. The force of the impact sends you hurtling backwards up through the vortex and out to crash to the ground from whence you had come.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a twisted ebonwood-hilted black ora flamberge set with silver barbs

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O flamberge that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


As your song flows into the black ora flamberge, it is echoed back like a distorted reflection from a warped mirror. The discordant tones twist and writhe across the backdrop of your mind, bringing forth imagines that flash with alarming vibrancy. -- A light haze of smoke slants across the scene, back lit by dozens of ebony candles glowing with a purple-tinged brilliance. Your gaze pans upward, and you find yourself staring into the marble faces of the Lornon pantheon. The smoke dances languidly in your line of sight, creating on the pale visages the illusion of movement - leering smiles, laughter, and contemptuous gazes from cold stone eyes. Your breath quickens, and your sight begins to fail as all plunges into darkness.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O flamberge that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


The notes of your song shed light once again on your marbled surroundings. Above, the patrons of Lornon gaze downward upon the scene, and you turn your eyes from them, instead taking in your surroundings. Around you rise the walls of a marble chapel, and tucked within the stony niches are windows of dark stained glass. No light filters through their jewel-toned panels, and instead, the light from a myriad of candles caresses their polished surfaces.

Before you, in the center of a floor marked by concentric circles of brass-inlaid conduits, is a raised, ivory marble and obsidian altar. Atop the altar, the prone form of a young man lies, his face turned from you, and his limbs fixed at each corner. You can see that from each of the corners, thin rivers of blood run within brass-inlaid channels, conveying the sanguine liquid to the design underfoot. A glance downward reveals the labyrinthine pattern traced in blood, and the movement of your head causes your vision to swim. With a quick inhalation, your sight is extinguished.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O flamberge in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


With a frightful abruptness, your song calls forth a vision from the black ora flamberge. -- You find yourself closer now to the altar at the labyrinth's heart, and a heavy weight calls your attention to your hands. You find there a twisted ebonwood-hilted black ora flamberge set with silver barbs, its blade smeared with incarnadine streaks. In your chest, your breath comes and goes in haste, and you feel a certain dizziness as you take the blade into one hand and extend your other to the face of the man atop the altar. Your fingers leave ruby-hued prints on his skin as you tilt his face toward you, and you hear an unidentifiable, though audible noise fall from your lips. All at once, darkness closes your sight.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O flamberge held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


The notes of your song draw you back into the black ora flamberge's memories, and you find that the face looking up at you no longer belongs to the prone young man. Instead, your own visage stares back at you: sightless eyes, sallow skin, and lips perched open as if to draw the next breath, which never seems to come. Laughter begins to echo in the empty chapel, and you look up, expecting to see one of the marble statues come to life with morbid merriment. Instead, they are motionless, and you come to realize that the hysterical laughter is none other than your own. As you stumble backwards, your feet slip in the blood that runs in narrow rivers through the marble floor, and you feel yourself falling... falling... falling... until blackness engulfs you.


Roundtime: 10 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O flamberge that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Your song draws to a close, and you feel the story has ended.
You learn nothing new about the flamberge.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the black ora flamberge in your hand, and you learn something about it...

The first thing that strikes you about the flamberge is the weight, which is about 5 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 1,250,000 silvers. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the black ora flamberge.

[MokiePrime]

an ethereally pale spidersilk haversack ~ The density of the pale spidersilk haversack's weave varies at regular intervals, running the gamut from the texture of heavy damask to an attenuated cloth resembling an orb weaver's web. A faintly oily sheen imbues each shimmering thread, producing a soft, shimmering iridescence at the places where the spidersilk is most thickly woven. A small black spider-shaped mark has been unobtrusively placed upon the haversack. At the center of the mark, the black ichor gives way to a reddish-brown bloodstain in the shape of an hourglass.

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.

As your song weaves the resonances of the pale spidersilk haversack together, everything fades from view except the haversack. 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 pale spidersilk haversack.

Instead of the pale spidersilk haversack, 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 pale spidersilk haversack 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 pale spidersilk haversack, which lies still and inert.

[MokiePrime]

And because the first post would be absurdly long had I not split it up...

Morphing Jewelry from...I don't know, but I want to say the Dhu '01.

a silver-etched bloodjewel band ~ The vaalin-backed selanthan bloodjewel is expertly inset onto the rim of the band. The metallic bands extending from the base vaalin are broken up into tiny segments, decreasing slightly in width as they loop out and link up together. The segmentation enables each link to recede back into another. -->

a sigil-covered bloodjewel bracer ~ The selanthan bloodjewel is imbedded onto a thin sheet of vaalin that extends outward away from the center plate, covering the backside of the wearer's fist. Also extending from the center plate, in the opposite direction of the imbedded sheet of vaalin, is a spine-like strip of steel. Several sheets of metal branch off from the spine in a half-circle arc that would easily cover the lower forearm of the wearer. -->

a twisted bloodjewel earring ~ The two strips of segmented metal entwine one another with perfect symmetry. A small linking clasp secures the selanthan bloodjewel to the base of the twisted metals. A tiny hook of pure gold protrudes out from the tip of one of the twined metal strips serving as the fastener between the earlobe and earring. -->

an intricate bloodjewel talisman ~ Each silver link is finely crafted and easily interlocked with the one adjacent to itself. A tiny silver loop is attached to the end of one string of silver links while the other string has a miniature clasp formed from pure gold. The opposite end of the silver links disappears into the vaalin base metal, which is carefully resting on top of a circular band. The selanthan bloodjewel fills the center of the circular band perfectly.

Loresong:

As you sing, you sense resonant vibrations coming from the talisman, matching pitch with yours. Soon a harmony is achieved, and a brilliant display begins to materialize before you...

A tinker gnome sits hunched over a workbench with the sharp pinging of metal on metal echoing around the workshop. Suddenly, a soft melody drifts in:

"Wonders so fine,
wonders all mine,
I wonder what my hubby has for me this time."

Upon hearing the tune, the gnome male sighs softly and turns away from his work and waits for the door to his workshop to open. It appears as if time has worn the tinker gnome down, but his eyes seem to reveal a much younger age.


Once again you harmonize with the talisman and beckon it to continue with the display...

The door to the workshop swings open and a female gnome saunters in. "Geodd, what fancies did you purchase for me this morn while at the market?" questions the lady gnome. "I have a splendid diamond ring for thee," Geodd replies while handing the ring to his wife. The gnome lady beams with delight, takes the ring, and scurries out of the workshop. Upon his wife's departure, Geodd spins back around on his stool and goes back to work. While Goedd continues to work, the sun in the window slowly sinks into the horizon.


You continue your melody with the talisman and the image returns...

The familiar pinging echoes throughout the shop as Geodd contines his work. A cheerful whistling begins to contrast with the pinging metal and soon Geodd stops working. Geodd sighs knowingly and once again turns around on his stool waiting for the door to swing open. The door swings open again and there stands Geodd's wife again with the diamond ring in her hand. "The ring is dull, it has served its use, what do ye have for me now?" asks the wife. "I have this lovely silver rope necklace for you my dear. Its beauty almost comparable to thee." The gnome lady beams with delight, snatches the necklace and skips out of the shop. Geodd shakes his head and returns to his work.


As you continue your song, the image flickers back into your mind...

Geodd still appears to be working on his project when a whistling melody once again interrupts him. Soon, the doorway is once again occupied by his wife with the silver necklace in hand. "Geodd, the necklace is tarnished, what else do ye have for me?" sighs the wife questioningly. "This gold ruby-inlaid tiara should be the perfect compliment to such a lovely head," replies Geodd. The wife beams a smile, takes the tiara and scurries out the door.

Geodd springs from his stool and rushes over to the door, latching it shut. Geodd then pulls a rolled up parchment from out of his cloak and mutters to himself, "Day after day, week and week, this will obviously never end. . . time to put my plan into action."

Geodd's wife strolls up to the door and fiddles with the handle, but it does not open. "Geodd!" screeches the wife, "why is the door latched, let me in!" The gnome lady proceeds to beat and beat and beat on the door with her tiny fists. This carries on for quite some time until finally the door swings open. Without uttering a word, Geodd holds out his hand and the wife promptly puts the tiara in it. Geodd then hands his wife a gem set onto a metal backing. Geodd's wife blinks at the trinket in amazement and asks, "What is this?" "Tap it and you shall never be bored with your jewelry ever again," Geodd replies.


Your breath becomes labored as you try to coax yet more out of the talisman...

Geodd's wife taps the trinket in her hand once and much to her surprise and delight the trinket shifts into a piece of jewelry. Fascinated by this new wonderment, Geodd's wife begins to tap the trinket at a frantic pace and watches as it continues to shift into new pieces. Geodd cries out, "No, no, hon wait! No so fast! It will break . . ." However, his wife continues to tap the trinket faster and faster until finally . . . *SNAP* the trinket shatters into tiny fragments. Geodd lets out a long, soft sigh as his wife begins to berate him for something new...

[BulletSponge]

If you sing to one of those orbs that people got when they added day and night to the game, you get an awsome 4 part (I think) lore song that everyone in the room can see.

[ThatDamnTep]

you should sing to the kroderine plate


if I can get my hands on it for a few minutes, I will. I'd love to sing to Nordred's gauntlet, too, even though it will kill me.

One of the sets is snug in my locker. But I'll save you the trouble. You won't get anything out of it other than it eating all of your mana and being in general awful.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a gold-streaked mithril tube with one bulbous end - The mithril tube appears to be a mixture of gnome tinkering and magical science. The tip of the tube resembles nothing more than a wizard's wand except for a small opening at the very end. Moving towards the center, the influence of tinker gnomes can be seen. Small wheels and gears spin about the axis of the tube, sucking in air and forcing it through miniature cylinders and pumps. The final product of this effort, drops of moisture extracted from the air are sent via small hoses to a clear globe at the back of the tube for storage. In the globe, the water levels from all the collected moisture provides a sloshy indication of the amount of water available for use. The globe is so full that water is dripping from the relief valve.

recharging over time had, I believe wizard spell 923 - "blast of steam" gnomish tube. The loresong is only one verse, but it's hilarious

As you direct your song at the mithril tube, your surroundings blink out and you find yourself hidden behind a large crate. Peering over the crate, it is possible to make out a group of tinker gnomes huddled around a mage dressed totally in white. Sounds of cackling float back to you from the group of gnomes in response to something the mage has just did or said. Speaking a few last words, the mage passes a small bag to the leader of the group who snatches at it greedily. With a last cackle, the leader passes over three long wand-shaped items to the mage who stuffs them into his bag. The mage nods to the gnomes and then chants an incantation and flashes out of existence. One of the gnomes, gazing at the spot where the mage stood, spots you in your hiding place. Giving a cry of anger, he grabs a club and heads for you. The rest follow suit and quickly begin pummeling you. Thankfully you finally lose consciousness only to awake to realize it hadn't been a dream.

[BriarFox]

Odilia/Arleasta's Runestaff:

A smooth deep blue orase runestaff:
The orase runestaff has been dyed a deep blue as dark as the sea's depth. Golden roots have been etched to spiral up the staff's length and end at the top, which has been capped with a polished crystal orb. Within the orb is a bright water lily, its broad white blossoms stretched wide.

A burgundy orc lies stretched out on a slab of stone, his arms and legs bound in dark alloy chains. The chamber is dark and shadows creep along the earthen walls, while the orc shifts uncomfortably. A woman's voice speaks from the darkness, ''Pitiful. Look at you, alone, vulnerable, and at our mercy.'' The shadows part and a woman steps into view, her eyes a dark green and her hair matching the darkness around her.

The orc squirms as the dark-haired woman approaches him, a maniacal look in her eyes. She runs her nails across the orc's chest, smoke trailing up from her finger tips as she burns marks into the creature's skin. The orc cries out in pain and the woman firmly cuts him off, ''No one will hear you sweet Thrayzar. But your cries will soon be joined by those of your people.''

The burgundy orc lies motionless on his stone block, bound in chains and broken in heart. He weeps softly in his prison of silence. The sound of a robe shuffling across the ground causes his ears to become alert and he tries to turn his head. Suddenly a man's hand firmly grabs his face and forces it away, to stare at the earthen wall. The man, in a dark voice says, ''Now, let's see about one of those fingers...''

The orc stands beside a stone slab, now free of the chains that had held him. He clutches a kelyn-edged sword in his right hand and a torn piece of cloth in his left. The orc brings the cloth up to his nose, inhales deeply and nods towards a trio of red-robed figures who stand against a wall. One of the robed figures steps forward and the orc lowers himself to his knees, bowing before the figure and dropping his head in submission.

[astari]

a gilded silk-covered prayerbook - Raffled prayerbook.

The scene opens on a smallish woman with burnt-orange hair sticking up in wild clumps from her head. Her hands are busy with two quills, one in each hand, as she scribbles, almost madly, upon the pages of a thick tome. The tome itself sits atop a desk that is pristinely neat, with nothing on it save for several of wax-laden candles, a series of matching quills,and a large pot of ink.

The woman glides past you, pulling her hair back into a presentable, sleek chignon. You hear her open the door, and the impatient tones of another woman, "Have you finished yet? When will you be finished? They are waiting..."

The other woman, the first, answers in a manner that leaves little room for argument or further questioning, "I will be finished within the hour. The task of giving a book proper words is not to be rushed. Leave me now." You hear the door shut, and you hear her say, to herself, "Besides, I have added a little something to the texts," and then you see nothing further.

You breathe in, the air suddenly chilly -- so cold, in fact, that you can see your exhalation on the air. You stand between a collection of children -- two girls and two boys, to be precise. They sit on the dirty ground of a stone-paved alleyway. A tattered blanket is shared by the two youngest. The two older children huddle together for warmth.

In front of you, a man and a woman, who seem to be husband and wife given the glances that pass between the two, rummage in a knapsack. Their clothes are threadbare, and the woman has no shoes. She smiles, however, with proud delight as she lifts something from the bag.

With shining eyes, she passes a book, its make and deep red silk cover obviously new, to the eldest child. "Eve' though we kennit read it... we thought i'twere good for ya, fur practice an' fur tha lit'l 'uns."

The man nods briefly, remarking, "A book a piety, that oughta do jes' fine." He reaches into the bag and pulls out three more books -- each new, each with a different cover,
each with the same exact title -- and hands them to the other three children, who quickly accept and hug the tomes to their chests.

Crystalline shards hang from the ceiling, and a young girl with chestnut hair laughs aloud. She is dressed in pale yellows, and though her clothing is not of the highest quality, she wears it well. The young man next to her twirls her out in dance. Unlike the formal couples spinning around them, this one is full of gaiety and fun, wearing their bursting hearts on their sleeves.

"Shall we go, my dear, for it is time for supper?" The flaxen-haired man asks, his green eyes never leaving the girl's face for a moment. She nods, at first shyly, and then more boldly. He leads her off of the dance floor and down several hallways, where they reach heavy doors. A uniformed man passes several garments over, and within seconds, the young girl is clothed in a fur-trimmed cloak, her dainty face peeking out of its layers.

The young man kisses her nose, then passes her a small pouch, matched to her dress. She reaches to accept it, but it slips from her grasp and falls to the floor. As she reaches for it, his fingers find it first. He scoops it up neatly, firmly pushing the rich purple corner of the book that peeks out from it back under cover, and hands it to her. She holds the pouch to her when she accepts it, then tightly hugs the young man.

He young girl with chestnut hair sits on the edge of a window seat, her face streaked with tears. She wears a simple garment of black, and though a veil sits upon her head, it is pulled back. Her grey eyes look out at the scene of spring-covered hills, but she clearly does not see them -- instead, she is shrouded in grief and heartbreak.

Behind her, two desks sit side-by-side. One is clearly not often used for scholarly pursuit, with gloves and hats strewn upon its surface, its only book that with a rich purple cover. The other desk is covered in papers, letters, and small books, and a man's coat hangs over the edge of the chair that is pushed up to the desk.

Another young girl, her grey eyes starkly contrasting her midnight black hair, stands quietly just beyond the open doorway. Her stance is one of a person who is unsure whether or not it is appropriate to enter. Past the doorway, the scene of mourners gathered together is suddenly quite clear and obvious. Somber colors deck the figures, their faces covered, their sorrow marring their features.

Sitting gingerly on a cushioned armchair, the chestnut-haired girl quietly knits. She is pale and sickly, clearly frail and barely able to do the simple task she has set herself.

A young woman and a young man, their heads both full of midnight black hair, stride into the picture, the facial resemblance between the three truly uncanny. The woman carries a pot of tea, and the man carries several cups. They plop down on the accompanying armchairs and proceed to pour tea, adding a bit of honey and cream to the one that they hand over to the first girl. She seems as if she will refuse the offer, and then, at second thought, she sets her knitting down and accepts the cup.

As they drink quietly -- for no conversation seems necessary between them at first -- the woman's glance happens to fall on a purple-covered book on the side table. She picks it up, but almost instantly throws it down, as if touching it is hurtful. She smiles, though, in a pleasant way, "You still have yours, too?""The young girl, surpirsed, nods. "always. It...makes me feel purpose." The woman and the man both nod simultaneously, understanding.

"Not in the way that he made me feel, of course. Not that kind of love. But it's something."

Wandering through an open-air market, you see a young woman. She is still the young girl, her chestnut hair flowing behind her with vibrant color, but aged by at least ten years. She is picking through the fruit at a booth when she suddenly shrieks. Behind her, an older man with dark golden hair has clamped his arms about her. She laughs suddenly, her joy obvious, and turns to embrace him. They kiss passionately, unworried about the stares that onlookers throw their way.

As they walk, arm-in-arm, they run into the woman's sister, who is nestling a small baby in her arms. A man with dark streaks through his grey temples stands just behind her, his hand on her shoulder, his mouth making small cooing sounds at the baby. The sister pats the woman's stomach, noting, "Soon enough. You may not be showing yet, but within the month you will be!" The two giggle, and the older man slips his arm through the both their arms, leading the whole group out of the market.

Within several minutes, he has returned. As he tosses this box, it hits the ground hard, and its innards scatter slightly. A book of rich purple fairly flies out of it. The man has already turned to go up the stairs, but he somehow senses the book, and turns. He stomps back outside, picks it up, and nearly tears the pages out, though they stay within their binding. "Vile thing," he yells, then spits upon the book.

A hand stays him, however, as he reaches to throw the book. "No," the older, black-haired woman says, "This was a gift."

"It ruined us!" He cries. "If she hadn't kept it, she'd still be well! She would! She sits on death's doorstep, and we know it's only a few more days!"

"No, that's not true, and you know it.". The man has nothing to say.

"You lost the little one, I know. And she's past healing. We are all losing her. But what is in there was not the future. It helped her through more than any of us can imagine, and you will respect that."

"The man still says nothing, but acceptance glints in his eyes. "I will, however make sure you never have to see it again."

The older woman gently takes the book from him. His dark golden hair gleams in the sunlight, and as a flood of sorrow overtakes him, the scene fades away.

A little girl stacks four books in a crate. Their covers are not even close to new, the books obviously well-used and worn, though sturdy in make. Although their covers do not exactly match, they are clearly part of a set.

With her midnight black curls bobbing up and down, she holds the hand of a much older man, with dark streaks running through his grey hair. "Father, will you help me, please?" He grins at her, kissing her forehead gently, and reaches down to take a hold of the crate with his free hand. He slings it up on to the wagon that has stopped outside of their home.

"Thank you, Sir, for your generosity. I'm sure the Sisterhood will appreciate it."

The man smiles at the driver, nodding. He turns with his daughter to go inside, then turns around and remarks, almost to himself, "They're chock full of scripture and verses now, but more than anything, full of life. Weren't always that way. Mayhap they'll help others on their journey, though.

The driver smiles kindly, nodding to himself knowingly. His burnt-orange hair sticks up at odd angles. "They'll find a good home, and help a soul or two, I'll set my warrant on it." He clicks his tongue, and with a slow trot, the horses pulling his wagon pull him, and the books, away.

[crazymage]

Iasha lore song.

a white ora no-dachi.
>.lore no-dachi
[Script lore is running, Esc to cancel, Shift-Esc to pause]
>loresing no-dachi tell me what you say;whats yer value if you may
You sing:

"No-dachi tell me what you say
Whats yer value if you may"


As you begin to sing, your vision clouds over and a scene unfolds before you. The image of a scarred dwarf in white leathers laboring deep in a dark, dank mine, grunting as he extracts precious white ora ore.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

R>
The flames surrounding your white ora no-dachi flicker once, then vanish.
>loresing no-dachi made to make me cry;whats your purpose don't you lie
You sing:

"No-dachi made to make me cry
Whats your purpose don't you lie"


As you continue to sing, you can see the dwarf laboring over a hot iron forge. He mops his brow continually as he pumps the bellows then returns to the anvil, coaxing a weapon from the white-hot metal. As he hammers again and again with a perfect eonake forging-hammer he looks more and more pleased with his work. He now and again sticks it into a trough filled with a shimmering oil. After a few more minutes of hammering, he begins to look unsatisfied with his results, and then suddenly tosses it back into the fire. "I can do better than that, for Eonak's glory!

Roundtime: 8 sec.

R>
Geros just came through a low arch.
>loresing no-dachi looks so facinating to me;tell me what yer magic be
You sing:

"No-dachi looks so facinating to me
Tell me what yer magic be"


As you continue to sing, your inner vision once again focuses on the scarred dwarf, carefully polishing the white ora no-dachi before handing it to an imposing priest. His raiment is of the finest quality, from the magnificent cloth-of-silver cope, his bejeweled miter, and gleaming amethyst on his hand marking him as one of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. He sets the weapon on the altar and cries, "In the name of no deity, I consecrate this weapon.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

R>
R>loresing no-dachi makes me wonder so;tell what yer ability knows
[script done]
You sing:

"No-dachi makes me wonder so
Tell what yer ability knows"

As your song comes to an end, you see the no-dachi being used in combat training in the monastary. A burly dwarven acolyte rains down blow after blow versus an obviously overmatched elven clark. Finally, the white ora no-dachi bursts into flames and sets the elf's shield alight! He cries out, "The day is yours M'laird Dwarf. I prostrate myself to your superior skills and must atone for my lack." He glances at the knotted scourge on the training wall and grimaces.

[Archigeek]

If you sing to one of the lover's knots, eventually a love song will come to your lips for all to hear.

[shad0ws0ngs]

an enruned crimson eahnor longsword with upswept wyvern wing quillons

Sung to by a dark elf, fyi

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O longsword that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

The first thing that strikes you about the longsword is the sturdy craftmanship and unique. You feel it's quite valuable. Rare metals have been worked throughout the longsword.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O longsword that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Your voice echoes against the an enruned crimson eahnor longsword with upswept wyvern wing quillons, and the vibration returns in the form an image. A muscled elven smith works over a forge, turning the longsword over as it heats.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O longsword in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

You sense that an enruned crimson eahnor longsword with upswept wyvern wing quillons is a powerful weapon, with a heavier edge than is normally found in one of its kind. An odd aura of magic surrounds it.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O longsword held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Voice cracking, you continue to coax information from the longsword. You sense that this weapon is most effective in the hands of a elven wielder.

Roundtime: 10 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a tapered black alloy gladius - Shadowy tendrils cover the murky surface of the black alloy gladius, writhing and rearranging themselves in a complex, maze-like pattern. The tenebrous inclusions along the black material seem attracted to dark selanthan bloodjewels inset across the surface in elegant three-pronged cages. You also notice a small enchanter's glyph.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O gladius that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You sing to the black alloy gladius, modulating your voice to unlock the secrets of the gladius. As you weave another harmony, darkness falls over your vision, and swirling shadows seem to engulf you! Vile whispers and dark words seem to permeate the darkness. Everywhere harsh grating voices ask for your service and your assistance. The cacophony of voices is overwhelming. Amidst it all, a small pinpoint of light floats in the center of your vision, just beyond the grasp of your powers. Suddenly, red pinpoints of light spring up all around, and you can feel dozens of cold talons grasping, groping, and pulling you backwards into the darkness. With a great searing pain, your vision clears!

The black alloy gladius burns in your hands with a deadly cold that seems to drain your very life!
You take 5 points of damage!

Roundtime: 7 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O gladius that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Odd sensations ripple through your body as your voice begins to coax information out of the black alloy gladius. However, try as you might, you cannot seem to get a good grasp on the gladius. It is as if it continually slips in and out of phase with your song. You get the distinct impression that more information awaits, just out of reach.

Roundtime: 7 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O gladius in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

You focus the tones of your voice on the gladius, grasping it and holding it in this reality despite the way it constantly slips and wriggles in your grasp, as though it were alive. You learn little before it slips away again, except that the weapon is bound with dark magic, and appears to have an enchantment bonus that varies. You get a distinct feeling of hunger, as though the gladius in your hands must be continually fed.

Roundtime: 8 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O gladius held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

You sing to the black alloy gladius, modulating your voice to unlock the secrets of the gladius. As you weave another harmony, darkness falls over your vision, and swirling shadows seem to engulf you! The darkness quickly fades to a hazy grey, and you could swear that something moves just beyond, out of your grasp. Dark flows of shadow spin through the haze, red pinpoints of light appearing and disappearing. You strain to see through the haze to the Truth beyond, but the swirling shadows suddenly surround you! You have the feeling that you're suddenly falling as your vision clears.

Roundtime: 9 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O gladius that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You sing to the black alloy gladius, modulating your voice to unlock the secrets of the gladius. As you weave another harmony, darkness falls over your vision, and swirling shadows seem to engulf you! The darkness quickly fades to a hazy grey, and you could swear that something moves just beyond, out of your grasp. Dark flows of shadow spin through the haze, red pinpoints of light appearing and disappearing. You strain to see through the haze to the Truth beyond, but the swirling shadows suddenly surround you! You have the feeling that you're suddenly falling as your vision clears.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

[Spooky]

Old thread, but figured I'd post mine. (kroderine plate)

Third person:
>Ifor sings:

"Plate that I hold
Let your value now be told"
Ifor's eyes roll back into his head and he collapses to the ground, looking extremely drained!
>Ifor glances around, looking a bit less confident.

From his perspective:
The magic of your song begins to penetrate the angelic battle plate when something goes horribly wrong! The normally faint resonating vibration is instead a cacophonous roar that not only readily consumes the magic of your song, but also begins to work its way into your very being. Your mana is ripped away from you in an instant as you collapse to the ground, drained and feeling a horrible emptiness inside you!


Interesting..

You touch the crystal with one hand, your angelic battle plate in the other hand.

Suddenly, you feel a continuous rush of mana shooting up your right arm from the crystal, tearing across your body, and then emptying into the angelic battle plate. The surge of mana is more than your body can take as your right hand explodes in a grisly shower of bone and flesh! You collapse to the floor in a dazed heap.

The crystal sizzles for a moment and then rapidly blackens over.

Roundtime: 30 sec.

A blackened crystal in a dented brass setting in a battered brass setting lies on its side, wedged into a corner. The crystal looks badly blackened, almost as if it had been scorched by fire.

You touch the crystal. It feels rather cold.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a silver-bound golvern gauntlet - gauntlet of titan strength

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O golvern gauntlet that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Stirred to life by the power of your voice, rivulets of dawn-hued radiance coalesce over the golvern gauntlet before threading out into the air. As the quickening halo of luminscence spirals outward, blots of light amalgamate in its depths with blinding intensity. The brilliance spreads like swirls of dye through clear water, and the shapes mute into huge spectral humanoids. Not one seems to heed the presence of other objects or beings in the space it inhabits. Your voice falters. The figures shrivel and dim before winking out, leaving silence and darkness in their wake.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O golvern gauntlet that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

A veil of dawn-hued effulgence blossoms from the golvern of the gauntlet illuminating phantasmal hulks gathered in a rough ring. The golvern gauntlet serves as the semicircle's epicenter. Nigh-tangible, the huge and vaguely humanoid specters lumber and shift about soundlessly. Ripples blur the edges of their forms, leaping and dancing in time with the vibrato of your voice. Just as your command of the loresong begins to fray, one of the massive creatures steps forward and raises a ghostly hand to point at the gauntlet. Your voice fails, and the titanic figure collapses into a puddle of writhing dawn-hued light that oozes into the ground.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O golvern gauntlet in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

Fingers form of dawn-hued light, held aloft at a point higher than the top of a giantman's head. The radiance pulses in time with the cadence of your voice, spreading to shape first one, then an entire gathering, of immense humanoids. One of them, a massive being who fixes you and the golvern gauntlet in a baleful glance, moves toward you in a display of serpentine speed. In one moment, he is more than two arms' spans away from you, and in the next, he glares directly down into your eyes, the world barely visible through his luminous and dawn-hued form. Startled, your voice breaks, and the song fails. The titans disperse and bleed into the air until only a glowing haze remains, and that, too, soon fades.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O golvern gauntlet held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Just as you begin to recover your breath, a torturous emptiness tugs at your lungs, as if the air is being drawn out of them. You feel your lips move and give agonizing birth to a basso voice. The roar that erupts from your mouth is far too deep to have sprung naturally from your throat. In the succeeding silence, it rasps a sharp phrase that sends you reeling! The presence within you departs and leaves you feeling wasted and weak.

Roundtime: 11 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O golvern gauntlet that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

With no little hesitation in your voice, you allow the power of your song to flow over the gauntlet. Dawn-hued light erupts from its golvern knuckles and lances into your chest! In an improbably deep bass, you let out a murderous shout. Its sense is lost to your ears, but its furious intent is clear. You stagger backward. The power of your song frays into tattered streamers of magic that spark in the air around you.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O golvern gauntlet that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

A barrage of dawn-hued light lances out of the glove and roars over you in a wash of agony!
The brilliant luminescence fades from around you.
The light blue glow leaves you.
The deep blue glow leaves you.
Deep blue motes swirl away from you and fade.
The silvery luminescence fades from around you.
The bright luminescence fades from around you.
The dim aura fades from around you.
The powerful look leaves you.
The glowing specks of energy surrounding you suddenly shoot off in all directions, then quickly fade away.
You feel your extra strength departing.
You become solid again.
You sense that your attunement to the minds of others has ceased.

It seems you have died, my friend. Although you cannot do anything, you are keenly aware of what is going on around you...

You mentally give a sigh of relief as you remember that the Goddess Lorminstra owes you a favor.

...departing in 10 mins...

Roundtime: 8 sec.


Third Person

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The golvern gauntlet seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
The power of Japhrimel's voice crests over the frame of the golvern gauntlet and stirs to life rivulets of dawn-hued radiance, which coalesce over the gauntlet before threading out into the air. As the quickening halo of luminscence spirals outward, blots of light amalgamate in its depths with blinding intensity. The brilliance spreads like swirls of dye through clear water, and the shapes mute into huge spectral humanoids. Not one seems to heed the presence of other objects or beings in the space it inhabits. Japhrimel's voice falters, and the figures shrivel and dim. They leave silence and darkness in their wake.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The golvern gauntlet seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
A veil of dawn-hued effulgence blossoms from the golvern of the gauntlet, illuminating phantasmal hulks gathered in a rough ring. The golvern gauntlet serves as the semicircle's epicenter. Nigh-tangible, the huge and vaguely humanoid specters lumber and shift about soundlessly. Ripples blur the edges of their forms, leaping and dancing in time with the vibrato of Japhrimel's voice. Just as Japhrimel appears to release his focus on the song, one of the massive creatures steps forward and raises a ghostly hand to point at the gauntlet. Japhrimel's voice fails, and the titanic figure collapses into a puddle of writhing dawn-hued light that oozes into the ground.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The golvern gauntlet seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Fingers form of dawn-hued light, held aloft at a point higher than the top of a giantman's head. The radiance pulses in time with the cadence of Japhrimel's song as beams of light spread to shape first one, then an entire gathering, of immense humanoids. One of them, a massive being, fixes Japhrimel and the gauntlet he carries with a baleful glance. The titan bleeds through space with a serpent's speed, racing toward Japhrimel without twitching a phantasmal muscle. He glares directly down into Japhrimel's eyes, the brilliance comprising his mammoth physique washing in unrestrained waves over Japhrimel's smaller form. Startled, Japhrimel loses control of his voice and it breaks, shattering the song. The titans disperse and bleed into the air until only a glowing haze remains, and that, too, soon fades.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The golvern gauntlet seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel takes a deep breath in the wake of his song, but the intake of air transforms into a strangled gasp. Japhrimel's lips move, seemingly of their own voliton, giving birth to an improbable basso voice raised in a furious roar! In the succeeding silence, it rasps, "Fools! Little fools! Only titans may have titan powers! On your stinking, fragile hand, and forged by your talentless smiths, do you think that you can hope to master the might that flowed through our mighty veins?" Japhrimel staggers as if struck and collapses to his knees, looking wasted and weak.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The golvern gauntlet seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
No little hesitation is evident in Japhrimel's voice as he allows the power of his song to flow over the gauntlet. Dawn-hued light erupts from the gauntlet's golvern knuckles and lances into his chest! An improbably deep bass voice rumbles from his core. It shouts, "Leave us be! Vile creatures, small creatures! You have taken enough in your thirst for pillage, your hunger for conquest! Begone!" Japhrimel staggers backward, the power of his song fraying into tattered streamers of magic that spark in the air around him.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The golvern gauntlet seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel's eyes open wide as a barrage of dawn-hued light lances out of the glove and blazes over him!

* Japhrimel drops dead at your feet!

The brilliant luminescence fades from around Japhrimel.
The light blue glow leaves Japhrimel.
The deep blue glow leaves Japhrimel.
Deep blue motes swirl away from Japhrimel and fade.
The silvery luminescence fades from around Japhrimel.
The bright luminescence fades from around Japhrimel.
The dim aura fades from around Japhrimel.
The powerful look leaves Japhrimel.
The glowing specks of energy surrounding Japhrimel suddenly shoot off in all directions, then quickly fade away.
Japhrimel seems a bit less imposing.
Japhrimel becomes solid again.
s>
* Japhrimel just bit the dust!


Nordred using the gauntlet

Nordred clenches his gauntleted fist, and a primal scream cuts through the air around him. His musculature swells visibly as a wash of dawn-hued light blazes from beneath his skin.

Nordred raises a gauntleted fist and brushes his golvern gauntlet with the fingers of his other hand.
Delicate swathes of dawn-hued light streaks across the golvern knuckles of the gauntlet.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Anyone have any of the Faendryl-themed loresong items from H4H2? Could do a bit of a show-and-tell around them. The ones I can remember were:

a petrified asparagus stalk
a blood-stained piece of rubble
a smooth-edged gold coin

plus the ones that show people fighting the Faendryl, heh.

a pearl-set braided vaalin ring
a rust-pitted heavy gornar falchion

I think the original forehead jewels also had a Faendryl-themed loresong?

anyone who might provide loresongs on these items?

[Archigeek]

Another good one is the seed pouch loresong. I don't have it with me as I'm at work, but it's quite humerous.

[petroglyph]

a petrified asparagus stalk (http://home.comcast.net/~gs4augie/h4h2/asparagus.htm)

a pearl-set braided vaalin ring (http://home.comcast.net/~gs4augie/h4h2/vaalinring.htm)

a rust-pitted heavy gornar falchion (http://home.comcast.net/~gs4augie/h4h2/gornarfalchion.htm)

original forehead gem (http://www.krakiipedia.org/wiki/Forehead_gem)

There's also this curious one (http://www.krakiipedia.org/wiki/Salt-encrusted_astrolabe), in which an Ashrim ship is named Chesylcha.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a curved white ora scythe with a leather-wrapped blackened deringo shaft
DM Iasha item

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O scythe that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


As you begin to sing, your vision clouds over and a scene unfolds before you. The image of a scarred dwarf in white leathers laboring deep in a dark, dank mine, grunting as he extracts precious white ora ore.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O ora scythe that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


As you continue to sing, you can see the dwarf laboring over a hot iron forge. He mops his brow continually as he pumps the bellows then returns to the anvil, coaxing a weapon from the white-hot metal. As he hammers again and again with a perfect eonake forging-hammer he looks more and more pleased with his work. He now and again sticks it into a trough filled with a shimmering oil. After a few more minutes of hammering, he begins to look unsatisfied with his results, and then suddenly tosses it back into the fire. "I can do better than that, for Eonak's glory!

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O white ora scythe in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


As you continue to sing, your inner vision once again focuses on the scarred dwarf, carefully polishing the white ora scythe before handing it to an imposing priest. His raiment is of the finest quality, from the magnificent cloth-of-silver cope, his bejeweled miter, and gleaming amethyst on his hand marking him as one of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. He sets the weapon on the altar and cries, "In the name of Jastev, I consecrate this weapon.

Roundtime: 9 sec

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O white ora scythe held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

As your song comes to an end, you see the scythe being used in combat training in the monastary. A burly dwarven acolyte rains down blow after blow versus an obviously overmatched elven clark. Finally, the white ora scythe bursts into flames and sets the elf's shield alight! He cries out, "The day is yours M'laird Dwarf. I prostrate myself to your superior skills and must atone for my lack." He glances at the knotted scourge on the training wall and grimaces.

Roundtime: 11 sec

[shad0ws0ngs]

These are Aneris' pantaloons, just to make sure he has the credit.. I just sang to them!

some peculair puppy pelt pantaloons - Procured perniciously from plentiful prematurely-pilfered and probably pampered pedigreed puppies, partially pickled and preserved, the plush pelt pantaloons are properly patched in a plethora of particularly pathetic places. Promulgated upon the pantaloons are pronounced punctures and pockmarks in potentially precipitous positions. The prominent and pretentious persona of each poor puppy precisely picked and pacified to pleat the posh pants are printed painstakingly onto the pockets.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O pantaloons that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

As your voice permeates the pantaloons, you feel your senses dull until only an animalistic quality remains. Instinctually, you curl up, comfortably cradled in the warm lap beneath you. A gentle hand moves through your soft fur and you whimper in delight with each pass. Suddenly, your hairs stand on end as a dark shadow rushes past you, bringing the scent of decay. The icy horror of sharpened steel on your throat and skin peeling back is imprinted into your memory as you suddenly snap to your senses.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O pantaloons that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Focusing your song into the pantaloons, you find yourself among the pack joining your siblings in carefree play as they sniff, paw, gnaw, pant, loll, jump, bark, and howl. Without warning, cages materialize around you then each of your kin in turn. The excited cries cease as your playmates slump to the ground and warm red fluid pools under your paws. Your vision goes black just as you try to shake the blood from your fur, the deafening sound of grinding and snapping bones jolting you into reality.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O pantaloons in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

As your voice resonates with the pantaloons, you find yourself immersed in a sea of warmth. You paddle around dragging your oddly drooping, fur-covered ears through the savory-tasting fluid as carrots, potatoes, and a stalk of celery bob across your line of vision. Terrified, a wave of insight washes over you as streams of bubbles force their way to the surface and your body is set ablaze with an intense burning. Mere moments later, only numbness remains as your denatured flesh again becomes human.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O pantaloons held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

The oscillations of your song cause the pantaloons to vibrate and your vision to blur. When you regain sight, you glance around to find a large warehouse filled with half-starved erithian children slaving to sew together pelts and hides, their young hands more skilled than expected. As a desperate canine yelp emanates from behind closed doors, a particularly impoverished-looking child wipes a single tear from his eye. The crack of an unseen whip sends him back to his work and you back into reality.

Roundtime: 10 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O pantaloons that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Though you focus your voice upon the pantaloons, they provide you with no further visions of their past beyond a brief, soft whimper.

Roundtime: 8 sec

[shad0ws0ngs]

a glowbark platinum-strung lyre:

You sing:

"O lyre that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

As you sing to the lyre, your melody evokes various impressions from the platinum-strung. The smell of fel dye drifts past, and the image of a pristine chapel forms briefly before your eyes. In the chapel, you observe a rose-complected sylvan man praying over the platinum-strung lyre resting in front of him. The fragile vision dissolves almost as quickly as it came.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing:

"O lyre that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Your magical song delves into the nature of the lyre, evoking the image of a black-skinned human man. The man is barely more than a child and is garbed in crimson and grey. A rainbow shimmers in the sky as the human man demands the platinum-strung lyre from the same sylvan man that you observed before. The sound of a fox barking surrounds you as the image fades away.

Roundtime: 6 sec

You sing:

"O lyre in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

Harmonies echo from the heart of your lyre, and those harmonies swell around you, guiding you into a vision. You see a dingy alley, and the human man poses in the alley playing the platinum-strung lyre. A variegated thrak listens to the human man, seeming bespelled by the flowing music. The vision ends as you finish your verse.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing:

"O lyre held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

The resonances of the platinum-strung lyre flow over you as sensory impressions. You hear a voice tearfully praising Lorminstra's power and smell sauteed mushrooms before the magic of your loresong draws you into a vision. You see a field of corn, and, between two rows of corn, the human man sits very near a freckled dwarven woman. The human man holds the platinum-strung lyre, and his eyes are locked to the dwarven woman's as he draws graceless music from the lyre. Suddenly, a third person arrives. You can ascertain nothing of this person's nature except that this third person is a source of fear for the human man. The human man flees, abandoning the platinum-strung lyre to the dwarven woman. The image dissolves away.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing:

"O lyre that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You sing to the lyre, but receive only the normal harmonies of platinum-strung in return. You sense that no one could have learned more about the instrument's history than you learned. The harmonies fade as you finish your verse.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

[Back]

Apparently some lore songs were created by a randomizer. Who thought that was a good idea?

[shad0ws0ngs]

It's probably an older random gen EG instrument.

[Back]

I still have the sticky wood piccolo.

As you sing to the piccolo, you receive a faint impression of the smell of heliotrope, but you can untangle no real meaning with your magic.

The sound of the mournful, wailing call of a screech owl swirls around you in response to your song.

Briefly, you hear quick piccolo music, but then it is gone.

The image of an untended herb garden materializes briefly before you, but it fades without vouchsafing any information.

[shad0ws0ngs]

I've bugitem'd a number of loresongs.. the massive stone mattock that quakes, for example.

[shad0ws0ngs]

interesting thing I learned about the lyre's loresong.. it was glowbark/platinum-strung/lyre.. and apparently the loresong takes the middle 15 of the 15/15/15 when doing the loresong.. so, now, instead of saying "platinum-strung" in the first sentence of the first verse, it says "glowbark"

[shad0ws0ngs]

a hollow soulstone wand - The wand is crafted out of hollowed soulstone filled with a viscous black substance. Upon closer examination, you notice that the viscous black substance appears to be some form of unnatural blood. The blood roils back and forth within its confines, as if it is whimsically taunting the pure white soulstone that contains it.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O soulstone wand that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You sing to your soulstone wand enthusiastically, eager to learn the ancient secrets trapped within the wand. Dark swirls of mana eddy around the soulstone wand, obscuring it from sight. You frantically jiggle your fingers around, trying to ward off the swirls, which have an almost gooey consistency. After a concentrated effort, you recover the wand but are still somewhat shaken by the thought that you almost lost your priceless artifact.

Perhaps the wand is not eager to reveal its past. Perhaps some things are best left buried in the sands of time.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O soulstone wand that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Your voice serenades the soulstone wand gently as you cautiously remember how you almost lost your precious soulstone wand. The wand hums in response to your song with an odd vibrating drone, which interferes with your song. You sense a powerful necromantic aura surrounding the wand as you are forced to bring your beautiful ditty to an end.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O soulstone wand in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

As you weave your bardic magic upon the wand, you fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The world goes dark and you find yourself superimposed on another time when you reopen your eyes. Dressed in priestly robes, you are walking along the perimeter of an emerald altar humming low chants. A white-haired, muscular elf with bronzed skin is suspended over the altar bare-chested.

The vision fades but the memory of the act you are partaking in lingers.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>wake
You try to rouse yourself from your sleep but you're too deeply gone to wake on your own.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O soulstone wand held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Your melodies bring you back into slumber. Luckily you were already on the ground this time.
You regain your place in an eerie procession around the elven man whose body is held taut by leather straps running from the corners of the room. This time, though, the elf's body has several deep cuts running through it, slowly dripping blood into soulstone canisters on the altar below. A single golden key tattoo adorns his naked right breast. You are helpless to do anything but follow a pre-scripted role in the grotesque ritual. The man looks peacefully resigned to his fate and utters not a word as your vision fades.

Roundtime: 10 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O soulstone wand held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Your melodies bring you back into slumber. Luckily you were already on the ground this time.
You regain your place in an eerie procession around the elven man whose body is held taut by leather straps running from the corners of the room. This time, though, the elf's body has several deep cuts running through it, slowly dripping blood into soulstone canisters on the altar below. A single golden key tattoo adorns his naked right breast. You are helpless to do anything but follow a pre-scripted role in the grotesque ritual. The man looks peacefully resigned to his fate and utters not a word as your vision fades.

Roundtime: 10 sec.

>
You awake from a dream startled. You are lying down.
Roundtime: 3 sec.
Queleri pokes you in the ribs.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O soulstone wand that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You sing to your soulstone wand, hopeful that you can stay awake, but are not so lucky. Perhaps the wand's story cannot bare the light of day. You fall to the ground, hitting your head solidly, as you leave consciousness. Awakened in an ethereal world, you glance at your fellow acolytes and notice that only some carry the symbols of a green serpent like yours. Some slowly circle the altar with small dagger-pierced heart pendants.

The vision of the white-haired man comes rushing back to you. At this point, he looks lifeless and pale, his wounds now only trickling ever decreasing drops of blood into the soulstones below. The leather straps are also drawn tighter, more painfully than before. He mutters bitterly as his life drains, "Lorminstra, false prophet, you have forsaken me."

At the end of his utterance, a serpent suddenly appears at the center of the altar. You and the other acolytes look up in shock as the elven man's bindings come loose, destroying the makeshift prison. His fragile lifeless body slowly floats to the center of the altar, where the serpent kisses him.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>
You awake from a dream startled. You are lying down.
Roundtime: 3 sec.
Queleri pokes you in the ribs.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O soulstone wand that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Your head is too injured to glean any information from the wand.
You learn nothing new about the wand.


Roundtime: 8 sec.


after getting healed:

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O soulstone wand that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Your mind races with wandering thoughts; questions about the nature of the odd ceremony you witnessed. One final vision sets upon you...

The elven man, now cloaked in a hooded robe, is exiting the temple where you had inflicted so much torture upon him. He leaves a scene of massive death and carnage. You notice your own body, with that of your fellow priests strewn haphazardly around the emerald altar, lifeless and unmoving. The blood within the soulstone canisters has turned an unnatural black, testament to the darkness that it presided over. Not a single survivor is left amongst the once lively priests. The man exits the shrine, which promptly collapses. A green serpent slithers out through a crack in the rubble as the vision fades.

You feel weakened and drained!

Roundtime: 8 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

The Miriyam statue
You also see a sculpted granite statue with a dark green wreath set with white and yellow roses on it. - The statue has been crafted out of pale granite, its form shaped into the likeness of a scholarly woman, garbed in a long robe and clutching a thick eahnor tome to her chest. Her face is featureless and smooth, with lengths of black steel for hair, stretching down past her shoulders. A mein plaque rests between her feet.

There appears to be something written on it.

>read stat
In the Common language, it reads:
"In honor of freedom and the brave defenders of Wehnimer's Landing who fought and died to preserve it. Jastatos 5110."


You sing in Guildspeak to a sculpted granite statue:

"O statue that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

A quiet, metallic chime reverberates through your mind, obscuring your vision as a new landscape unfolds before you. Shadows suffocate a large chamber, where a stack of corpses, all women, pile high to the ceiling. A row of red robed summoners chant in a demonic tone as a large chunk of urnon in the center of the chamber begins to shift, taking on the form of a beautiful woman. Suddenly the woman's hands turn into blades and she rushes past the robed figures, cutting them down as she flees.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak to a sculpted granite statue:

"O statue that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

A dark haired woman with eyes a crystal hue walks the bustling streets of Wehnimer's Landing. Few pay her any attention as she clutches a red journal to her chest, eyes darting to every shadow, every alleyway as she passes by. She arrives at Erebor Square where she stands before the local museum, finally putting her journal away and smiling wide as she steps inside. The woman finds herself resting comfortably in a plush chair, an old tome in her lap and a content look upon her face.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak to a sculpted granite statue:

"O statue in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

Women and children are rushed inside of buildings as the local Wehnimer's militia takes to the streets. High above the town, large shimmering red portals appear in the sky and massive granite constructs begin to drop to the ground. Skillful archers man the towers while valiant defenders charge hordes of mein and steel golems, their weapons and magic keeping them at bay. Soon cries of death pierce the night as up from the ground crawls undead corpses, slashing and biting at those who try to flee.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak to a sculpted granite statue:

"O statue held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Guards patrol the streets, dragging their wounded to safety as they maneuver through large chunks of granite. The red portals over the town have expanded and flash with an unsettling light. The dark haired woman stands in the center of town, her body shifting rapidly as it had during her creation. With arms raised to the sky, an intense blue light escapes her form and smashes into a portal, closing it with a thunderous boom. Defenders look on with grim faces as the woman then crumbles into dust.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

some dark fel prayer beads.

sense beads
You sense a moment of history resonating within the very composition of the prayer beads. The beads may be able to reveal more to you with some lyrical coaxing.
Roundtime: 3 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O beads that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


As you reach out toward the prayer beads with your song, they respond with a sound like the call of an ancient horn. You feel your mind pulled far into the past, as your body falls into a trance.

A vision appears of an alpine meadow surrounded by craggy, snow-capped peaks. Sheltered from the wind, the meadow blooms with wildflowers in white and blue, and a carpet of tall grass covers the ground. A stream of clear blue water runs along one side of the vale, winking back as sunlight kisses its surface.

Three halflings dressed in fur-lined leathers appear at the side of the stream, rising from the grass. Silently, stealthily, they reconnoiter the area. Regrouping, they nod at one another, and their leader blows a long note on his spiralling antelope horn. As the blast echoes against the peaks, a large host of halflings emerges from the tree line, many on foot, but others riding rustic wooden wagons. At the head of the party, two halflings walk hand-in-hand with an air of dignity and authority, their simple clothes contrasting the necklaces they wear: thinly hammered triangles of tricolored gold dangling from a triple loop of braided horsehair. At the direction of these leaders, the scouts collect some fallen tree limbs, placing them in a triangle on the ground, while the others gather up riverstone gravel from the creek bed. Dropping their stones into the triangle, the couple gazes down at the earth and together intones:

"Let our journeys now come to an end.
Paradis we are and Paradis remain,
But here we shall make a new start."

As the rest of the tribe approaches, each halfling adding a rock to the pile, an aged halfling cleric raises her arms to the sky, praying:

"Remember the lands that once we called home.
Remember the evil that led us to roam.
Remember the ages of wandering, lost.
Remember the joys. Remember the cost.
We ask you, Arkati, to see and to hear:
Extend all your blessings as we gather near."

Roundtime: 7 sec.


>loresing O beads that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O beads that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


As you begin a second verse, the prayer beads modulate their song into a minor key, foreshadowing with somber tones the next chapter of their tale. Once again, a vision forms before your eyes of the same high mountain region.

Many years have passed, and a bustling village now stands at the north end of the vale, in the shadow of an enormous glacier. The mountains resound with the music of bells, and you see many halflings dressed in colorful festival robes. Couples hand in hand and families all together, the villagers cross the meadow and approach the narrow stream. Hearty trees of white monir and fel now line the opposite banks, shading the water from the hot summer sun. Each pair of trees forms a single entity, entwined root and branch as they compete for sunlight and water. Against this symbolic backdrop, the villagers enact a traditional play, with thirty-six masked figures representing the gods. The drama concludes with the entire cast, hands clasped across the burbling stream, blessing the little town.

Time again shifts forward several years, and you see the village beset by a terrible winter storm. For weeks and months, relentless, snow falls and falls and falls, forming depthless drifts that cover over windows, doors, and roofs. Most of the villagers attempt a desperate escape by snowshoe through the gale, but some few remain, hoping against hope for a thaw. Instead there comes a torrent of rain that carries down from the peaks a deluge of icy slush. When at last the storm abates and the sun clears the sky, the village is gone, buried with the trees and stream beneath a field of blue glacial ice.

Roundtime: 7 sec.


>loresing O beads in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
>
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O beads in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


As you direct a third verse at the prayer beads, they respond with a hopeful trill that softens into the gentle humming of a bright and cheerful song. Again, your mind fills with vivid pictures as you fall into a lyric trance.

Untold years have passed, and a bustling city stands near the center of the valley. The glacier, still expanding, has leaped the outer wall and covers the northeast corner of the town.

A squad of halfling miners marches through the ice-encrusted gate carrying shovels, picks, lanterns, and metal buckets of various size. The miners enter the glacier through a crevice in the wall of ice, then begin to carve out tunnels and cart away icy debris. The captain of miners halts the work from time to time, using a compass to orient himself in reference to a faded horsehide map. The labor continues for many months, until finally the miners come upon the ruins of a village, frozen in death beneath the ice. Whenever they are able, the halflings recover corpses and transport them with solemn ceremony to a cemetary south of town.

The work beneath the ice is arduous, long, and fraught with many dangers. Several miners die in collapses while others, wracked with greed, engage in vicious squabbles over gimcrack artifacts. In sadness and disgust the city fathers close the operation and declare the ruins off-limits, sacred ground. The trees remain hidden beneath the glacier, their frozen slumber undisturbed.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O beads held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O beads held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


In response to your fourth verse, the prayer beads respond with a low arpeggio that accelerates until the notes blend into a triumphant major chord. You sense a holy purpose in the beads, as once again a vision fills your mind.

You see a wide, open room filled with long worktables, silent but for the sound of work. Several dozen halflings (acolytes judging by their age and dress) move about the room, performing various tasks. One group works in a corner filled with fel and monir, sawing the raw wood into workable size and shape. A second squad whittles the lumber down into rough, small beads. Yet another team sits on low stools, their feet pumping levers that power wheels that polish each wooden bead. A final group drills a tiny hole through the center of each bead, then slides it onto a string.

When each set of beads is complete, the acolytes turn them over to a grey-haired old monk, who inspects each set for flaws. The beads then pass to a temple dean, who carries them on a solemn tour through a temple carved of ice and stone. The beads are placed on each altar in turn, and blessed by each god's high priest. The sanctified beads are then placed in a velvet-lined case, where they await a new life of helping the faithful to focus their spiritual energies.

You sense that these beads have been consecrated to a holy purpose.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>loresing O beads that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O beads that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

As you begin to vocalize a fifth verse, your vocal chords suddenly falter, then fail, and the words come out as a harsh, rasping cough.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a bloodsoul vultite falchion - The vultite falchion is covered with unknown runes from top to bottom, their origins a mystery. Light shimmers off the weapon which vibrates and hums as if it had a sinister life of its own.

You begin to sense the awesome power of the blade, it is very ancient with a mysterious power. You feel there is a dark secret held within the runes which is the key to everything.
Roundtime: 9 sec.


The small vibrations put out by the blade tell you it has a life all its own. The blade is literally alive and can aid you hunting when the it feels so inclined at a slight cost to the user.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>
An evil demi-god transformed this weapon with fire of darkness and the power of sinister magic. The blade now craves the blood of its victims and drinks it greedily drawing upon this blood to feed its own hunger and lust. You can feel the warmth of the living essence of the vultite falchion as it vibrates ever so softly in your grasp.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

With your last verse a all is revealed to you that was hidden. Your soul is the cost of using the special powers of the weapon. As your song continues the vultite falchion vibrates to life, you can see a spark jump from your body to the vultite falchion. You can just make out a low satisfied hum over your own screams as the vultite falchion drinks away your life force.

You feel drained!


Roundtime: 11 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a blood red ruby ring - You see a blood red ruby ring with flecks of glaes. The ruby is glowing brightly.

Suddenly, waves of images flare up from the ring like unbidden guests, each one more terrible than the last. Your surroundings fade as a great battle unfolds, stretching to the horizons of a bleak panorama. Overhead, the writhing forms of huge drakes desperately battle creatures that defy description, their silhouettes grotesque and contorted. As you watch, horror grows as the screams and shrieks penetrate your core, pulling your very life blood away. Then, the vision dims, and as your eyes clear, you hear the last echo of one of the horrible cries leave its echo in your mind.

As the melody of your song wraps its strains around the ring, you find yourself back in the midst of the raging battle glimpsed before, the shift disconcerting and abrupt. Again, the dragons battle their fiendish foes. You watch as one of the hideous beings is mortally wounded, and stand in horror, unable to move. The colossal form comes barreling down at you from above, flailing and screaming in rage. It passes through you, leaving a frozen waste in your heart as it disappears into the maw of molten glaes seething in the volcano beneath your feet. You watch, mesmerized by its dying frenzy, seeing its visage slowly still and become a part of the magma surrounding it. As its eyes dim, so does the hellish image, fading back into your normal surroundings.

You feel the blood leave your face as, once more, images seep from the ring and grow more insistent and demanding. You find yourself standing in a place dark and dangerous, with steaming fissures and hellish spouts of magma. Standing before the visage of everything evil you've ever imagined, you watch as drops of liquid poison form, changing from horror into beauty as the viscous goo embraces a pile of sparkling rubies. Without explanation, you know that this pairing not only gives life, but takes it as well. As you shudder with such a near proximity to death itself, the vision fades away.

[Fallen]

Two neat items. Is that Eugue's (or whomever) famous weapon that is never used for fear of nerfing? Also, I suggest looking for a fiery crystal shard, or something like that. It was a quest item with the story of a greater fire elemental. Very cool stuff.

[Back]

You remove an Ilvari luck charm from in your purple suede satchel.

You rub an Ilvari luck charm.
You're not sure, but you think you feel luckier.

You sing clearly:

"Ilvari luck charm how much would a merchant offer,
What value of silvers would you be in my coffer? "

You learn nothing new about the charm.


Roundtime: 14 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the luck charm in your hand, and you learn something about it...

The first thing that strikes you about the charm is the weight, which is about 2 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 5,000 silvers.

>
You sing clearly:

"Ilvari luck charm that I see
reveal your purpose to me. "


Roundtime: 8 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the luck charm in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a faint aura of magic around the luck charm. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the charm is to cast a spell or perform some magical purpose.

>
You sing clearly:

"Ilvari luck charm it would be very tragic,
If you did not tell us your magic! "

You can sense strange magic from the charm. It feels like a spell but there is something unnatural about it.

Roundtime: 11 sec.

>
You sing clearly:

"Ilvari luck charm you have been very truthful and honest to me,
Now reveal your special ability! "

You are suddenly travelling through a wall of dense fog. Just as the fog begins to clear, you can make out the shape of small children dancing about a forest surrounded by flame and light... and then the vision ends.

Roundtime: 13 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Is that Eugue's (or whomever) famous weapon that is never used for fear of nerfing?

The bloodsoul falchion? At the time I sang to it it was Nordreds. I believe he got it from O, but I'm not sure where or what has since happened. A really neat loresong, though. Nordred and O tend to have the best loresongs on their gear.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a curved coraesine sword
>look sword
The massive sword resembles nothing so much as an oversized khopesh. Its single-edged coraesine blade rises from a two-handed ironwood grip, straight and true for several handspans before angling into a sharp curve. The misty white metal grows more densely streaked with dark grey as it tapers toward its heavy point. No guard adorns the hilt to separate grip from blade. You also notice a small enchanter's glyph.
There appears to be something written on it.
>read swor
In the Common language, it reads:
Scorn

>loresing O sword that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O sword that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


As you sing, your vision clouds over and a scene unfolds for you. A pair of hands, weathered and strong from long hours at the forge, tirelessly pump air through a huge bellows.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O sword that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


As you continue to sing, your field of view widens. A sturdy dwarf works at a blazing hot forge. Slowly he turns a thick slab of shimmering metal in the coals until it glows an intense white. Soon he stops pumping the bellows and removes the metal from the fire to begin working it into a weapon.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

>

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O sword in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


As you continue to sing, you see the dwarven smith place the weapon inside the fire, heating it once again. With carefully placed strokes he finishes shaping the weapon. As he completes the work he drops it into a a barrel of water in an explosion of steam.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

>

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O sword held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

You sense that the sword is of a time long past. The smith carefully lays the weapon aside and an old dwarf wisened with age takes it up. The old dwarf begins chanting over it in a rough gutteral voice. As you watch, power radiates from his hands and encompasses the weapon. When it is finished, the weapon begins to glow with power.


Roundtime: 9 sec.

>

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O sword that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You learn nothing new about the sword.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the coraesine sword in your hand, and you learn something about it...

The first thing that strikes you about the sword is the weight, which is about 10 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 98,000 silvers. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the coraesine sword.

[shad0ws0ngs]

You glance down to see a slender coraesine falchion adorned with golden thorns


The falchion begins to resonate with the tone of your voice, and you find your vision swept away on currents of air...

Only to be replaced by utter darkness. But other things reach you in the blackness of the earth that surrounds you entirely... waves of power wash across you, soothing the very core of your being as threads of essence curl and nestle within you.

Millenia pass by in a heartbeat -- the power only growing further within you -- its mere presence further changing and shaping you as you stand as a silent and ancient receiver of its strength.

The blackness gradually fades away into the vivid colors of reality.

Roundtime: 9 sec.


*this is when it blew off my hand and dropped.. then I got healed and he added me to his group and I continued

Your wrist blossoms in exquisite pain as the misty thorns surrounding the falchion spiral around it and flay off your flesh!
... 3 points of damage!
Strong slash to your right hand cuts deep.
You are stunned for 1 round!

The heavy darkness returns to you once more as the falchion gives way to the power of your song...

As you become used to the gradual waves of power collecting within you, flashes of bright white light accompany the darkness -- as if another awareness were reaching out to you.

As the years continue to pass by, the flashes become more drawn out -- their whiteness resolving into a pale grey that encompasses everything, as if the world itself were a huge swirling vortex of mist-laden air, its eddies and currents stretching for untold miles as it constantly shifts and reforms itself in an ethereal dance of beauty.

Realizing that somehow these visions are connected to the power which even now washes over and fills you completely -- the very power that fuels the awareness you now experience. You surrender yourself to the visions, and you feel the white-hot explosion of the power within you pushing you into transcendence...

And then the vision fades away into nothing but a lingering memory.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

A tingling sensation overcomes you as the darkness settles over your vision once again...

Vaguely aware of your surroundings, you push at the borders of your dark world, your presence manifesting itself by slamming against the surrounding rock to no avail. With little else to do, you take in the power that has forever washed over you for centuries...

Until a chink of light breaks the endless blackness, a tear in the great velvet shroud illuminates your world...and you find yourself falling...

Dimly aware of the world, you sense a strange, alien presence among you, radiating its own sense of power as it retrieves you...

The world becomes a dizzying array of new sensations as you're moved for the first time in you existence. It soon melts away into reality as the vision comes to an end.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

A strange heat ripples along your spine as the falchion surrenders to your song...

You feel heat surround you on all sides, and intermittent strikes from above shape your form into something new altogether. You focus your power upwards occasionally striking the alien presence hovering near you -- the vibrations of its startled screams passing over your surface. The being's determination is relentless, however, and you find yourself wrought into a new form...

Soon after, you feel a distinctly different presence -- alien, as the others, but radiating a strange sensation -- a vaguely familiar feeling that touched you in ages past.

The vision's blackness recedes into the warmth of reality.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

Tingling sensations race across the black void as you're plunged into it...

The familiar presence touches you with its power -- and for a moment you feel a white-hot surge of essence burst through you -- and then the blackness recedes into a hazy image of the world around you...as if you were seeing through the being's eyes.

Dark cavernous walls surround you, and the lithe shadow of the Faendryl wielding you plays across the craggy surface. As you feel yourself whisked through the air and feel your edge slice into the body of another awareness...a strange energy courses through you, further amplifying your power -- allowing you to better understand the familiar presence which now wields you. Focusing your energies, you unleash a burst of essence, shrouding the one who wields you in a cloak of air -- propelling him into a second strike quicker than lightning against the alien presence, which expires.

The washed-out vision gives way to the lush colors of reality.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sense the weight of many years as you delve into the memories of the coraesine falchion...

The master fluidly slices through battle, your senses perfectly in tune with his own. Calling up your power, you extend your presence to aid and protect him as he defeats foe after foe -- the number of alien presences surrounding you innumerable.

As the battle rages on, you sense a presence behind the master, poised to strike -- you twist in his grip to block the blow, but it is too late -- you feel the spark of his life fade away like a dying star and you merely drop to the ground.

The alien slayer reaches to pick you up, and you surge forth with your power to sprout spikes that flay off the presence's flesh, causing its rumbling screams to vibrate along your surface.

No longer able to sense the master who bonded with you so long ago nor see through his eyes, your world fades into darkness...
And the vision comes to a close, the darkness gradually fading into reality.

You get a sense that was the falchion's last memory.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a night black steel visor. - yarx won it, said it counts and finds undead

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O visor that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

The first thing that strikes you about the visor is the weight, which is about 1 pounds. You feel it's quite valuable.
Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O visor that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

You sense the aura of magic about the visor. You sense it should be worn to be used.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O visor in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

The visor resonates softly in long descending tones. You get the the distinct image of reaching out or seeking something.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O visor held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

The visor's tones become stronger and the world around you dims. As your sight clears, you appear to be standing on a hill. From the lighting and feel of the air you'd guess it is dusk. A tall warrior, carrying a spear and a shield embossed with a night-black symbol of Ronan, stands on the crest of the hill. As the warrior turns, the setting sun glints brightly off her face and you realize she's wearing a visor much as the one you are holding. She is relaxed but very alert. From time to time she reaches up and touches the visor and you hear the song of the visor faintly but the warrior seems not to notice as she continues to watch the surrounding area.

The vision fades slowly and you return to more accustomed surroundings.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

I think that's everything that was interesting, that I've saved.. I have a complete list of all the loresongs in the RR museum, too. Once the Mayor's office is unlocked again, he has 2 items that have loresongs in there. If there is anything anyone would like me to loresing to and post, contact me via PM or find japhrimel IG.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a faintly luminescent green potion swirled with dark streaks

You sing:

"O potion that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You get a sense that the potion is a highly magical potion, and that it was brewed with much care. It resonates its purpose to you -- to ease the pain of those who suffer from some awful malady.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing:

"O potion that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

As you plunge deeper into the memories of the luminescent potion, you find yourself overtaken by a vision -- caverns spread on for miles into the vast rock of the DragonSpine mountains. You flow through the dark tunnels, reaching a small settlement whose people are plagued by sickness and suffering.

Onward you travel, past the many buildings and into a small room that resembles a study. Hunched over a table with many herbs and other ingredients spread before him is a dwarven man with deep red hair and dark eyes, working diligently with a large iron crucible and the roaring furnace in the room. You see many attempts to create the potion you now hold in your hands, but each meets with failure...

The vision swims out of your mind's eye and your song comes to a close.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing:

"O potion in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

As you sing, the memories of the luminescent potion leak out like rain washing over a roof, and you're whisked away on the current and into a vision...

The dwarven man again appears in your vision, working closely and his eyes focused intently on each ingredient as he drops it into the crucible.

As you watch the fire burn brightly beneath the metal container, a brilliant catalyst of colors bursts forth from it! The man steps over to it and scoops the contents of it up in a small vial, the very one you now hold. A sense of deep satisfaction comes over you, and you hear the name of the creator of the potion being whispered in your mind by their very creation...

"Geezzer."

The vision slowly comes to a close.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing:

"O potion held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

The power of your song is pushed right back at you by the luminescent potion, rendering you completely clueless as to its properties. Perhaps you should try again.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a gold-banded white mithril chest
>read my che
A small brass plaque on the front of the chest reads, "Krinklehorn."

had inside:
a woven grass buckler

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O grass buckler that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

As the notes of your song float out into the air, an image appears before your eyes.

You see the sun rising over a small valley, its rosy pink rays lending a soft glow to the newly budding trees. Young men pad silently through the village, each one laying a bunch of rosemary tied with white ribbons at the bedroom window of the maiden they most admire. They join up in small bands of three or four as they head to the village green.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O grass buckler that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

The vision returns, drawing you back under its spell.

A young man with blue eyes presides over one group on the green. He wears a green cotton robe with garlands of wildflowers draped around his neck and shoulders. Two small boys approach him and kneel, clumsily, in the dew-soaked grass. One holds out a hazel branch festooned with leaves, and the other presents a buckler of tightly-woven grass. The green-robed man accepts both items with a smile and mounts a roan horse. He raises the hazel branch and shouts, "Forces of Summer, follow me!" A crowd of men in brightly beribboned short coats trail along behind as he trots slowly out of town.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O grass buckler in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

The words have barely left your mouth before the scene returns with renewed clarity.

The festively attired group arrives in an empty field outside of the village. They rally together, singing,

Summer strides to center stage
Laughing off old Winter's rage
Leaves appear and grasses grow
Freed from suffocating snow

We sing Ivastaen's roundelay
As sun replaces dreary grey
Daylight lingers into night
Loathe to leave this lovely sight.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O grass buckler held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

The song transports you with ease back to the vision of the festival.

The green-robed man lifts his buckler skyward and encourages his men to attack with their flowers and bundled ferns. Dodging the straw thrown by the other side, the forces of Summer advance on their opponents, eventually overwhelming them. After seizing Winter's shield and staff, the men of Summer raise their leader up on their shoulders and march back to town, crowing wildly about the victory.

Roundtime: 10 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O grass buckler that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

The woven grass buckler does not respond to the sound of your voice.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a pair of silver-haloed morganite earrings - zested/morphing prize given out at the end of Asael's storyline at EG:

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O earrings that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


The piercing squall of a newborn babe heralds the joy of new life. Laughter and elated cries float in the misty vision, which reveals the gleaming happiness of new life in the baby's gummy smile. A gasp is heard, and the mist roils with darkness to reveal another child twisted by the cruel hand of fate. As the fog fades, a feeling of heartache grips your chest.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O earrings that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


The mists part again to reveal two young girls playing in front of a low altar made of morganite stone. One is markedly drab and mousey, while the other gleams with the shine of grace and beauty. Although the two seem to be in the midst of enjoying their game, a touch of jealousy surges through you as the brown-haired girl glances at her blonde twin.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O earrings in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


Jealousy nauseates you now as the twisted visage of the cursed twin gazes hatefully at her sister. The years pass, and she watches as all others favor the beauty -- their parents, tutors, family, friends, and eventually, suitors. One young man, in particular, stands out from the rest. His eyes hold the hue of the summer skies, and his chiseled features resemble the hard lines of a statue. He holds the blonde sister's hand against his heart, and she giggles lightly when he whispers soft secrets into her ear. The mist comes alive with screams of rage, and the scene is torn asunder before your eyes.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O earrings in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


Jealousy nauseates you now as the twisted visage of the cursed twin gazes hatefully at her sister. The years pass, and she watches as all others favor the beauty -- their parents, tutors, family, friends, and eventually, suitors. One young man, in particular, stands out from the rest. His eyes hold the hue of the summer skies, and his chiseled features resemble the hard lines of a statue. He holds the blonde sister's hand against his heart, and she giggles lightly when he whispers soft secrets into her ear. The mist comes alive with screams of rage, and the scene is torn asunder before your eyes.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O earrings held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


The mist pulses in hues of grey and black, and each surge is met with anxiety and jealousy. The muted smell of deathwort permeates your senses, and a crone's voice promises, "This is not enough to kill your sister, child. It will only rot her pretty face. Maybe then you will have a chance with him, hmm?" A fleeting feeling of hope races through your body.


Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O earrings that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


The mist fills your lungs and begins to choke you. You claw at your neck, and your body goes limp. As your consciousness begins to fade, you see the greyed form of the blonde twin swim before your vision. No longer living, she has the twisted and pallid form of unlife. In the background, the once-ugly sister now primps her gleaming hair in a mirror, without any regard to her twin's withered state. And with that, all goes black.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

This is along the coastal cliffs outside of the landing, showed up not long ago.. has ambient zests and zaps people.

a vein-covered ashen bone pillar - Rising out of the ground, the bone pillar resembles a giant skeletal finger, stretching to reach the sky. Massive in size, it is as wide as a wagon and ascends well above thirty feet. A latticework of red veins covers the entire bone column, an unnatural crimson light glowing within each strand.

You sing in Guildspeak to a vein-covered ashen bone pillar:

"O pillar that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Your vision blurs, colors melting together before forming a new landscape entirely. A lone figure stands on a beach, murky black waters rushing up to cover his feet and soak the bottom of his red robes. From a pouch, the man removes a skeletal hand and snaps off a finger bone. The man chants, his blue eyes turning red, before dropping the finger to the sand, where it begins to burrow into the ground. The red-robed figure looks out to the ocean, the shadow of his cowl hiding all but his wicked grin.

Roundtime: 7 sec.


same song for the one in danjirland

[shad0ws0ngs]

a silver-shafted black alloy voulge capped with a soulstone spike - shadowdeath polearm

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O voulge that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Odd sensations ripple through your body as your voice begins to coax information out of the black alloy voulge. However, try as you might, you cannot seem to get a good grasp on the voulge. It is as if it continually slips in and out of phase with your song. You get the distinct impression that more information awaits, just out of reach.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O voulge that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

You focus the tones of your voice on the voulge, grasping it and holding it in this reality despite the way it constantly slips and wriggles in your grasp, as though it were alive. You learn little before it slips away again, except that the weapon is bound with dark magic, and appears to have an enchantment bonus that varies. You get a distinct feeling of hunger, as though the voulge in your hands must be continually fed.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O voulge in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

You sing to the black alloy voulge, modulating your voice to unlock the secrets of the voulge. As you weave another harmony, darkness falls over your vision, and swirling shadows seem to engulf you! The darkness quickly fades to a hazy grey, and you could swear that something moves just beyond, out of your grasp. Dark flows of shadow spin through the haze, red pinpoints of light appearing and disappearing. You strain to see through the haze to the Truth beyond, but the swirling shadows suddenly surround you! You have the feeling that you're suddenly falling as your vision clears.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

[Ruabadra]

Here's a loresong for the amethysts that Rua uses to sober up all the time :)

You remove a smooth columnar violet amethyst from in your rabbit fur stole.

>look at ameth
Several dark, deep purple prismatic spears radiate outward from a central point to form this crown-like collection of amethyst crystals. Each spear shows the deepest color in its interior, fading gradually to clear crystal on the outside.

>loresing amethyst that sparkles so bright; bring thy true value to light
You sing in Gnomish:

"Amethyst that sparkles so bright
bring thy true value to light"

Warm energy floods your limbs, making them comfortably heavy as a deep feeling of tranquility washes over you. The edges of your vision begin to shimmer much like the way the hot air will waver over the desert, and you feel your sight narrowing to a faint tunnel.

Before you a woman stands upon a sea shore, her hair whipping about her in the the wind and her hands curled around a shawl that she holds close to her petite frame. A gust of wind swirls past, tugging harder on the woman and carrying with it autumn leaves which obscure your vision. As the leaves fall away, your vision returns to normal.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

R>loresing amethyst what purpose is this life; if a gnome can have but one wife
You sing in Gnomish:

"Amethyst what purpose is this life
if a gnome can have but one wife"

Tingling energy tickles at your fingers as the air before you wavers. Light spreads outward from the small pocket of energy and floods you with image after image of a woman with auburn hair and sea green eyes. You watch as she packs her belongings into a case, only to unpack them in a small room the next moment.

Before you the woman slowly ages as she moves through various duties in her life, from mundane tasks of cleaning and washing, to elaborate tasks involving study and concentration.

Without any preamble, the vision winks out.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>loresing amethyst your magic I will need; After I drink some more mead.
You sing in Gnomish:

"Amethyst your magic I will need
After I drink some more mead."

Your voice seems to echo in your own ears overly long, and your eyes blur with unshed tears that are not your own. Raw emotion threatens to overwhelm you as before you appears the bed of a sickly man. You lean forward, murmuring soft words of comfort, and draw forth from your pocket a smooth gemstone. Placing the stone upon the man's forehead, you concentrate upon the stone and feel it warm to the touch.

Moments later, the man grins up at you, and you can see that the shadows of his sickness have fled him. You close your eyes, a smile upon your lips, and when you open them your vision returns to normal.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

R>loresing amethyst your ability tell me true; else this gnome will be so blue
You sing in Gnomish:

"Amethyst your ability tell me true
else this gnome will be so blue"

Unfolding before your eyes is a parade of sick patients, each coming to you and speaking softly of their ailments. You whisper encouraging words to each, and select various stones to aid them. Some stones you gift to those that come to you, while others you continue to use on the many old and new faces that greet you.

As the vision begins to fade, a deep sense of peace and contentment fills you.

[Ruabadra]

Some scripted gloves that I got on the Albatross.

You remove a pair of black leather gloves from in a clothing wardrobe.
>look at glov
You see nothing unusual.

>loresing gloves that sparkle so bright; bring thy true value to light
You sing in Gnomish:

"Gloves that sparkle so bright
bring thy true value to light"

As you direct your song to the gloves an image slowly begins to take form. A cowled figure flips a gleaming silver coin high into the air, catching it during its descent on the back of his gloved right hand. He passes his left hand over the coin a couple times, until suddenly it disappears! A smirk slowly spreads across his face, barely visible under the folds of his cowl.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

R>loresing gloves what purpose is this life; if a gnome can have but one wife
You sing in Gnomish:

"Gloves what purpose is this life
if a gnome can have but one wife"

As your song continues another image floods your mind, this time that of the cowled figure kneeling by a sturdy iron chest. He twists his right wrist quickly as his fingers tuck into his palm. A second later he is twirling a lockpick between his index finger and thumb.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

R>loresing gloves what magic do you hold; that will make this gnome so bold
You sing in Gnomish:

"Gloves what magic do you hold
that will make this gnome so bold"

The cowled figure tosses his cowl back, displaying his ruggedly handsome features and sandy blond locks of hair. The half-elf brandishes his lockpick as confidently as a warlord brandishes his weapon. Slowly he inserts his lockpick into the lock, rooting around within.

After rooting around the lock for a moment, he grins, a victorious expression spread across his face. He slips the lockpick back into his glove and hurriedly reaches for the lid, anxious to unearth its treasures. As he lifts the lid he sees...

Roundtime: 9 sec.

R>loresing loves your ability tell me true; else this gnome will be so blue
>
You sing in Gnomish:

"Loves your ability tell me true
else this gnome will be so blue"

>loresing gloves your ability tell me true; else this gnome will be so blue
You sing in Gnomish:

"Gloves your ability tell me true
else this gnome will be so blue"

As you direct your song to the gloves an image slowly begins to take form. A cowled figure flips a gleaming silver coin high into the air, catching it during its descent on the back of his gloved right hand. He passes his left hand over the coin a couple times, until suddenly it disappears! A smirk slowly spreads across his face, barely visible under the folds of his cowl.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

R>loresing gloves what purpose is this life; if a gnome can have but one wife
You sing in Gnomish:

"Gloves what purpose is this life
if a gnome can have but one wife"

As your song continues another image floods your mind, this time that of the cowled figure kneeling by a sturdy iron chest. He twists his right wrist quickly as his fingers tuck into his palm. A second later he is twirling a lockpick between his index finger and thumb.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

R>loresing gloves what magic do you hold; that will make this gnome so bold
You sing in Gnomish:

"Gloves what magic do you hold
that will make this gnome so bold"

The cowled figure tosses his cowl back, displaying his ruggedly handsome features and sandy blond locks of hair. The half-elf brandishes his lockpick as confidently as a warlord brandishes his weapon. Slowly he inserts his lockpick into the lock, rooting around within.

After rooting around the lock for a moment, he grins, a victorious expression spread across his face. He slips the lockpick back into his glove and hurriedly reaches for the lid, anxious to unearth its treasures. As he lifts the lid he sees...

Roundtime: 9 sec.

R>loresing gloves that sparkle so bright; bring thy true value to light
You sing in Gnomish:

"Gloves that sparkle so bright
bring thy true value to light"

...nothing, for once the lid is lifted the chest explodes, sending the would-be treasure hunter to a fiery death.

Roundtime: 8 sec.



Dannah sang to these at White Haven after a House Hunt while the smiths were opening boxes. Right after she finished singing, Cyrroc blew himself up.

[Ruabadra]

And I'm a little worried about whoever designed Aneris's puppy pantaloons. How do you put Erithian sweatshops and puppy soup all in one loresong?

[shad0ws0ngs]

a tiny piece of cubical urnon - The cubical urnon is a small perfectly-formed block, yet at times it shifts and pulsates, like some beating heart. A myriad of hues runs along its sharply-angled edges resembling crackles of rainbow electricity.

You sing:

"O urnon that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You weave your melody about the urnon, and it begins to shudder intensely as if it was on the verge of breaking. It melts into a small puddle in the palm of your hand and begins to emit a piercing shrilling noise that is heard more in your mind.
You attempt to match the tone, and the urnon's noises increase in tone to an almost urgent pitch, and your vision flashes briefly with images too fast to comprehend or decipher.

The urnon become still, then reforms into its normal shape.

Roundtime: 7 sec

You sing:

"O urnon that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

You attempt to match the cubical urnon's faint hum you heard before, your voice rising with the same urgency it now seems to speak with in your mind. Faint feelings begin to flash across your senses as the urnon ripples violently, and you feel its power reaching out to you...

A vision suddenly flashes across your eyes, too quick to see clearly, though it breaks your concentration and brings your song to an abrupt end. Looks like you'll have to try again.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing:

"O urnon in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

You match the cubical urnon's metallic humming with perfect clarity this time, and it shivers violently as its tones mix with yours. Suddenly your senses are utterly overwhelmed by flashes of feelings and visions...

You feel embraced by everything in nothing...
You drift endlessly in a sea of intense joy and immense sadness...
You laugh the laugh of a madman and comprehend all...
You see everything yet your eyes are shut...
You hear all, but you have no ears...
You lie dead on the floor, but feel more alive than you have ever felt...
You massacre a field of people, yet they smile invitingly at you...
One thing remains constant as the different feelings pass over you... a faint shadowy presence looms across each like a predator in wait. As the visions and sensations pass, you get the sense that you felt the touch of pure chaos for the briefest of moments.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing:

"O urnon held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

You make a clunky attempt to weave a melody around the cubical urnon, and you sense its energies pulling away from your song rapidly. As you search for the perfect tone, your voice suddenly cracks, and you let out a piercing falsetto note that causes the urnon to shiver almost to the point of breaking. You decide not to press your luck further.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a xenium anklet

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O xenium anklet that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You feel the value of a xenium anklet is very dependant on who you're selling it to. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the xenium anklet.

Roundtime: 8 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O xenium anklet that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


Roundtime: 8 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the xenium anklet in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a faint aura of magic around the xenium anklet. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the anklet is to cast a spell or perform some magical purpose.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O xenium anklet in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


Roundtime: 9 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the xenium anklet in your hand...

This is a magical item, which casts spells from the Elemental sphere. It does not currently have any charges left.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O xenium anklet held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


Roundtime: 10 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the xenium anklet in your hand...

The xenium anklet contains the spell Elemental Wave, from the Minor Elemental circle.

You sense that the xenium anklet will persist after its last magical charge has been expended.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O xenium anklet that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You learn nothing new about the anklet.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the xenium anklet in your hand, and you learn something about it...

This is a small item, under a pound. You tremble and can barely hold onto the xenium anklet. You estimate it must be worth over a hundred million silvers! You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the xenium anklet.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O xenium anklet that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You learn nothing new about the anklet.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the xenium anklet in your hand, and you learn something about it...

This is a small item, under a pound. You tremble and can barely hold onto the xenium anklet. You estimate it must be worth over a hundred million silvers! You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the xenium anklet.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O xenium anklet in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


Roundtime: 9 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the xenium anklet in your hand...

This is a magical item, which casts spells from the Elemental sphere. It does not currently have any charges left.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O xenium anklet held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


Roundtime: 10 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the xenium anklet in your hand...

The xenium anklet contains the spell Elemental Wave, from the Minor Elemental circle.

You sense that the xenium anklet will persist after its last magical charge has been expended.

[shad0ws0ngs]

[Temple, Graveyard]
A small group of people stands around a newly-covered grave here in the Temple's shadow. A priest, dressed in solemn clothing, leads the people in a soft song. While the key is minor, the words rejoice that the departed one now rests beyond the hardships of life, safe within Lorminstra's grasp. You also see a small grey tombstone.
Obvious paths: northeast, east, south

In the Common language, it reads:


Here Lies Colson

May He Join His Son In Peace


You sing in Guildspeak to a small grey tombstone:

"O tombstone that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Your vision blurs, colors melding together before forming a new landscape entirely. You see an aged brown bearded man kneeling before the corpse of a young militiaman, his tunic stained with blood. The man pulls the body into his arms, weeping loudly as his shoulders heave with despair. The scruffy bearded man looks up to the sky, his tears subsiding and his grey eyes now burning with rage as he screams to the heavens for revenge.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak to a small grey tombstone:

"O tombstone that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Your vision blurs, colors melding together before forming a new landscape entirely. You see a scruffy brown bearded man, limping as he cautiously moves down a set of rickety wooden steps into the basement of a shop. There, a number of people greet him before they set about their work, carving wooden stakes for signs. The bearded man removes a red and black bracer from his cloak and slams it down on a table. The room bursts into cheers.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak to a small grey tombstone:

"O tombstone in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

Your vision blurs, colors melding together before forming a new landscape entirely. You see the same scruffy man marching through the streets of Wehnimer's Landing, an entire throng of angry townspeople following behind him, chanting and shouting. Soon the angry mob splits, moving in multiple directions as fires begin to appear on the rooftops of nearby shops. The bearded man shouts in protest, trying to knock a torch out of a younger man's hand, but is pushed down and kicked before crawling away.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak to a small grey tombstone:

"O tombstone held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Your vision blurs, colors melding together before forming a new landscape entirely. You see the bearded man enter an office cautiously, his eyes straight ahead and oblivious as the door slams behind him. The man stumbles when he sees an unconscious body on the floor, but then gasps in horror when a red-robed figure slips from the shadows. The figure's cowl falls back to reveal sea blue eyes and a wicked grin. The figure holds up a waraxe and winds his arm back just as your vision is suddenly cut short.

Roundtime: 10 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a chunk of stone - While its edges are jagged and uneven, the stone is flawlessly smooth.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O stone that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Your vision blurs, colors melting together before forming a new landscape entirely. A man with sea blue eyes stands proudly in a shadowy chamber, staring down into an obsidian-lined scrying pool. The inky black liquid inside the pool shimmers and soon reveals the image of a ship being tossed about in a storm as fire rains down from the sky, burning the vessel as people scream and leap for safety. The pool's image fades, and the blue-eyed man confidently smiles.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O stone that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Your vision blurs, colors melting together before forming a new landscape entirely. A lone red orc lies on a slab of metal, his arms, legs, and neck bound with thick chains. A scarlet-haired woman stands above him, digging a rusty blade across his flesh as the creature clenches his jaw. From the shadows steps a robed figure with sea blue eyes, grinning wickedly as he approaches the orc's hand with a jagged knife. He removes a cloth from his robe and begins to cut, but the orc never winces.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O stone in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

Your vision blurs, colors melting together before forming a new landscape entirely. A stern-faced man, garbed in a Wehnimer's Militia uniform, enters a dark alleyway where shadows begin to dance along the walls. From the darkness, a red-robed figure steps out and produces a large pack. Taking the container, the militia man reaches inside and produces a small crimson glass orb etched with faint runes. The man bows in servitude as the robed figure steps back into the shadows.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O stone held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Your vision blurs, colors melting together before forming a new landscape entirely. An aging man limps into an office, his eyes going wide to see an unconscious body lying on the floor. Revealed from the shadows, a sea blue-eyed man drives a waraxe into the older man's chest. With but a gesture, the blue-eyed man sends his victim hurling out of the office's window, glass shattering into thousands of pieces. The blue-eyed man leans down, drops the bloodied waraxe, and melts into the shadows.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a crystallized sea blue eyeball - Encased in a glowing crystallized shell, the eyeball has an iris the color of the ocean with its deep, sea blue hue.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O eyeball that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Your vision blurs, colors melting together before forming a new landscape entirely. A raven-haired woman stands in a field of sirenflowers, whispering to an older man before suddenly plunging a rune dagger into his chest! The woman's eyes widen with alarm as she turns, her lips snarling as a younger man comes running into the field, his sea blue eyes glistening with tears and rage. The man struggles to get the blade free from her grasp before finally pulling it away and thrusting it into her stomach.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O eyeball that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Your vision blurs, colors melting together before forming a new landscape entirely. Murky black waters carry the body of a human, finally abandoning him on a rocky shoreline. Pale and wounded, the man crawls along the beach, the rust-hued sky reflecting in his tired, sea blue eyes. Suddenly, a web of red veins appears along the shore, snaking from the edge of a forest and reaching the man, latching onto his arms and chest. The man rises slowly to his feet, eyes glowing with a crimson light.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O eyeball in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

Your vision blurs, colors melting together before forming a new landscape entirely. Rows of dark-haired women writhe in agony while trying to break free from the chains binding them to a stone wall. Predominant in the shadowy chamber is a large chunk of urnon set within a blood-drawn circle on the floor. From the darkness steps a red-robed figure, his sea blue eyes sparkling as he approaches his prisoners, a glowing red rune dagger in his hand.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O eyeball held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Your vision blurs, colors melting together before forming a new landscape entirely. A red-robed figure stands on the top of a wooded hillside, his sea blue eyes observing the scenery before him. An immeasurable army of trolls wades through the forest, slaughtering everyone in their path as they move. Countless metal and stone golems march upon the gates of a town, battering the wooden palisade walls. The man's gaze moves up to where a cluster of red cocoons hovers in the air, and he smiles.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[awol0509]

Thanks for posting the eyeball one. Nice that both the stone and eyeball had a different loresong. :)

[Constal]

I was wondering if there was another eyeball, identical to the one I got? You'd think there was two.. anyone know?

[shad0ws0ngs]

For anyone who was curious about the shards of blood red urnon, from the golems, they have no loresong. They sing up as worth about 10 coins and appears to be decorative

[shad0ws0ngs]

a charcoal Khanshael waraxe

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O waraxe that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Your voice resonates slightly against the waraxe, causing vibrations in tune with your song. As your song synchronizes with the waraxe, the metal begins to glow brightly. A faint image of a hot forge, a dark dwarven smith working over it, comes into focus.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O waraxe that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

As you continue to focus your song on the waraxe, the images begin to come clearer with each note sung. The smith begins to strike a hammer against the blade of this waraxe, causing sparks to fly from its molten steel. He then plunges the blade into a vat of water, and steam fills the image in your mind.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O waraxe in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

As you continue your melody, the steam fades, and a dark elven priest enters the forge. The priest touches the hilt of the waraxe, and the blade seems to instantly cool down with a sudden hiss, beginning to take the shape of the waraxe which you are now holding in your hand.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O waraxe held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

The priest's lips seem to move faster as the shape of the waraxe responds to his touch. The Khanshael smith bows deeply as the priest's words vibrate the waraxe into shape. Suddenly, the vibrations end, and the priest hands the waraxe back to the dwarf, then quickly steps back and vanishes into thin air. The smith smiles to himself, hefting the waraxe then sliding it into its sheath. He bows, and then fades into the darkness as your vision returns.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a hoof-hilted curved vultite dagger - Tarnished with age yet still an elegant statement in craftsmanship, this dagger has retained a deadly edge and point with very little care. The hilt is carved from a solid dark-colored hoof, with the tips protruding from beneath the rotting cloth wrappings around the grip. A slim design, coupled with a thumb bar for leverage, make for an excellent concealable weapon that leaps to hand with casual ease.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O dagger that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Jarring flashes of color bloom in your eyes as the dagger throbs nauseatingly, visions spluttering roughly to life. Images flicker and distort with static, hundreds of them flying by too fast to discern, before lurching to a normal speed.

Stocking the display cases with daggers matching the one in your hand, from crates marked and stamped as unclaimed evidence and bearing the city of Fairport's official seal, an aging man putters around in his store. Documents, portraits, and framed sections of uniform hanging on the walls display the history of the man, revealing him to have once been a constable. A jovial couple from the bakery next door rap at the window as they leave their shop, placing an open box of day-old muffins by the constable's door. The constable slumps behind his counter with the box, gazing hatefully at the yellowed parchment hung on the wall, a wanted poster with a blade-wielding giantkin assassin sketch. He bites into a muffin from the box, and emblazoned on the bottom of the wrapper are two crossed daggers.

Your stomach clenches as the vivid scene slows gelatinously and then reverses, everything you just watched unhappening before your eyes and continuing on backwards in a blur before snuffing out.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O dagger that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Images waver into your vision as the dagger renews its pulsating song with a sickly quiver, black spots forming around the edges of your sight like molding apparitions. Figures resolve into clarity, and their backwards movements jolt and play forward.

As crime scenes go, this one is far more opulent than the norm. A decorated grand ballroom, the overly-gilded space would easily be decreed majestic by any viewer, were it not for the single disfiguration of a murdered corpse on the floor. The constable, looking less old and even less retired, is on his knees beside the body of a slashed man in baronial vestments, sobbing not with remorse but out of frustration and confusion. Beside him, nearly ten feet up, two identical daggers are stabbed into the wall, one with its blade facing up, the other down. Between them hangs a red velvet handfasting cord.

Images swirl by faster in a blurry collage of visuals, and then a crackling hiss and acrid spark from the dagger snap you from the vision and the connection breaks.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O dagger in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

Once again the swimmy visions crawl into your sight, flashes of people and shadows moving in reverse too quickly to interpret. With a jumbled twist of color the vision suddenly plays forward.

The constable is standing beside another man bearing a large sketchbook. The artist is listening carefully to the sharply-dressed constable, while trying not to glance at the bloody corpse already freezing in rigor at their feet. The constable is describing a huge man, perhaps even giantkin, and gesturing at the dagger embedded high in the wall. He pauses in his description, taking a length of marked twine from his pocket and measuring the height of the blade from the floor, and gestures at the picture the artist is drawing shaking his head. Flipping to a blank sheet of parchment, the artist begins again, this time drawing a gigantic menacing figure apparently twice the size of a human.

Images swirl by faster in a blurry panorama of visuals, and then a crackling hiss and acrid spark from the dagger snap you from the vision with a shock!

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O dagger held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Your song vibrates unsteadily through the dagger, in your vision indecipherable swathes of colored light flicker like a windblown candle refracting through tumbling crystal balls.

Images splutter by, one crime scene after another, each showing quickly a different room, different victim, but high up on the wall one unwavering similarity, a single dagger with its edge facing either up or down. Another constant becomes apparent, the constable, slowly becoming younger at each location. The backwards scenes slow and one plays forward, the constable reaching up and prying the calling card blade from the wall for the first time, confusion and interest warring on his face at this new discovery. A note is pinned to the blade, which he unfurls and holds up to read. Though written in a style lost to ages, glowing letters in your own tongue appear above the note's surface, stating, "Oops, I have beaten you again little man!" The constable frowns at the note, and tucks it into his pocket as if it were written directly to him.

The vivid scene slows gelatinously and then reverses again, everything unraveling backwards and on past the scenes you just viewed. The dagger emits a loud *bang* which snaps you out of the vision.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O dagger that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Vibrations erupt furiously from the dagger in your hand, threatening to shake it from your grip! As you clench the hilt tighter, visions crawl backwards through your eyes, slowing and then starting forward.

A pantsless lord lounges in a bedroom chair, alone and dozing, and a cloaked halfling approaches from behind. He reaches around to slash the lord's throat, but a dagger appears suddenly stuck between his eyes! Another halfling assassin waves with a grin from the other side of the room and bounces over to collect her weapon, which they notice matches his dagger exactly, both bearing a rolaren gecko on the hilt. The two diminutive killers do not appear to know each other, but speak at length beside the cooling corpse with growing smiles. A flirtatious game is conceived, and as they leave the female hurls her dagger into the wall above the door, blade facing down, and says, "That is one vote for bakery!"

The scene reverses and the figures within dance oddly in their mangled backwards-time movements. After the lord staggers back into his chair the scene slowly goes dim, and then black. Your vision clears and the dagger falls completely still.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Not me singing it, but a repost of the loverknots:

- a bright red crushed velvet pouch – show: The shine of satin banding contrasts against the crumpled folds of rich, red velvet and encases a braided red and gold drawstring. The satin band is quilted with gold embroidered squares, which contain satin-stitched hearts alternating with roses.

In the crushed velvet pouch you see a lover's knot and a lover's knot.

Knot show: The knot is an intricately made heart seemingly woven from silver wire. Two silken cords of fine gold thread are inextricably woven together and threaded through the latticework of the heart. The two cords dangle limply from the heart, alone and separate.


Transports within the same realm. Wear them and turn them to attune them, kiss them to bring the other person to you. According to the merchants, there are 26 charges and "possible more," so it is possible they are rechargeable. Kilthal sang to one for me and this is what he got:



"A silver glow of magic emanates from the knot, leaving a warm feeling on your fingertips. While the magic seems to involve distance and motion, it is difficult to unravel the exact nature."



"The sounds of two heartbeats fill your mind. They begin to synchronize in rhythm, growing closer and closer together until finally, they beat as one. A tingling warmth spreads from your hands until it covers your entire body, as if you'd just caught sight of your one true love."



"As you sing, you find a melody and lyrics coming unbidden to your lips. With some surprise, you begin to sing it aloud...."



(from another person's point of view)



Looking surprised, Kilthal begins to sing a sweet melody....



"Song of my heart, my soul's melody,

How can I hold you, so far from me?

Too long, too fast, much too far away,

Only your love can my pain allay."



"Send you a kiss, and my heart takes flight,

Our bond will help keep you in my sight.

Too tight the hold and love slips away,

Too little trust and our bond will fray."



"Turn about your heart, turn about mine,

The knots of our love shall intertwine.

Once pledged, devotion stays ever true.

Your promise to me, my promise to you.”

[shad0ws0ngs]

a twisted kroderine warsword etched with asymmetric lines

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O warsword that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

The magic of your song begins to penetrate the kroderine warsword when something goes horribly wrong! The normally faint resonating vibration is instead a cacophonous roar that not only readily consumes the magic of your song, but also begins to work its way into your very being. Your mana is ripped away from you in an instant as you collapse to the ground, drained and feeling a horrible emptiness inside you!

Roundtime: 30 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

an opal-dusted star-shaped shield - The surface of this skillfully crafted eahnor shield is covered with deeply embedded opaline stones of the highest fire. Each of the gems varies in shape and size, all of them flawless and placed with amazing precision in order to maximize the prismatic effect of this shield. You also notice a small enchanter's glyph.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O shield that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

As you sing, gentle vibrations come from the shield, the sounds quite pleasant. The shield begins to keen quietly in your grip, the image of a rainbow forming in your mind.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O shield that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

As you continue singing, the shield matches your song much like a tuning fork might. A long-tressed blonde woman enters your thoughts, her soft hands working with the surface of the shield.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O shield in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

A simple change in pitch finds your voice even more in tune with the shield and the vision intensifies. The form of the woman deepens, and you see that she is wearing a simple white robe, fastened by a silvery cat-shaped clasp. Power seems to flow from her hands to the surface of the enchanted shield.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O shield held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Your voice wearies, but your song remains strong. Your images and thoughts turn to the morning sky, as the gently smiling wizardress carefully seeks out the perfect gems amidst a collection that would bring a smile to even the greediest king. Each gem is placed into the shield's surface with care, placement evidently quite important to maximize the shield's effect without dampening its effectiveness. With a final nod, and a simple gesture of her hand, a white mist covers the shield. The mist clears from the shield, but as it does so, it begins to cloud your vision, bringing a slow end to your song.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

Ardwen softly taps his star-shaped shield, and the tiny motion causes the light to dance off its gem-encrusted surface in mesmerizing fashion. The stones refract even the faintest illumination in a glittering array of colors, the prismatic effect creating a dazzling show of varied hues. With even the smallest shift, the shield radiates a new display of dazzling color.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Included in this one is the first and then third person perspective

a faded and torn silk blindfold - This remnant of faded red silk is now more a pastel hue than the rich brilliant color it was many years ago. Once a blindfold decorated with celebratory silver and black symbols for the Yesui Moon Festival, the scrap of fabric is way too fragile and sheer to be worn for practical purposes. Stitched along one edge that remains intact are the intials "B.H." and "J.T" centered in small heart, perhaps a later addition to commemorate a handfasting.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O blindfold that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Notes of your song reverberate softly in your head, and the darkness of your mind's eyes moves from a midnight black to a deep indigo. Stars slowly twinkle into existence, their heavenly light becoming a backdrop for a perfect round moon of ghostly hue. The late spring evening is filled with an air of merriment and touch of anticipation for the festival to come.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Singing soft and low at first, Japhrimel holds the blindfold in his hands, cradling the fragile object carefully. Slightly increasing the tempo, he urges the small artifact to surrender its song.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O blindfold that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Stringing more notes together in another refrain, your eyes chase a falling star downward, as it streaks across the sky. Firelight flickers brightly, inside a large ring of stones. Drummers sit outside the circle, some banging on the stretched skins with the palms of their hands, others using short sticks bound with a ball of batting and wool at one end.

Groaning tables full of meats, fruits, and sweet treats stand along the fringe of the celebration site, though many of the halfling present are not eating. Off to the side they stand, dressed for the night's occasion, drinking fermented mead. Giggling and giddy, they sway and jostle each other, clearly affected by the consumption of the potent beverage.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
A lilting refrain bursts forth from Japhrimel, the tune jubilant and playful. One hand moves to stroke the blindfold absentmindedly.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O blindfold in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

Raising your voice up again, carrying forward the gaiety derived from your previous song, you return to the festivities and watch as the Mother and Father of this Trine are lead to a makeshift throne alongside the circle. Their hands joined and lightly wrapped with a loose cord, a symbol of handfasting, they gesture for the merriment to continue. The drummers resume their almost carnal beat, and the drunken halflings begin to move wildly around the fire.

After several moments of this frenzied dance, several elder halflings step forward, carrying red blindfolds decorated with black and silver symbols, and tie them snugly around the eyes of the young inebriates. Then, taking them by the hand, they lead them into the forest near the edge of the vale.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel continues his joyous song, a sly smile dancing across his lips.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O blindfold held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Stringing more notes together yields little in the way of an image, instead you have a sense of being transported, aided by the thick scent of the forest. Hands reach out to touch you, strange and yet pleasing, wandering over your body. Giggles and lusty laughter fill the air, as does a more erotic sound of intimacy here and there. Off to the side, a sweet voice sings in perfect tone.

"O' come 'way, come 'way, into the forest we go,
A caravan a' joined hands, where to we dinna know.
Blindfold 'cross me eyes, turning 'round an' round,
Sweet scent o' the night, and crashin' to the ground."

"O' come 'way, come 'way, deeper 'mong the wood,
A kiss upon yer lips, an' wanting more, dare I should.
Fingers that touch you, aye, both gentle and rough,
An' though tis but the one night, t'will ne'er be enough."

Gales of more laughter peak as the short verses conclude, and then the rustle of leaves as more pairs move off to couple under the Yesui Moon.

Roundtime: 10 sec.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Deep color begins to blossom on Japhrimel's cheeks as he weaves another verse, pulling at the story hidden in the blindfold.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O blindfold that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Another attempt to learn the story behind the blindfold is met with the sudden red of the fabric as it fills your sight. You sense that it is daylight now, birds sing in the trees and the warmth of the golden sun shines down upon you. Strong hands, different from the gentle and lusting ones that had touched you, pull you along and return you to the circle from the night before. After enduring a short ceremony, your vision's perspective shifts back to one of a spectator again.

Blinking in the bright light and looking spent from a night of debauchery, the unblindfolded halflings smile blissfully, many holding hands. In the dawn's mist several gers await, offering shelter for the weary men and women that clamber inside to slumber, some within an entwined embrace.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel sighs softly at the end of his song, and his eyes take on a wistful gaze.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O blindfold that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

Images drift by in slow motion, your soulful tune taking on a different cadence than past verses. Eyes alight on some of the halflings from that night, many still together. Some are courting, others are joined and expecting a child. Several pause to daydream about that celebration, smiling, though nothing became of that night's events.

Another slight shifting of the images, back in time a bit, to the handfasting ceremony occurring a week later. Those halflings that did not return from the Yesui Moon are remembered with great honor and officially joined with the Goddess of the Night Sky, forever the lover of the moons.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Fading notes trill off into the ether, as Japhrimel brings his song to a close.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O blindfold in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

The blindfold twists, as if to dance, and then goes limp.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
The blindfold twists quickly as Japhrimel weaves a song, then just as suddenly goes limp.

>wear my blind
The gauzy blindfold is so fragile and thin that you can barely secure it around your head as you fasten it. The blindfold slips downward on one side slightly, allowing you to still see where it is that you are, and where you might be going.

>rub my blind
Running your fingers across the blindfold, you feel the barely raised texture of the faded symbols drawn upon the silk. Their slightly waxy surface and crude rendering indicates they were probably applied with a stylus.

[Stressmint]

Won this from a spin at the Faendryl Bardfest, figured I'd give loresinging a shot and was surprised to find some, but then was told to keep singing and I got more of the story.

"a polished ebony cittern inlaid with jeweled jungle vines"

The harmonic vibrations that your song evokes in the ebony cittern convey a sense of great age. At a rough estimate, the cittern is worth 1 silver, but a collector of antiquities might be willing to offer a significantly greater sum.
~~
As the ebony cittern responds to your song, you sense echoes of ancient enchantment drifting softly through the resonances. It is difficult to say whether or not the cittern is innately magical, but, if not, then it has certainly been exposed to a great deal of magical energy over an extended period of time.
~~
The resonances of your music caress the ancient weave of enchantment within the ebony cittern. You recognize both spiritual and elemental components, twisted together and permanently altered into a new form -- the unmistakable taint of sorcery.
~~
As you sing to the ebony cittern, you evoke the image of a short man with silver-streaked hair. He holds the ebony cittern in his hands, studying it intently. As he turns it over, its brilliant gems glitter brightly as they catch the light, and he nods his approval. He signals to a liveried servant nearby, and the servant quickly comes to take the cittern away. The vision drifts away from you as your verse ends.
~~
Another vision comes -- a fleeting image of a ship's aging gangplank. Muscular human stevedores load the vessel under the wary, watchful eye of a liveried servant. The image of a silver hunting hound cradled in a white lily has been embroidered on the sleeve of his tunic. With sharp words, he orders the stevedores to take care with his master's cargo, and, as your senses narrow upon one particular coffer, you sense this ebony cittern lying inside, so many centuries ago.
The vision flickers away, vanishing from your mind.
~~
The vibrations of the ebony cittern craft the image of a vast treasure room in your mind. This vision is much stronger than the image of the ship had been, for the ebony cittern lay there for a much greater period of time. Guttering torches shed orange light across shimmering piles of gold and gems, all carefully fenced about by a web of sorceric enchantment. You sense human figures in the room, but their presences are frail and fleeting -- they come, they gaze, they touch, but they only rarely take anything away. Only the treasure remains through the years.
The vision draws to an end.
~~
The image of the treasure room coalesces once more in your mind's eye, captured by the vibrations of your song.

The torches gutter and die, and people no longer come, but the treasure endures still. There are bejeweled dishes, gilded musical instruments, ceremonial pieces of armor and weaponry, exquisite jewels with a sparkling fire sufficient to make gnomes faint, and more beyond that, but it has all left to gather dust in an age when people no longer come to admire it. In the shadowy darkness, the treasure remains, and the web of sorcery remains, for years... decades... centuries.

Your verse winds to an end, and the image fades away.
~~
The harmonics from the ebony cittern draw you back to the treasure room, but something has changed -- the sorceric web has been damaged, and its enchantments wend over the trove in a different fashion. You sense the uneasy power of the earth, and your music brings you to comprehend that an earthquake that wrought this change, shifting the arcane balance in a small but subtle fashion.

Time passes... you sense the years marching silently past as the vision slips away.
~~
In the last fleeting, faint resonances from the ebony cittern, you see the treasure chamber a fourth time, and you sense presences in the chamber once more. They have conquered the web of sorcery and come to take the spoils, and dust billows up with every step. Somewhere in the chamber, there lies a polished ebony cittern inlaid with jeweled jungle vines, awaiting the touch of a new owner. A new owner comes, and you feel the hands touching the cittern's surface as if that surface were your skin. A wave of dizziness washes over you as the new person picks up the cittern, and, in that dizziness, your verse ends.

The vision wavers away into nothingness.

~~~

So...yeah, wow :D
First loresong!

[shad0ws0ngs]

Eyes of Ta'Ashrim/Star of Khar'ta/Galestone:

a flawless green crystal orb - The orb is formed of deep emerald crystal, its surface smooth and unblemished. Within the sphere, a faint blue light churns slowly.


You sing to a flawless green crystal orb:

"O orb that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As you focus on the orb, azure motes begin to swirl within. Tiny bolts of green lightning arc about, crackling within the orb in a brilliant display of viridian light. Booming thunder echoes through your skull as your ears are assaulted by the crashing of waves. Your surroundings peel away to reveal a black sky, where a green orb floats among thick clouds. The orb flashes, and rain and hail create a cacophony as the night comes alive with a blinding storm. The orb begins to grow when your vision ends.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

some tigerfang crystal prayer beads - from Sacred Blessings at EG10

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O beads that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As you sing the opening notes of your song, the crystal prayer beads begin to hum in harmoic response, subtly transforming your musical phrase into a hymn. You sense that the beads have been consecrated to a holy purpose.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' beads in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

As you begin to sing a second verse, the crystal prayer beads respond with bell-like tones that turn your song into a joyful noise! You sense that the crystal prayer beads are worth about 85,000 silvers, though their value to the faithful is beyond price.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' beads that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

At the sound of your third verse, the crystal prayer beads begin to thrum with the mellow tone of a harp. You sense that these crystal prayer beads have a special ability to focus the spirit of their user, making them an invaluable aid to prayer and meditation.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' beads made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

As you begin to vocalize the notes of a fourth verse, your vocal cords suddenly falter, then fail, and the words come out as a harsh, rasping cough. Perhaps your throat could do with a bit of a rest?

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a white chaos maul

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O chaos maul that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."


This weapon is permeated with magic, but what kind of magic is difficult to discern because its properties keep changing.

You learn nothing new about the maul.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the chaos maul in your hand, and you learn something about it...

The first thing that strikes you about the maul is the weight, which is about 8 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 250,000 silvers. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the chaos maul.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' chaos maul in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"


Most of the weak two legs fall to your weapon easily, but you must stay clear of the robed ones. Especially those that carry the little sticks and smaller weapons.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the chaos maul in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a faint aura of magic around the chaos maul. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the maul is as some type of weapon.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' chaos maul that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"


This weapon is permeated with magic, but what kind of magic is difficult to discern because its properties keep changing.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the chaos maul in your hand...

The way it vibrates in tune with your voice tells you that it requires skill in twohanded weapons to use effectively. It also has some type of special ability, but you can't tell what yet.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' chaos maul made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"


This weapon is permeated with magic, but what kind of magic is difficult to discern because its properties keep changing.


Roundtime: 9 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the chaos maul in your hand...

You are unable to determine anything new about the maul.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a ruddy crimson drakar sledgehammer with a bone spike on its head - trollbane

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O sledgehammer that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."


Roundtime: 7 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the crimson drakar sledgehammer in your hand, and you learn something about it...

The first thing that strikes you about the sledgehammer is the weight, which is about 8 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 100,000 silvers. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the crimson drakar sledgehammer.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' sledgehammer in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"


Roundtime: 8 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the crimson drakar sledgehammer in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a faint aura of magic around the crimson drakar sledgehammer. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the sledgehammer is as some type of weapon. A sense of deep seated hatred clings to the crimson drakar sledgehammer, as if it had been crafted with a specific purpose.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' sledgehammer that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"


Roundtime: 7 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the crimson drakar sledgehammer in your hand...

It has a bonus of +25 from a normal sledgehammer, and the way it vibrates in tune with your voice tells you that it requires skill in twohanded weapons to use effectively. It also has some type of special ability, but you can't tell what yet. This crimson drakar sledgehammer seems to be the bane of trolls.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' sledgehammer made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"


Roundtime: 10 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the crimson drakar sledgehammer in your hand...

The harmonics generated tell you that the sledgehammer has been infused with the power of a fire elemental.

This crimson drakar sledgehammer flares with the power of elemental fire when employed against trolls.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a steel-studded azure mithril chest
>read my che
A small plaque on the front of the chest reads, "The Giantmen."

>
In the azure mithril chest:
jewelry (1): an amber-bound flesh globule pendant.
uncommon,weapon (1): an etched rolaren ice hammer.
skin (1): a silver-tipped carved drinking horn inlaid with ruby Saramar runes.


a silver-tipped carved drinking horn inlaid with ruby Saramar runes:

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O horn that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

The warmth of your song insulates you against the cold into which you are thrust. Highmen and Shantira tribesmen of the T'Kirem Bear Clan are restless. They pack up and leave the frozen peaks to seek out more hospitable climes for their seasonal battle. Not far from Yuriquen, they come to a hilltop named for Jirkirl of the Issimir Clan. Still occupied by the Issimir, the hilltop is dotted with shops and dwellings of the kegritsha. With so many giantkin in one place, it surprises no one that the ale starts flowing freely. Each tribe replenishes their precious supplies of alcohol in preparation for the upcoming fighting. Perhaps spawned by leaders too deep in their cups to be thinking clearly, the tribes nonetheless decide to try something new. This year's combat will consist of competitive tasks and contests, rather than brute force and bloodshed. You find yourself reaching, quite automatically, for another round of ale as your song runs out.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' horn in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

A new verse begun, you find yourself back on Jirkirl's Hilltop. Clusters of giantmen gather to compete in games only fellow members of their race could truly appreciate. Logs, taller by half than the average giantman, are hefted in slings of interlaced fingers and cupped palms. A burly red-haired man grunts and grimaces under the weight of the tree trunk, sweating to maintain control till the last second, then heaves the tall timber end over end, hoping it will come to rest farther away than the throws of his compatriots. As he tends to trousers neatly rent in the effort, Highman warriors proclaim the advantages of their kilts. Off to one side, two other men face off, hands locked together and elbows firmly planted on the stump of a newly cut tree. Onlookers taunt, jeer and cajole as the knotted muscles of the competitors straining for an advantage. With a final roar, the smaller of the two men seizes an opening and forces the other man's fist to the wood. Both winner and loser are doused with ale and laughter erupts all around. As if to avoid being drenched in spirits, yourself, you quickly sidestep the past for the present.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' horn that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

With the first notes of your new verse, your mind is drawn to the cheers of another crowd. Assembled in a field with only a small meadow left bare, you watch as a broad-shouldered blond giantman grasps an iron ring set into a rock. Lifting with his powerful legs, he finally muscles the rock into position. With a short spin and a loud grunt, he hurls the rock down the field. It soars past two small flags, marking other stone throws, and comes to rest a full pace beyond the others. Fellow members of the hurler's tribe lift him to their shoulders with congratulatory shouts and howls. In yet another direction, several tipsy tribesmen huddle around monstrous kegs of ale. A grizzled old warrior and a strapping youth in his prime, match each other hornful by hornful of stout ale, then stand to prove they're not too drunk to do so. The youth quaffs his drink in a single confident gulp. Legs sturdy as logs, he forces himself to stand, wavering only slightly, and grins widely as he turns his horn upside-down on the table. As the crowd looks on, his eyes suddenly glaze over and he falls, rigid as a plank, face-first into the table. You're not sure whether the crunch you heard was the splintering of the table or the shattering of his nose. Either way, the sound breaks your focus and the image dissipates.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' horn made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

The notes of your next verse carry you back to the hilltop where new activities have begun. The Shantira attempt to instruct the Highmen in the ways of a new game, but don't seem to be having much luck. As the Highmen look on in confusion, a tow-headed Shantira youth removes his shield, places it face down on the ground, sits in the hollow and pushes off into the snow. Adeptly, the youth shifts his body-weight to steer the shield 'round rocks and trees. Soon dozens of giantmen are careening down the slope, some crashing into each other or colliding with obstacles, while others skillfully slalom back and forth to the sound of singing and laughter. At the bottom of the slope, another group of men, women and children form teams on either side of a huge slush-filled puddle. A thick rope is strung out between them and, at the sound of a horn, the two teams begin to pull on the rope with all their might. Just when you think the contest must end in a draw, a single warrior slips. Soon his entire team gives way and the opposite group of tribesmen drag their opponents through the ice-cold mud amidst howls and laughter. As if covered with mud, your sight is obscured and the vision slips away.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O horn that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

Your final verse seems to be joined by the haunting melody of bagpipes. A roaring bonfire casts a reddish-orange glow over all who have assembled here. At the beat of a drum, leaders from every tribe and family step forth. They call out their names, the names of their kin, and a brief history of their grandest deeds. One by one, every person is recognized and the pipes fade away solemnly. A special brew, rumored to have been developed by the Issimir, is passed among all the gathered T'Kirem. This strong drink, this "uisge", is tasted by young and old as they raise their voices in unison to howl at the moon. When the last howl is carried away on the breeze, the Highmen march forward, waving a banner in triumph. This, the first games of its kind, will henceforth be known as the "Highmen Games," in honor of the victorious tribe. Each winner is marked with a special tattoo and the champions march to the Hairless Rolton Tavern to inscribe their names on the wall for posterity's sake. Your song draws to a close as the giantmen evaporate into thin air.

Roundtime: 6 sec.


an etched rolaren ice hammer:

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O ice hammer that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

The notes of your song seem to reverberate through the head of the rolaren ice hammer as an image coalesces. Seated around a campfire, giantmen of the Wsalamir clan take turns relating tales of history to the sons and daughters gathered at their feet. Rising slowly to stand before them, an elder chieftain takes a final slow pull at his pipe and exhales the smoke into the cold night air. A hush settles over the listeners as the deep, sing-song style of his quiet words sets the stage for this, the most important of their stories. At his dramatic pause, your verse runs out and the vision evaporates.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' ice hammer in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

Your song resumes to find the chieftain beginning his tale in earnest. All of the children know of the wendigo and revere them as clan totem. The tale of the hunter named Templeton is one they have heard before. The listeners growl and hiss at the name, feeling anger and shame as the chieftain tells of the wendigo cruelly tortured. They howl in frustration as the wendigo did, and join hands as they listen to how the other wendigo gathered. In unison they chant a somber song and take pleasure as the villagers in the story grow fearful. Together they call out to Templeton, "Release our wendigo brother!" The tale still unfolding, your verse comes to an end and the image dissipates.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' ice hammer that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

Eager to hear the rest of the tale, your song weaves the image once more. Snow tossed on the fire creates billowing steam which simulates the fog in the story. With mock screams and chattering teeth, the children imitate the frightened villagers. At a motion from the chieftain, all sound ceases. The Wsalamir warriors lift their hammers and pound a vengeful rhythm on the hard ice around them. As the last wisp of steam blows away, a single head-sized block of ice is placed atop a cairn of stone. Though this should have been the end, the children pale as they are told how the hunters retaliated. Several cover their eyes or clasp hands over their ears, not wanting to hear this part. Your vision obscured, as if by small giantkin hands, you find yourself back in the present.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' ice hammer made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

Once more you lift your voice in song, this time to hear the end. The chieftain tells of the hundred years when Wsalamir were hunted along with wendigo. None at the time could believe the wendigo possessed such powerful magic, so they blamed the hapless Wsalamir. The children bow in honor to the Grishknel clan as the story tells of the truce they forged. Sad, wistful sighs recall the loss of both hunters and hunted. With piercing gaze the chieftain locks eyes with each child in turn. "Remember!" he demands, and the children nod in fierce affirmation. At last they all stand, touch cold fingers to the talismans they carry, and close their eyes in an attempt to commune with the elusive wendigo. As your verse ends, you return to yourself, feeling as isolated as the reclusive Wsalamir.

Roundtime: 9 sec.


an amber-bound flesh globule pendant:

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O pendant that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As your song pulses through the amber pendant your vision warps and then reforms into an unusual hallucination.

Around you the vision takes shape, you see thousands of crude bottles and bubbling tubes on every surface inside a massive cave-like alchemy laboratory. A wizened T'Kirem Bear Clan shaman, absentmindedly stirring something in a hollowed-out mountain gremlin skull, is scrying into a jagged crystal shard on a stand. The vision within the vision shows a battle between human armored soldiers and Baloran tribe giantkin in a rocky mountain pass. The fighting is cautious in the morning light, but lusty and heralding great bloodshed to come.

The aged giantman severs the magic controlling the crystal and sits back heavily, frowning.

You follow his eyes as he scans a primitive calendar painted on the wall, looking at a date decades in the future. Your unknowing host sighs, which elicits a great honking spasm of coughs before he can control it, and rubs at his wrinkled face.

The power flowing through the pendant goes still and you open your eyes.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' pendant in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

Your eyelids become leaden and you allow them to slowly close.

Your surroundings shift, and the dark alchemy cave clears around you once more. As though you were crouching, you are gazing across the surface of a table, and you see two heads on the other side with their chins on the tabletop as well. The larger head belongs to the shaman, and beside him is a tiny oval-eyed kobold head, and they both peer down at a brilliant green and gold scarab slowly crawling on top of the table. The massive arm of the giantman reaches out, holding a cracked vial of a yellowish powder, and taps a sprinkle over the wandering insect. As the powder hits the scarab, a tiny flash of light and puff of angry red smoke erupts around it, and passes to reveal the bug encased in a hard amber shell.

The kobold assistant grins and nods wildly at the shaman, who flicks him in the forehead and points back to the tabletop.

As the assistant watches closely, the giantman taps another substance over the amber, and the scarab strolls out of the tiny green cloud of smoke, alive again. The kobold claps wildly and the pitter of his little hands, and subsequent smack on his head from the giant, fades as the vision breaks apart.

The power flowing through the pendant goes still and you open your eyes.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' pendant that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

Your eyelids become leaden and you allow them to slowly close. Colors swirl and a vision forms around you.

Inside the shaman's cave there is a wide open space now cleared. Any illusion of actual cleanliness is abolished by an errant turn of head toward the half of the room piled with the broken tables and refuse that were in the way. Standing on a legless tabletop, the aged giantman is wearing the simplest of robes and is taking deep, controlled breaths. He turns a piercing glare on the kobold assistant, who quickly bounds to the calendar wall and begins jabbing a finger at a large circled day, far in advance. Nodding grimly, the shaman taps one green vial on a ledge until the kobold nods again reverently, and then speaks, his words wavering and echoing in your ears,

"My dying power be preserved to aid the kin once more in my life."

With that, the giantman takes up the yellow bottle from the ledge, raises it above his head, and breaks it open. A cloud of static-charged yellow mist swirls around the shaman's body, and when it clears, he stands frozen as a statue inside the honey-colored sap cocoon. Beaming, the little kobold assistant applauds and hoots wildly, then cringes as if expecting a slap! Glancing at his amber-encased master, he grins stupidly and claps his hands again.

The power flowing through the pendant goes still and you open your eyes.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' pendant made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

Your eyelids become leaden and you allow them to slowly close.

Shapelessness coalesces into a familiar cave and the shaman's magic is running its course. Green smoke charged with energy begins to disperse, and the amber wavers and disappears from around the giantman's form. Grinning like a drunken child before the sickness hits, the kobold waves away the smoke and peers up at his master expectantly.

A massive forefinger thumps the kobold's forehead!

Still encased in golden amber the giantman's entire head reflects no emotion, but his body speaks volumes. He lurches and begins to flail around the lab, the assistant being knocked aside but bouncing right back up, gibbering. Futilely attempting to sprinkle the remaining powder on his careening master, the kobold bounds around wildly chasing after him. As the shaman trips over a rusted cauldron and falls to the floor, his amber-covered head hits the ground and shatters.

The power flowing through the pendant goes still and you open your eyes.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O pendant that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

Your eyelids become leaden and you allow them to slowly close.

Returning to the previous moment without prelude, the body of the headless shaman falls still. The assistant is aghast, taking quick jerky breaths and touching his lips with quivering hands. Falling to his knees beside the body, the kobold carefully piles up the magical amber shards, each containing a small bit of his preserved master.

Images slowly superimpose over each other, showing the kobold traveling great distances, and occasionally escaping ignoble toothy death. All the while he is clutching a roughly-cut hide sack against his chest.

The light fades as the scene becomes early pre-dawn, stars still visible overhead. The kobold is standing in a mountain pass, much like, if not exactly like, the one seen in the shaman's crystal so many years ago. Gazing around sadly, the diminutive figure crouches and places the sack on the ground, darting away as the sounds of heavy footsteps draw near.

The power flowing through the pendant goes still and you open your eyes.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' pendant in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

Although your vision dims as the notes of your song unfolds, no new visions follow.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Provided by Radom, from here: http://forum.gsplayers.com/showthread.php?74462-a-faenor-banded-smoky-glaesine-globe-from-2003-storyline

a faenor-banded smoky glaesine globe
look at globe
Thin bands of black faenor wrap around the small globe, reinforcing the seams between the thin panels of glaesine. Each pale glaesine panel bears a twisting, darker-hued pattern within its surface, which resembles several interwoven tendrils of smoke. The globe is suspended on a fine copper neckchain, which threads through a small loop at the top of one faenor band.

A shapeless blob of pale blue gelatin lies within the sphere, oozing restlessly back and forth within the confines of its prison.
clench globe
>clench globe
As you tighten your hand around the smoky glaesine globe, you feel a sudden, sharp ache in your palm. A fine mist of scarlet diffuses through the inside of the globe, settling on the pale blue blob of gelatin inside, which reaches greedily up to consume the nourishment.

In only moments, the fluid within the globe is clear once more.
(Did this once today, not sure how frequent can be done....whether you can feed it daily or multiple times...gave me a hand minor)

tap globe
You tap the globe, and the gelatinous blob inside reacts in surprise by sending a fleeting burst of iridescence over the walls of its prison.
-Purgram taps his smoky glaesine globe lightly, and iridescent light shimmers briefly in its depths.
wave globe
As you wave the smoky glaesine globe around, the small gelatinous blob inside sloshes quietly back and forth within the confines of its prison.

turn globe
You turn the globe around, causing the pale blue blob to roll back and forth within.

May be others, but a bit lazy tonight to find them out

LORESONG
You remove a faenor-banded smoky glaesine globe from in a sturdy leather weapons harness.

Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy value of this land
You sing:

"Globe in my hand
What's thy value of this land"

As you sing to the globe, your song penetrates its outer surface to reach the small blue blob inside, and the world changes around you.

Ribbons of iridescent color flow past as your gelatinous body ripples smoothly through rock, stone and the occasional brief pocket of cold liquid. You absorb all the food you need as you travel, and you are constantly aware of the keening and clicking of your kin's communication dancing along your amorphous flanks. Your form is as fluid and ever-changing as the nature of your joy, but there is always joy, for you are always among your kin, and to be joined is to be whole, and to be whole is to know joy.

Disorientation and a powerful sense of loss overcome you as the vision reaches to an end.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy purpose of this land
You sing:

"Globe in my hand
What's thy purpose of this land"

Your verse draws you back into communion with the gelatinous blob inside the smoky glaesine globe.

The world fades into darkness streaked with shimmering iridescence, but it is not the same as it was in the prior loresong vision -- it feels silent, and more...it feels dead. The silence aches like a wound, and neither rock nor earth nor water have any food for you. This is something more terrible than you have ever imagined, let alone experienced. Yet there are things that live and move about in the air that are food, and they make noises, living noises -- not like the presence of your kin, but sufficiently famliar to comfort the agony of the silence, or comfort it slightly before the horrible hunger overcomes you.

But there is danger as well, terrible danger, because parts of yourself fall silent and fall away from you as you try to feed the hunger and fill the silence. This, you have known in the past, but only in times of great carelessness or foolishness, when you risked damage for the thrill of the matter -- here, where your song is the only song to be heard, it is even more horrifying to feel parts of yourself fall silent. Mourning for your kin is driving you mad.

The last strains of your verse are pitifully weak as you become aware of yourself again.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy magic of this land
You sing:

"Globe in my hand
What's thy magic of this land"

You fall away from yourself into the powerful resonances evoked by your song.

The madness of starvation and silence consumes you, but there is a way to survive, you have realized -- you need to be more than you are, and then you can fill your own silences with songs that are not your own. In warm places, the hunger fills you too greatly for you to concentrate, so you send many of yourself to seek out cold places. In the cold, everything is quieter, which hurts, but the hunger backs away and you can concentrate on the songs that you want the new kinds of you to learn. If you can only remember well enough, if you can only sing well enough, then there will be more of you and they will begin to fill the silences.

You need food, so you send parts of yourself looking for food in the air, but some never come back. Some do, and they bring food back for the small new kinds of you. Because it is hard to move food through the rock, since you have never needed to move food before, you carve tunnels into the rock, and then it is easier. The food gives you strength to endure in the silence, and the cold mutes the rest of the hunger to the point where it can be ignored. You have to endure.

Like a diver surfacing from icy waters into sunlight, you return from the memories evoked by your song.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy special ability of this land
You sing:

"Globe in my hand
What's thy special ability of this land"

At first, it seems that your loresong has failed -- the world remains unchanged around you as the melody weaves from your throat to touch the tiny blob of gelatin. Then, you abruptly realize that the song is not the verse you intended, but a high-pitched, keening cry, and your shock at the realization distracts you badly. In the next instant, the power of the vision surges over you, and you forget who you are.

The world begins with song, and the song is the most important thing in the world.

You can't sing back, but you listen and you remember. The second most important thing is food, which diffuses through the eggshell surrounding you to help you grow and make you strong. As you listen to the song, you make patterns on the inside of the eggshell to help you remember. You can feel the patterns and they feel like song, and a great joy rises in front of you as you wait for the day you can sing.

Then -- the world shatters. The shell is gone, and a terrible impact splashes your frail body over shell-shards and rock alike, but that is nothing compared to the silence. Only fractured, agonized pieces of the great song remain, and the great singer is gone. It would be possible to live, but what is the point? You will never know the full song -- you will never have food again -- you will die in silence. It is better just to let life seep away into the cold, dry air and be done with it.

Then something encases you, paralyzing all but your awareness, and even the escape you sought is denied.

You become aware of yourself, Mither, again, and you realize that your voice fell silent some time ago as you were lost in the vision.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy value of this land
You sing:

"Globe in my hand
What's thy value of this land"

The gelatinous blob's memories flow into you, invoked by your music.

The silence dominates your awareness. Grief and loneliness fill you, made even worse by captivity and immobility. As the world around you grows warmer, the hunger grows more intense, for cold wards off hunger, and even your immature form of consciousness begins to fade into a mindless animal awareness of the lack of food. There are sounds, but they are not song, and they cannot hold your attention for more than an instant.

The world changes. The immobility ends, and you find yourself locked in something like an egg that has no patterns on the wall and that is too tough to trace any there. Your form has changed as well, and you find, to your shock, that you can sing now, and flow into new shapes -- but you are still as tiny as if you were in the egg. Food comes sifting down through the thin liquid around you from time to time, but it is never quite enough, and the world is too quiet and too warm for you to forget the hunger and think clearly.

Your only song is weak and unformed, but you sing it over and over, crying into the void beyond the shell to try to fill the eternity of silence. You reach for new shapes whenever inspiration is near, hoping that someday, somehow, one of the new shapes will let you break the shell.

You return to your own awareness to find your left hand grasping helplessly and uselessly at the air, as if you reached for something that you could never possibly attain. Your hand aches from its tight grip on the smoky glaesine globe.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy purpose of this land
You sing:

"Globe in my hand
What's thy purpose of this land"

When your song reaches into the globe, you feel a horrible wrenching sensation, and then everything dissolves in a spray of rainbow light...

You were never mature enough to grow eyes, only to sense outward with the invisible senses of your kind, but a cacophony of sound tells you that something is near.

You reach for a shape like the maker of sound, but this shape, like every other, is useless against the walls of your prison. You sing your fragment of broken, agonized song into the songless silence, hoping that the thing nearby will open your prison, and hoping that there is only empty air behind the wall, air to dry your weak flesh until an end to the silence comes. All you want is an end, and you plead helplessly for that end in the only language you have ever learned.

You snap painfully back into your own awareness. Light stings your eyes, and you inadvertantly close them as you feel them water. A single tear still escapes your lashes to tickle your cheek. Your entire body feels bruised, and your throat is torn and raw.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

>
You feel at full magical power again.
>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy magic of this land
You sing:

"Globe in my hand
What's thy magic of this land"

The small blue blob of gelatin within the smoky glaesine globe gives a faint, keening cry as you sing, but no vision comes as a result -- only echoes of misery, anguish, and madness shivering through your bardic senses.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

[Kastrel]

Here is a good one, probably my favorite (EXCEPT for the Vreen morph sphere). I've had this saved for a long time. Its not mine, but I saved it from someone at some point.

There is also another loresong that I always remembered out there . . . it was an axe of some sort, and in the loresong, it was used by a group of Empaths in some huge battle. They were camped out in a snowy region, and stuck with no food . . . the empaths camped in a cave and cut off their own legs for food, then just grew them back. It was pretty horrifying. I wish I could find it.

Anyway, on to my main attraction, the music stand.

________________________________________

(The below is the loresong of a music stand awarded by Lady Bone to Hubris but now in the hands of a proper bard.)
________________________________________

As your voice resonates through the brass music stand, you become immediately aware of a presence within the stand. The stand is haunted-- but not by a trapped spirit. The spirit within remains voluntarily caged in the stand's physical framework. You detect both pleasure and interest in the spirit as it takes curious note of your song.
________________________________________

When your voice touches the spirit within the stand, it listens to your song for a moment before presenting you with a vision.

An elderly gnomish man works in a lantern-lit room. His brow is creased with concentration as he fits a screw into place on a gleaming music stand and tightens it with a small screwdriver. The screwdriver slips as he is suddenly distracted by a small yellow puppy pouncing on his foot. As if the first brave puppy's move were a single, he is suddenly surrounded by puppies, all sniffing, woofing, licking, and panting. His eyes almost vanish in delighted wrinkles as he laughs at his pets.

Four large dogs sit on the edges of the scene with their tongues lolling out in an amused fashion. Looking up at the largest, the gnome inquires, "Well, Tympani, is it past dinnertime again?" When the wolfhound thumps her tail in agreement, he rises to his feet, smiling all around as he pushes through the fuzzy horde. "Well, then, I'd best feed you, my friends, for there's nothing I love more than music, but there's nothing I love more than you."

He sets the music stand aside in a forest of similar stands on his way out of the room, and you briefly glimpse the very brass music stand in your hand among them before the workshop fades away and the vision ends.
________________________________________

As you sing again to the stand, the spirit within it listens before giving you another vision. In contrast to the first vision, this is blurry and vague. From the vibrations, you understand that the brass music stand was not physically present for these events, but they are part of its history all the same.

The gnome stands on stage, proud and straight, as a human kneels to hang a glimmering gold medal about his neck. In one hand, he holds a shining oak flute, and the other cradles a ruby and diamond bracelet of obvious value. Joy shines in his eyes, but the audience's mood is ugly, and the human competitors arrayed to the side glare at him with obvious malice.

The next moments flicker past like a bat swooping in and out of moonlight. As the gnome travels home, he is interrupted by a group of masked human stepping from a building's shadows. They smash his flute, steal the bracelet, score the medal's face into unrecognizability, and leave him face-down in a rubbish heap.

The sadness of the spirit within the music stand surrounds you for a long moment after the vision ends. The spirit aches with sorrow for the gnomish man, and you sense that the spirit innately does not understand why anyone would do such a terrible thing.
________________________________________

You sing to the brass music stand, and you finish your verse. You sense the spirit's presence and awareness, but a long moment passes before the spirit delivers the next vision. This one is as intense as the last was blurry, and it grips you so powerfully that the sensations and emotions briefly seem like your own.

Brothers and sisters lie in sleepy piles about the floor. You are happy and sleepy, too, though the big ones are a bit restless. It is late for the man to come home, but why worry? He always comes home.

Crunch, crunch, the gravel sounds outside. The good man's feet are little and they don't make such a big sound. New friends! You wiggle, you bounce, you are excited--

WHAM! You cower backward. You are afraid! The four big ones are snarling and bristling-- you knock over some music stands as you scramble for cover. Huge men come inside. They are angry. The four big ones are angry! Suddenly one of the four big ones is down, screaming and writhing, and then another one has fallen, howling his pain. There are long shiny things that are terribly bad. Everything smells of anger and fear. A big hand reaches for you, and you can't escape....

Pain stops.

The vision ends, leaving you reeling
________________________________________

The spirit within the brass music stand listens in a subdued way before showing you its next vision.

Battered and bruised, the old gnome hurries through the doorway, but his own pain is forgotten as he sinks to his knees in raw horror. Then he moves from one to another of his pets in a dazed fashion, stroking bloodied fur here, caressing a nose there, crying freely and without shame.

At last, he goes to a hidden drawer, and he takes out a carved wooden flute that looks almost as old as he is. He begins to play, and the music he produces is truly wonderous. At first, his song aches with sorrow, but then it slowly eases through regret toward a soft, tender melody that expresses his unconditional love. From there, the flute soars upward, dancing playfully through notes, and he almost smiles through his tears as he serenades his dead and remembers the good times.

One by one, ghostly forms shimmer into view around him. Some small, some large, the ghosts come and sit around him, surrounding him with their love and support, although he cannot see them.

The vision fades away.
________________________________________

When you finish singing, the spirit brings you back to continue the prior vision.

The old man stops playing, but he looks blindly through the spirits of the dogs and puppies, not able to perceive them. One of the big dogs goes and tries to rub up against him, whining softly, but he is unaware of the wolfhound's presence. The puppies are worried at first, but then grow curious about their new existence, and one of them pounces into the scattered music stands in a botched attempt to jump on another puppy.

The puppy's form dissolves into the music stand. When it jumps to its feet, the music stand jumps up as well, startling the poor gnome severely. Then, another puppy tries the same trick, and third, and a fourth, until he is gaping and amazed as the music stands crowd around him and try to cuddle up to him.

"Can it be?" he asks, in a dazed, wondering tone. "Can it truly be..." Then, he is laughing and patting the music stands and hugging them all, regardless of their metal bodies, as they dance around the room in delight. Only the four grown dogs remain apart, watching in loving pride.

The vision ends.
________________________________________

A cold shiver passes unbidden through your body as you enter this vision. The harmonics tell you distinctly that this is not a place within mortal ken.

Looking much older, now, the gnomish man walks down a path through a snowy wood. The four grown dogs range at his side, each looking as solid and physical as he, and the puppy-possessed music stands bounce along behind.

They come to a gate in the wood, and a black-robed woman bearing a staff of crystal stands before it. "I greet you, and your... entourage," she says. "This is your hour and your time." The gnome bows to her as she opens the gate.

When he starts to walk through the gate, the four older dogs follow willingly, but the music stands hesitate and fall back, jostling worriedly and turning this way and that. The old man hesitates as well, looking unhappy. "Lady," he says, "I've got a bit of a problem. You see, I love them more than music, and I know that they love me, but I don't think they're quite ready to go on through yet, and I know that I am...." Beneath her gaze, he fidgets nervously and falls silent.

The black-robed woman considers him for a moment and nods. "Other arrangements will be made. Their hour is not locked to this hour."

His thanks drifts away into the darkness as he passes through the gate, and the four grown dogs follow behind him, vanishing into the darkness. The music stands mill about uncertainly for a moment, but the woman says to them, "Wait here a moment. One will come for you, and then you will return." Obediently, they pile to the side of the path and settle down to wait.

The vision fades away.
________________________________________

When you finish this verse, the spirit does not present you with a vision. Instead, you sense that it is considering you carefully. Its reply comes not truly in words, but in emotion: "Do you like me? Can we be friends?" you sense it asking. If the answer is no, you need only to set the brass music stand aside and sing no more, but if the answer is yes, you need to sing again.
________________________________________

When you finish singing, the spirit's giddy joy washes over you in waves. For a moment, you glimpse the outline of a roly-poly puppy wiggling in place of the brass music stand in your hand, but then all you see is the stand. Still, you sense the connection, and you know that you are now the spirit's chosen person, to be followed, trusted, and loved.
________________________________________

You hear a faint spectral bark, and you feel something like a tongue slurping along the side of your cheek.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Reposted from the appraisals thread(http://forum.gsplayers.com/showthread.php?75283-mechanical-kitten-from-EG-games&p=1456163#post1456163) - a mechanical kitten from a previous EG.

a mechanical tortoiseshell kitten with a segmented brass and gold tail

You sing in Guildspeak:

"Kitten I hold of perfect hue
Sing to me your value"


As you croon to the tortoiseshell kitten,you get few details about it that aren't immediately obvious. It weighs about 1 pounds and is cast of a mechanical. On intitial inspection, it doesn't seem to be magical.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

R>
>loresing kitten i hold of perfect hue;sing to me your purpose true
You sing in Guildspeak:

"Kitten i hold of perfect hue
Sing to me your purpose true"


The small device responds to your melody, echoing back a soft noise that sounds for all the world like a 'meow'.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

R>
>loresing kitten I hold with magic power;from what circle do you flower?
You sing in Guildspeak:

"Kitten I hold with magic power
From what circle do you flower?"


From the signals your melody feeds back, you can tell the tortoiseshell kitten is not magical. Its little crank obviously provides the impetus to what appears to be an amazingly complex series of tiny mechanisms inside the piece. While it's not magical in and of itself, the craftmanship necessary to design and produce the kitten were certainly as much a marvel as the most demanding of spells!


Roundtime: 8 sec.

R>
>loresing kitten here is still a mystery;sing to me your ability
You sing in Guildspeak:

"Kitten here is still a mystery
Sing to me your ability"


The small kitten trembles in your hands as your lyric caresses it. You can discern wheels within its a mechanical heart begin to turn with an almost silent 'whiiiirrrr'.

As the toy vibrates more rapidly by the moment, you increase the urgency of the song, hoping to uncover something about the master who made this miniature marvel. The suspence builds. You hold your breath, feeling sure that something is on the verge of revealing itself! Then softly, you begin to hear a thin, reedy little rasp of a voice singing along with you...singing,
"Meow meow meow meow,
Meow meow meow meow,
Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow..."


Roundtime: 7 sec.

R>
You feel at full magical power again.
R>
>loresing kitten I hold as a mystery;sing to me your history
You sing in Guildspeak:

"Kitten I hold as a mystery
Sing to me your history"


Your song is suddenly rent by a note that's as sour as spoiled ale, leaving you not surprised in the least when you fail to learn anything from the kitten.

You learn nothing new about the kitten.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a gold-hilted warblade inscribed with dwarven runic letters 'Farouk'

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O warblade that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As you sing to the warblade, images of some long forgotten verses comes to mind. The curious verses become louder in your mind, and you can't help yourself, but to sing them aloud:

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' warblade in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

Evil and ruin befell the Lands.
Seven strong hearts and seven stout hands,
wielding fire to stem the flow,
Guarded the pass against their foes.

Seven stood in the darkest hour.
Fire in hand, whilst the village did cower.
Against the ancient evil of old,
they stood as one, brave and bold.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' warblade that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

Seven blades flashing bright,
mighty brands to pierce the night.
Did set all their foes a'straight,
withering them in ruint fate.

Aelthed, Orin, were the first to fall,
Five now stood and fought for all.
Farouk, Karo, followed soon,
Three blades still shined against the moon.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' warblade made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

Three blades left began to fade.
Without all seven their doom was made.
Iubdan, Manser, fought till death,
with ebbing strength and waning breath.

Ottar held his blade up high.
Lightning crashed against the sky.
Seven blades their powers meshed,
to cleave asunder demon flesh.


Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O warblade that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

With fading breath and dying sight,
Ottar passed beyond the Light.
The weapons great, their wielders strong.
Together these blades shall right the wrong.

Seven blades, each with a light,
came together in blazing might.
Separate, each had a fire.
Brought together they formed a pyre.

The village free, the seven dead,
Weapons were laid beside each head.
And if the lores of old ring true,
Seven blades shall rise anew.


Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' warblade in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

Your song draws to a close and you feel the story has ended.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a moss-hued chrysoprase teardrop - Darker patches dapple this brilliant green stone like leaves' shadows cast on a bed of moss. A hundred tiny facets glint across its surface, casting the light in different directions depending on the angle of view and making the shadowy inclusions seem to shift and turn. The effect is more intense near the edges, where the thinness lends a faint translucence to the nearly opaque gem.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O teardrop that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As you sing to a moss-hued chrysoprase teardrop, it glimmers slightly, and slowly, a vision begins to unfold.

A young boy plays with his friends, gleefully slogging through the muck and mire of a small stream. Something glittering in the riverbank catches his eye, and he stops to look. To the great delight of his friends, he has found a small, clear sapphire. Soon, all the boys are covered head-to-toe in mud as they try to find their own buried treasure. Each boy returns with a handful of pebbles and brightly colored stones, but no more gems.

The moon rises, and the young boy sits on his bed, staring in rapt fixation as starlight glints off his sapphire. Suddenly, he pulls a small knife from a pile of string, rocks, and other typical boy fare and begins to chip away at the gemstone. He pauses, holding it up catch the starlight again and then gently carves away, humming beneath his breath. Soon, a tiny heart-cut clear sapphire lies in the palm of his hand.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' teardrop in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

Your vision quickly reappears as you sing to the teardrop. The boy is older now, almost a man, and before him are several gemstones, each meticulously carved. He holds a violet feystone in his hand, singing to it as he carves away every flaw and turns the simple gem into a breathtaking miniature rose. He sings as he polishes it, and the feystone rose grows brighter. A light blue aura surrounds it briefly before being absorbed into the gem.

The scene changes, and the boy stands in a shop, showing his feystone rose to a stooped old man. The man takes the rose and rubs it. He chortles happily as a light blue glow seeps into his skin. He hands the boy a few gold coins.

The vision fades as a very happy boy runs down the street to his home.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' teardrop that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

As you whisper your song to the teardrop, a new scene unfolds. Several years have gone by, and the boy is now a man. He sits in a small shop filled with carved gemstones, each shelf holding a sign explaining the properties the stones hold. He is deep in concentration over a star-cut ruby, pausing in his singing every so often to press it against his forehead and letting it fall into his open palm again.

He jerks up from his work as a bell jingles, and his shop door opens. A beautiful young woman walks in.

Flashes of time pass before your eyes as the young man courts the woman. You see a cottage with a garden of bright roses and tall lilac trees. A kiss, an altar, a ring. You see both working, her in metal and him in stone. And when he presses a peridot against her forehead one day, it stays, casting a cerulean light across her face. The woman cheers, and they kiss exuberantly. An overwhelming sense of happiness infuses each scene, and as your song's influence fades, the vision disappears.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' teardrop made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

You barely start to sing to the teardrop before a vision appears. The joy that permeated the previous scene is nowhere to be found here. The young man's countenance is haggard, his appearance disheveled. He looks the madman as he rants and raves in the garden. A raven lands nearby, and the man throws a diamond at it. The bright roses have all gone to dark shades, and even the lilac trees look denser, more foreboding. Yet, the garden is well-tended, and even as the man mutters and weeps to himself, you see him lovingly caring for each bush and tree.

He sleeps in a thicket of lilacs and washes himself in the pond, and you get the impression he never enters the cottage, perhaps never leaves the garden at all. As time passes, an older woman, his mother, brings him food, passing it over the garden walls and imploring him to come out. Time and again, he refuses.

The vision grows black, and as it disappears, you hear him whisper resolutely to the four winds, "I am keeper of the garden, for of the garden she is. And here, forever we are."

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a scorched rolaren two-handed sword reinforced with invar plating - health vial flaring sword

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O sword that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As the pitch of your voice finds the heart of the sword a vision slowly forms before you.

A dark-robed figure, face hidden in the cowls of his robe, stands atop a mountain. Ominous clouds form in the sky as he chants over a dark granite slab.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' sword in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

As you continue to coax the song from the two-handed sword, the vision returns of the dark figure.

The vision slowly begins to focus in on the figure and its ministrations over the slab. As the vision zooms in, you notice the weapon gleaming with the flashes of lightning as the figure chants softly over the sword.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' sword that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

As your voice dares the sword to tell you more, you see the figure reach past the slab and lift the form of a small elven baby in his hands.

Its visage is partly revealed as his lips turn up in a sinister grin. From one sleeve of his dark robe he produces a shimmering ceremonial dagger. You watch as the grizzly scene unfolds before you...

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' sword made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

Your voice coaxes another grim verse from the two-handed sword.

The figure slowly lowers the dagger to the elven baby and makes two precise cuts along each wrist. The figure then raises the crying body above the slab, chanting as guides the droplets of lifeblood along the sword. As the light slowly dies from the baby's eyes, the sword seems to glow with a life of it's own. Exhausted, the figure idly tosses the baby's body to the side and leans over his creation...

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O sword that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

Another verse shows itself to you as your voice struggles against the two-handed sword.

The scene pans back to show the mountaintop and clouds again. A scowling apparition presents itself in the clouds, unbeknownst to our exhausted figure. A gleaming golden crown can be seen atop the head of the visage as it extends an angry finger towards the figure. In one brief blast of light, the sword rises up from the slab, then comes crashing downward as the figure looks up in surprise...

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' sword in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

Another verse presents itself to you as your voice finally finds the perfect pitch of the vibrations within the two-handed sword.

The figure lies dead in a pool of blood, the sword lying haphazardly next to it. As you watch, the staff glows with power and the blood rushes away from the body, seeping into the staff, just as it happened with the elven babe. The vision abruptly changes and thousands of seasons pass by in a blink of an eye, the snow piling higher and higher, eventually covering the sword until only the tip of the slab remains apparent to the eye. The visions begin to slow, as the snow gradually recedes, showing the warming seasons. The vision fades once more, with the tip of the staff peeking through the snow, although you sense there is still more to this tale.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' sword that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

A final verse is revealed to your song.

A troupe of adventurers scales the mountain and discovers the two-handed sword. After a brief game of dice a stalwart dwarf pridefully hefts the sword and climbs back down towards the village in the valley. The vision quickly shifts to show the dwarf sitting with the sword in his small room, fiddling with it and examining it. The vision blurs a little just as the dwarf appears to figure something out, and clarifies only when he raises a vial in triumph over his head.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' sword made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

You attempt to weave an additional melody around the two-handed sword, but the sword lies idle in your hands. You sense no further information contained within.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Mayor Walkar's Office, in Moot Hall, Wehnimer's Landing:

[Moot Hall, Mayor's Office]
At the varnished modwir door, a red bear skin rug stretches across the polished hardwood floors while twin velnalin hide chairs face the Mayor's pine desk. A great stag's head is mounted above a cobblestone fireplace set into the western wall. Several tumblers of liquor and shot glasses rest atop an oak bar beside a tall arched window. A blue-streaked river trout is mounted above an open closet, its mouth still wedged open by a fish hook. You also see a droopy-eyed tan bloodhound, a small framed portrait and a basket of sticks.
Obvious exits: none
>sense
You sense the threads of history resonating within a mottled silver locket and an old steel spear tip.
Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing to a mottled silver locket:

"O locket that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

A young boy clutches his covers, stretching them over his face as his eyes water. He shakes when he hears the front door of his home slam shut. The heavy, yet staggering sound of boots outside his door makes him flinch with each thud. A deep muffled voice begins to shout, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. A shrill cry from his sister causes the boy to leap out of bed and charge out of his room. He reels back as a hand strikes his face, knocking him down, while his father stands over him.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing to a mottled silver locket:

"O locket that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

Through squinted eyes, the boy watches his sister rock in the corner, hugging her knees while she sobs heavily. Above him, his father cracks his knuckles, a wicked grin splitting his beard. ''A little hero, eh?'' he laughs before punching the boy, shattering his cheek bone. ''Heroes get beaten and buried boy,'' the man laughs as he drives more punches home, landing them to the boy's stomach and causing him to cough up blood.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing to a mottled silver locket:

"O' locket in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

A weathered man sits lurched over his kitchen table, his beard now unkempt and grey. He loosely holds a jug of rum between his fingers, staring at a silver locket resting on the table near a cluster of empty bottles. A young woman moves cautiously into the room and the man suddenly lunges forward, grabbing her wrist as she screeches. He solidly backhands the woman, sending her crashing to the floor. He raises his hand to strike again when someone shouts from behind him.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing to a mottled silver locket:

"O' locket that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

A young man with clover green eyes lets out a fierce bellow and charges, tackling his father. They land on the table, sending it splintering to the floor while shattering bottles on the ground. His face crimson with rage, the young man slams his fist into his father's face, splitting his lip and nose. The young man reaches out for a broken bottle, driving the jagged end into his father's face, who suddenly goes limp. The young boy rises to his feet, shaking while staring at his blood-covered hands.

Roundtime: 7 sec.



You sing to an old steel spear tip:

"O spear tip that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

A young man stands alone on a woodland hillside, his metal breastplate glistening as a torrent of rain pours down from the stormy grey skies. His clover green eyes squint through the stinging deluge to observe the wooden palisade walls of Wehnimer's Landing, nestled among the trees of Lower Dragonsclaw. His stomach churns as he sees women and children being rushed inside buildings and he stares quizzically at the axe in his hand.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing to an old steel spear tip:

"O' spear tip in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

The young man is pressed shoulder to shoulder as Jantalarian infantrymen march around him, descending down a hillside and weaving through a forest at nightfall. The man pauses for a moment, as the sea of soldiers presses on. He looks up to the top of the hill where a large wagon rests, a giant Mandis Crystal rising up from its bed. The man rejoins his squadron and whispers faintly to himself, ''Return a hero, or wrapped in the flag.''

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing to an old steel spear tip:

"O' spear tip that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

The cries are unbearable. The young man watches in horror as women are killed while trying to flee, cut down by his own people, men he once called friends. Fiery spheres arc high in the air before crashing onto nearby buildings, igniting the structures and driving out citizens. The man stands paralyzed in the street, helplessly watching as the city burns around him. Another woman screams and he springs forward to rush to her aid, just as he lurches forward from a spear piercing his back.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing to an old steel spear tip:

"O' spear tip made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

The young man's eyes peel open slowly, water mixing with blood as his vision adjusts. The streets are silent now, with the exception of an occasional moan in the distance. Building fires struggle to burn under the steady rain as a red-haired sylvan woman approaches, kneeling beside the man and touching his back. The young man feels a warmth rush over his body and he looks up to see a blood-stained spear tip in the woman's hand, just before he falls unconscious.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a murky red summoning orb - The orb is small, no more than the width of a small apple. It's composed of a murky crystal, very possibly quartz, although its weight seems too slight for solid quartz. Small striations cover it, as though the sphere has been incised innumerable times with a fine, sharp tool. They created a pattern of starbursts that interlink seamlessly around the curved surface.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O summoning orb that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

You raise the melody of your song, wrapping the harmonies around the summoning orb. Almost immediately, you are sure that this item is both rare and magical. However, its worth seems to be a confusing knot of both positive and negative indications. You're left with a slightly uneasy feeling as your song ends, similar to the uncomfortable sensation of having been the object of an annoying joke.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' summoning orb in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

As your song serenades the orb seeking to plumb any hidden faculties or facts, the item suddenly bursts out a response consisting of its own probe, one that is pointedly more aggressive. It slaps you in the face with power, snapping your head back with its vehemence. As you wince, certain of a stiff neck on the morrow, you seem to hear a voice with a distinctive, clipped accent, whispering inside your mind, "Keep your insignificant mewling off me, you pitiful excuse for a yodeling goat!" The obnoxious orb falls silent after the outburst, leaving you to gaze at the thing in shocked silence for a moment or two.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' summoning orb that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

Your song weaves around the summoning orb, armed with an insulating harmony of protective tone you cleverly worked into the melody. You have no desire for another bout of having your head bounced around like a toy ball. However, though the notes are true and your verse well-crafted, the orb doesn't respond.

Then, with relief you feel the orb obediently surrender, and begin to send back information at your song's urging. It is certainly magical, small wonder there. It weighs about 1 pounds. Just as you feel you're about to get something you suspect will be really interesting, the orb pauses, and before you can call up another verse, it falls silent.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' summoning orb made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

You begin to sing to the summoning orb, trying to curb a slight impatience at being so close to finding out something interesting with your last verses. The same information is quickly garnered. Magical, yes indeed. It weighs 1 pounds. Again, you notice the strange, confused emission for its value, but hey, that happens to the best of bards occasionally. As you feel the orb seem to hesitate at the same point at which your song ended last try, you step up the intensity of your meter, forcing the orb past its reticence...

Big mistake. A wall of energy hits you, sending you into an arcing back-flip, which soon leaves you gasping for breath flat on your back. As if that wasn't enough, a derisive snort echoes inside your throbbing forehead, followed by a snide rasp of a voice, "Idiot! How easily you succumb to the simplest of tricks. Next time, you might consider confining your paltry play-singing to something on the order of a silver wand. Or perhaps a crystal amulet is more appropriate for someone of your ability."

The summoning orb falls silent. It lays innocently in your hand as you contemplate chucking it in the general direction of the Burning Desert.

Roundtime: 10 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O summoning orb that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As you yodel a particularly boisterous stanza, your voice suddenly cracks, causing you to blurt out a note much like the call of a romantic rolton. You find it difficult to question why your performance doesn't elicit much of anything from the summoning orb.
You learn nothing new about the orb.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Momento given out when GS got night/day, I think..

a deep azure glaesine orb - The orb is shaped of pure deep azure glaes, crafted into a perfect orb. It hangs from a delicate silver chain affixed with a tiny moon-shaped mithril pin.

Tiny shimmering crystals hover inside the orb, pulsating slightly with the light of the stars. Currently they form the shape of the constellation of The Ur-Daemon.

Barely visible on the glaesine surface of the orb, some words have been etched in minute script around its circumference.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O orb that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."


As you sing, you sense a minute vibration somewhere within the glaesine orb. The crystalline stars within the glaesine orb shimmer slightly in response to your song.

Roundtime: 6 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' orb in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"


As your voice rises and falls, all light fades into a blackened void of nothingness. Suddenly, an implosion shakes the void, the searing brightness at its center blinding you momentarily before your eyesight returns.

Roundtime: 7 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' orb that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"


As you continue to sing, you see the image of brightly glowing spheres hurtling away from the center of the implosion, bringing light to the far reaches of the velvety darkness of the void.

Roundtime: 6 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' orb made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"


As you conclude the song, the glowing spheres begin to slow their advance into the darkness, eventually hovering with gentle grace as pinpoints of light in the unending sea of midnight. Pulsating slightly, the spheres hum with the resonance of all the ages.

Slowly, your eyesight returns and your surroundings fade into view.

Roundtime: 8 sec.


3rd person view(as dictated to me by Darphin):

As Japhrimel sings, your eyesight fades and all around you sinks into a void of velvety darkness. Gradually, your vision returns.

Slowly, your eyesight returns and your surroundings fade into view

As Japhrimel's voice rises and falls, your vision fades to utter darkness. Suddenly an implosion shakes the blackness of the void, the searing brightness at its center blinding you momentarily before your eyesight returns.

Slowly, your eyesight returns and your surroundings fade into view

As Japhrimel continues to sing, your eyesight dims. You see the image of brightly glowing spheres hurtling away from the center of a bright implosion, bringing light to the far reaches of the velvety darkness of the void.

Slowly, your eyesight returns and your surroundings fade into view

As Japhrimel concludes the song, your vision dims one final time. Glowing spheres of light hurtling away from a bright center begin to slow their advance into the darkness around them, eventually hovering with gentle grace as pinpoints of light in the unending sea of midnight. Pulsating slightly, the spheres hum with the resonance of all the ages.

Slowly, your eyesight returns and your surroundings fade into view

[shad0ws0ngs]

a butterfly charm - Wrought from delicate silver, the head and thorax of the charm are encrusted with tiny pure white diamonds, while the graceful opaque wings are formed of pure spidersilk.

The red anglewing butterfly has medium-sized ruby red eyespots centered on the forewing with small soft grey spots in the center of the hindwing.

Something appears to be engraved on the underside of the abdomen.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O charm that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As you sing, you discover that a butterfly charm is very light and very valuable, a true bit of beauty in a harsh world.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' charm in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

As you continue to sing, an image forms before your eyes. Thousands, possibly millions of butterflies mass together in the sky. Rainbow colors flash on and off with the opening and closing of their wings. Bits of the image seem to come closer, and you notice not a single one is alike.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' charm that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

Below the jeweled cloud, a young girl turns to her mother and says, "Mother, they're so beautiful -- why do they live such a short time? It doesn't seem fair." The woman looks up at the living rainbow, then closes her eyes before replying, "No, my dear, it doesn't." With a smile, she raises her hands and they begin to glow...

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' charm made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

As you continue to sing, the perspective changes, and it seems you are looking down upon the outstretched arms of a woman from a dozen different eyes, then a hundred, then images beyond number. A voice whispers in your ear a promise, a trade of a small piece of your freedom for long life and companionship. You dive towards the welcoming arms, and as you do, your form begins to stiffen and change. The feeling is not unpleasant, and the last thing you hear before the vision vanishes is the delighted laughter of a child.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a set of reinforced black vultite elven scale mail

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O scale mail that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."


As you sing, a collage of images flashes through your mind. Slowly, the images seem to focus, and you can make out the details. You see a well-kept workshop where a wizened elvensmith is in conversation with a younger elf and pointing at the vultite scale mail in his hands.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' scale mail in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"


As you continue to sing, the images refocus once more. You see a young elvensmith laboriously crafting the vultite scale mail from the raw materials laid out before him. As he works, he is chanting some arcane verses that you can't quite make out.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' scale mail that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"


As you continue to sing, the images refocus once more. The elvensmith is inscribing runes of power upon the vultite scale mail. Each rune glows brightly then fades into invisibility.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O scale mail that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

Your song continues to clarify and focus the images from the past. The ancient elvensmith raises the vultite scale mail and chants an arcane phrase. A flash of light consumes the vultite scale mail. An irridescent aura envelops the vultite scale mail and is absorbed into it. The elvensmith seemingly looks up and gives you a wink and a smile as if he senses your presence.


Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' scale mail in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

You attempt to withdraw more from the mail, but you are unable to trace the vision further.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

A thank you to Dryhtnes for letting me sing to this, I like this one a lot.

an orb-inset haon talisman - Set with a clear glaes orb that rotates clockwise when turned, the talisman's haon base is crafted in the shape of a sword. Intertwining ora and eonake wrap around the sword's length before winding around the hilt, where the orb is carefully set within the metals' embrace. The ancient wood's rich grain has aged well, and the deeply set, precisely carved words and accompanying symbols scrolling along the sword's wooden base bely this as an ancient relic created for the faith and worship of Voln.

There appears to be something written on it.
>

In the Common language, it reads:

From Darkness into the Light you will fall,
Should you follow the Way with True Faith,
Everlasting and Pure.

Remember...



You sing in Guildspeak:

"O talisman that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

Your vision becomes hazy, clouded, as you briefly inherit a body not your own.

Dust flickers in and out of your sight, further obscuring any real chance at seeing your surroundings. You do, however, feel immense pain. Your entire body aches, and not the aching of simple soreness; instead, it is the throbbing of one thousand joints that have been split and torn, rendered into mind-numbing stabs of agony that constantly move up and down your body.

As you struggle to move, to wipe the mist away from your eyes, you realize that you can barely move your hands. They are shackled up tightly, your body pressed up against a cold, hard, stone wall.

A growl sounds, and a hard, blunt object blasts into your head.

As the pain slices deep, racing through you like wildfire, you are just as quickly jolted out of the vision.

Roundtime: 6 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' talisman in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

Your eyes droop down, seemingly fastened shut, a thick, heavy substance dripping down around them in warm streams and rivulets.

When you are finally able to open your eyes, you see grey. You want to scream with the pain that pounds in your head and rips, constantly, through your body. In your suffering, you note that moisture, not dust, hangs in the air, clouding it with mold.

The sound of a cell door creaking open reaches your ears, and heavy footsteps pound. You sense someone standing over you, staring at you.

After long moments, the presence leans over you, and with a nauseatingly repulsive breath--foul, vile, disgusting--exhales on you, hissing in your ear, "Spy!"

A sharp pain laces through your neck, intense in its onset.

Blackness hurtles towards you.

You rapidly blink your eyes, suddenly lurching out of the vision.

Roundtime: 8 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' talisman that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

This time, the vision comes to you with far more clarity.

You are in a tiny dungeon cell, the walls made up of mold-infested stone so far covered with black grime that you cannot tell their true color. The air is stale, and the only sound you hear is a low grunting coming from outside of your immediate vicinity. The ground is littered with the remains of moldy bread crusts, and rats and roaches freely skitter over your feet here.

Suddenly there is a clang, and your cell door opens. The torch light is almost blinding, and you are rendered sightless in its brilliance. A hand reaches down, shakes you roughly, breathes on you with a putrid odor, then spits on you. "Wake up, good-for-nothing traitor." The voice is hard, rough, filled with venom and distaste.

A quieter voice sounds, calm, smooth. "Leave us."

As the hate-filled, stench-ridden figure recedes, the soft voice whispers, "Will you keep your promise now? Have you suffered enough? Will you return to his service?"

You feel your body stiffen, and you fully recognize that your host understands, intimately, the answers to these questions. You feel yourself nod, attempt to speak, but no words come out.

A gentle hand slips into yours, presses something hard and metallic against your skin. "Remember," the voice admonishes.

And then the soft, the calm, the light--they back away, leaving you alone, and soon darkness is all that remains.

You fumble with the object in your hand. A key.

As a wave of hope encompasses you, you feel yourself sliding out of the vision.

Roundtime: 7 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' talisman made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

Fear and anxiety envelop you as you plummet headfirst into the vision. You breathe rapidly, taking in short gasps of air as you move quickly through the dark underground. All around you the moisture hangs in the air, sticking to the partially dug tunnel that was obviously left unfinished and is now long forgotten.

You hear sounds from far away. Picking up your pace, you crawl further and further, until the ceiling is high enough for you to stand and sprint. Turning to look back, you suddenly stumble and fall, hard, to the ground, scraping your hands and legs on rocks that jab out of the ground, dropping the key you had tightly held in hand.

Frantically searching for the key on the muddy floor, your hand suddenly meets a smooth, cool surface, shaped like an orb. You grasp it quickly and find that it turns clockwise within its wooden setting. You stuff it into your pocket. A flash of warmth suddenly spills into you. You see, suddenly, where the key has fallen in the darkness. You reach for it, and up you are, on your feet again, running as fast as you can.

You run for what seems like hours.

And then, bursting through a curtain of thick vines, you are suddenly, unexpectedly, standing in sunlight.

Blinking at the light with a sense of newfound freedom, you find your view shifting back to reality.

Roundtime: 9 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O talisman that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

You learn nothing new about the talisman.


Roundtime: 6 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the haon talisman in your hand, and you learn something about it...

This is a small item, under a pound. In your best estimation, it's worth about 1,000,000 silvers.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a barb-tipped white ora korseke with a spiraling orase haft

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O korseke that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."


As you begin to sing, your vision clouds over and a scene unfolds before you. The image of a scarred dwarf in white leathers, laboring deep in a dark, dank mine, grunting as he extracts precious white ora ore, fills your vision.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' korseke in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"


As you continue to sing, you can see the dwarf laboring over a hot iron forge. He mops his brow continually as he pumps the bellows, then returns to the anvil, coaxing a weapon from the white-hot metal. As he hammers again and again with a perfect eonake forging-hammer, he looks more and more pleased with his work. He now and again sticks it into a trough filled with a shimmering oil. After a few more minutes of hammering, he begins to look unsatisfied with his results and then suddenly tosses it back into the fire. "I can do better than that, for Eonak's glory!"

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' korseke that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"


As you continue to sing, your inner vision once again focuses on the scarred dwarf who is now carefully polishing the white ora korseke before handing it to an imposing priest. His raiment is of the finest quality, from the magnificent cloth-of-silver cope to his bejeweled miter to the gleaming amethyst on his hand marking him as one of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. He sets the weapon on the altar and cries, "In the name of Jastev, I consecrate this weapon."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' korseke made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

As your song comes to an end, you see the korseke being used in combat training in the monastary. A burly dwarven acolyte rains down blow after blow versus an obviously overmatched elven clark. Finally, the white ora korseke bursts into flames and sets the elf's shield alight! He cries out, "The day is yours M'laird Dwarf. I prostrate myself to your superior skills and must atone for my lack." He glances at the knotted scourge on the training wall and grimaces.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

an intricately painted tin carousel - The palm-sized carousel boasts intricately sculpted detail in the animals on the middle platform and its bejeweled base. Bright colors accent the details, bringing the miniature and its inhabitants to life. The carousel's tented roof is staked at the corners by twelve tiny jewels, all twelve of which are twinkling brightly. A small brass ring hangs over the lip of the carousel's top, immediately above a diving otter. "Wehnimer's Landing" is written across the creature's painted saddle.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O carousel that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

Grey-green fog clouds your mind, punctuated only by the sound of a galloping horse. As the hoofbeats grow louder, the fog clears to reveal a cloaked elven man riding a black horse down a trodden path through a swampy forest. Despite the low-hanging branches and difficult terrain, man and beast fly unhindered. You follow the pair as they tear through the swamp, across fields, and over hills. Eventually, the pair slows as they approach a weathered old inn. A wide-eyed young boy gapes at the horse, which appears to not even have broken a sweat. The boy marvels, "Gosh, mister, thats the fastest horse I ever seen! He doesnt even look tired!" One corner of the elven mans mouth twitches into a slight smile, and the man replies with a cool tone, "Not quite fast enough."

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' carousel in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

Wisps of grey-green mist wrap around the corners of your mind, framing the scene of the cloaked elven man astride the black horse from the previous scene. The man is talking down to a bent old woman wrapped in a brightly colored crocheted shawl and matching headscarf. A brightly painted wooden carousel revolves in the background, tinkling out an out-of-tune song. She circles the horse, examining it carefully, and shakes her head. Frowning, she says something to the man. He replies angrily and produces a fat coin pouch from the folds of his cloak, which he tosses at the old womans feet. She retries the coin pouch and pours a few silvers into her open palm. After considering the coins for a long moment, she returns her gaze to the black horse, her eyes filled with dread. She whispers, "It comes with a price more than silvers," as she begins a droning mystical chant.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' carousel that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

When the grey-green mist clears from your mind's eye this time, you are atop the black horse, seated behind the cloaked elf. The horse's hair, however, is no longer jet black; the color is dingier, more of a dusty charcoal than an elegant black. Before you have time to think on it, your surroundings shift! Where you were in a forest one moment, you are now in the middle of a town! While villagers gawk at your sudden appearance, you feel the horse stumble under you. Looking down, the horse's coat has turned ashy, and its mane is peppered with grey. The cloaked elven man seems oblivious to his horse's weakened state and basks in the attentions of the villagers.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

Your mind clouds over with grey-green mist, which dissipates as a haunting carnival melody grows louder. Once again you find yourself watching the old woman, the cloaked elven man, and the horse next to the slowly revolving carousel; however, the horse is now bright white, and lies on its side, panting heavily. The elven man is shouting at the old woman, who merely holds up a hand. She says, "You agreed to the fee and have paid the price. I cannot save your horse; it is already dead. It died in Ta'Vaalor; it died in Ta'Illistim. It died in the Rest and on the Rock. You left a piece of that horse every place you tore it apart, and now," she pauses to look down at the horse, which has stopped breathing, "you leave the last piece of it here. I warned you. You cannot link such magic to a living soul."

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O carousel that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

A vision of the slowly revolving brightly painted wooden carousel fills your mind, singing its sad song to an empty fairground. The elven man, his shoulders hunched, sits on a carousel horse painted solid black. Up, then down, again and again go the pair as the carousel spins. The old gypsy woman stands back hesitantly before hoisting herself onto the moving platform. She takes the man's hand in her own and presses an intricately painted tin carousel into it. She urges, "Visit him. Anywhere. And when its magic fades, come back to me." As she closes the man's hand around the carousel, grey-green mist envelops the scene and your vision fades.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' carousel in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

A haunting melody of tinkling chimes and visions of brightly painted wooden horses bob across your mind, but you learn nothing further.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

[Musicalia]

LOOK: Crafted from a single piece of ebonwood, the wand has been lacquered to a beautiful, dark sheen. Encircling the bottom of the wand is a thick, golvern ring, with a wolf appearing on the metal. A green streak runs through the lustrous wood and capping the wand is a tiny crystal flame etched with great detail.

LORESONG:

Your melody swirls magically around your wand, calling forth a faint, fiery aura.

Images flash before your eyes, a blur of light and color that finally resolves into a cozy, fire-lit workshop. A wizened gnome clad in deep blue robes fusses around with something on a table. His wifes high-pitched voice calls from another room, momentarily startling him.

Picking himself off the floor, he mumbles to himself about work unfinished before shuffling off to dinner. The scene fades away, focused on a rather plain-looking wand rests among a pile of shiny metal tools and polished vials.

--

The wand reacts to your song with a pulse of light. A brighter, multi-colored aura surrounds the wand, larger than before.

In the blink of an eye, you are transported back to the gnome workshop. He toils tirelessly away on his project, occasionally referencing a yellowed scroll or dusty tome. Hours pass like mere seconds, with only the tinkering of tools and rustling of papers to be heard.

The relative calm is broken by heavy knocking on the door. The angry voice of his wife begins nagging him to fix the cupboard door, clean the cellar, and build the shelf hes been promising to. While covering his ears to block out the racket, the wand accidentally falls to the ground, sending a few sparks flying around. One of the sparks lands on his robe, setting it on fire. The gnome panics for a moment before stomping out the flame. He sighs deeply, covers the wand with a cloth and opens to door to the workshop. Just as he begins to take the first step outside, the image melts away with a shimmer of light.

--
Intense flames burst to life around the wand, burning brightly, but with no heat. The fire shifts between a rainbow of colors.

Your present surrounding slowly vanish, replaced by a beautiful, grassy field beneath a starry sky. The gnomish man leads his wife to the top of a small hill and sits down with her. He instructs her to close her eyes, and produces the wand behind his back. He raises the wand into the air several times and nudges his wife to open her eyes.

A spectacular display of colorful fireworks lights up the night sky to her delight. He waves the wand in the air, and smaller flames mimic the large displays overhead. She claps loudly as the lights fade away into the darkness. Leaning close to his wife, the gnome whispers to her, "Happy Anniversary, dear." The scene fades from view as the couple shares a warm kiss beneath the stars.

--

Your song calls forth a single spark from your wand that falls harmlessly to the ground.

[Manamethis]

a snowflake-cut white starstone
Forehead gem.

This flawless white starstone has been cut by a master craftsman. Delicate and dainty, the intricate shape of a snowflake has been perfectly rendered. The gem is cut with such percision and clarity that it is nearly indistinguishable from an actual flake of snow.

>wear stars
You position a snowflake-cut white starstone between your eyes so that it casts a sparkling pale white sheen across your face.
>
Your white starstone dims and then suddenly brightens again as silver sparks swirl around in the gem.
>remove stars
You gently touch your white starstone. It glows warmly for a moment and then falls away from your face.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As you sing to a snowflake-cut white starstone, it glimmers slightly, and slowly, a vision begins to unfold.

A young boy plays with his friends, gleefully slogging through the muck and mire of a small stream. *Something glittering in the riverbank catches his eye, and he stops to look. *To the great delight of his friends, he has found a small, clear sapphire. *Soon, all the boys are covered head-to-toe in mud as they try to find their own buried treasure. *Each boy returns with a handful of pebbles and brightly colored stones, but no more gems.

The moon rises, and the young boy sits on his bed, staring in rapt fixation as starlight glints off his sapphire. *Suddenly, he pulls a small knife from a pile of string, rocks, and other typical boy fare and begins to chip away at the gemstone. *He pauses, holding it up catch the starlight again and then gently carves away, humming beneath his breath. *Soon, a tiny heart-cut clear sapphire lies in the palm of his hand.
>
The white starstone seems to respond to the magic of Loresinger's song.
A snowflake-cut white starstone glimmers in Loresinger's hand as he sings to it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your vision quickly reappears as you sing to the starstone. *The boy is older now, almost a man, and before him are several gemstones, each meticulously carved. *He holds a violet feystone in his hand, singing to it as he carves away every flaw and turns the simple gem into a breathtaking miniature rose. *He sings as he polishes it, and the feystone rose grows brighter. *A light blue aura surrounds it briefly before being absorbed into the gem.

The scene changes, and the boy stands in a shop, showing his feystone rose to a stooped old man. *The man takes the rose and rubs it. *He chortles happily as a light blue glow seeps into his skin. *He hands the boy a few gold coins.

The vision fades as a very happy boy runs down the street to his home.
>
The white starstone seems to respond to the magic of Loresinger's song.
Loresinger sings to the starstone in his hand.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As you whisper your song to the starstone, a new scene unfolds. *Several years have gone by, and the boy is now a man. *He sits in a small shop filled with carved gemstones, each shelf holding a sign explaining the properties the stones hold. *He is deep in concentration over a star-cut ruby, pausing in his singing every so often to press it against his forehead and letting it fall into his open palm again.

He jerks up from his work as a bell jingles, and his shop door opens. *A beautiful young woman walks in.

Flashes of time pass before your eyes as the young man courts the woman. *You see a cottage with a garden of bright roses and tall lilac trees. *A kiss, an altar, a ring. *You see both working, her in metal and him in stone. *And when he presses a peridot against her forehead one day, it stays, casting a cerulean light across her face. *The woman cheers, and they kiss exuberantly. *An overwhelming sense of happiness infuses each scene, and as your song's influence fades, the vision disappears.
>
The white starstone seems to respond to the magic of Loresinger's song.
Loresinger sings to his starstone in soft, lilting whispers, and his eyes grow misty as a vision overtakes him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You barely start to sing to the starstone before a vision appears. *The joy that permeated the previous scene is nowhere to be found here. *The young man's countenance is haggard, his appearance disheveled. *He looks the madman as he rants and raves in the garden. *A raven lands nearby, and the man throws a diamond at it. *The bright roses have all gone to dark shades, and even the lilac trees look denser, more foreboding. *Yet, the garden is well-tended, and even as the man mutters and weeps to himself, you see him lovingly caring for each bush and tree.

He sleeps in a thicket of lilacs and washes himself in the pond, and you get the impression he never enters the cottage, perhaps never leaves the garden at all. *As time passes, an older woman, his mother, brings him food, passing it over the garden walls and imploring him to come out. *Time and again, he refuses.

The vision grows black, and as it disappears, you hear him whisper resolutely to the four winds, "I am keeper of the garden, for of the garden she is. *And here, forever we are."
>
The white starstone seems to respond to the magic of Loresinger's song.
Loresinger sings gently to his white starstone. his eyes gaze into the distance, lost in song and sight.

[Manamethis]

a dark-bladed handaxe
?x (+?) max light at 3 pounds.
"Particularly effective against all creatures not from the mortal plane of existence."

Unnaturally dark and wickedly curved, the blade of this handaxe reflects no light. Honed to a razor sharpness, the cutting edge shines a bright silver while strange sigils of a magical nature line the top and bottom of the heavy axe head. A hefty shaft of solid faewood reinforced with intricately carved eahnor plates forms the axe's handle. Dried vathor hide is expertly wrapped around the shaft forming a secure grip. You also notice a small enchanter's glyph.
There appears to be something written on it.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As you begin to sing, your vision shifts to the Basilica in Old Ta'Faendryl. A stern faced man enters and rapidly descends a flight of stairs. Beneath the building, the stern faced man is speaking to a blacksmith. "I'm working as fast as I can," the blacksmith says. "I didn't ask how fast you were working. I need those weapons now! The Patriarch has requested them," says the stern faced man. Hurriedly, the blacksmith begins working.
>
The dark-bladed handaxe seems to respond to the magic of Loresinger's song.
As Loresinger begins to sing, his eyes open wide in a look of wonder.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your vision shifts and you see the stern faced man giving instruction to a group of Faendryl. Each student silently works the weapon forms, straining for perfection in each movement. Nodding his approval, the man states, "Patience and precision. That is the way of the Palestra." With that, he turns aside, returning once more to the smithy beneath the Basilica.
>
The dark-bladed handaxe seems to respond to the magic of Loresinger's song.
Loresinger drops his voice to a whisper and a look of profound respect is marked by a single tear falling from his eye.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your vision shifts. "Graduation is soon, are the weapons ready?" asks the stern faced man as he enters the smithy. Nodding, the blacksmith removes a dark bladed sword and matching axe from beneath a cloth. "These draw upon the flows of mana in nature and disrupt the essence of whatever they strike. They should be very effective against any creature from beyond this valance," the smith says.
>
The dark-bladed handaxe seems to respond to the magic of Loresinger's song.
Loresinger continues to sing, seemingly unable to stop as the dark-bladed handaxe holds his gaze.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the song continues, two young Faendryl kneel before a raised dais. The stern faced man's visage relaxes some and a look of fatherly pride crosses his face. He intones, "Rise now, receive these weapons and join your brothers and sisters in the Order of the Palestra. Five hundred of you began the training, you two alone have succeeded. The Patriarch's blessing upon you both," and hands each of them a dark bladed weapon as your vision fades to black.
>
The dark-bladed handaxe seems to respond to the magic of Loresinger's song.
Pale and haggard, Loresinger looks exhausted as his song softly fades to a close.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a speckled aubergine plant - Perched atop a writhing mass of serpentine roots and corpulent tubers is a small clump of thorn-laden, leafy stalks topped with fleshy, ovaloid crowns. Fern-like fronds curl themselves around a main stem, which sports two connected, kidney-shaped pads tipped with needle-sharp projections. The misshapen head is slightly ajar, allowing a slight glimpse of tender, sarcous tissue covered in long, bristling hairs. Your plant appears thriving in appearance with vibrant aubergine coloration. It doesn't seem to be moving.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O plant that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

Your melody inspires a strangely alien, yet beautiful chorus to join you in your song. The haunting music increases in volume to a deafening crescendo when the world suddenly goes dark!

There is nothing but darkness no light, no sound. The darkness pervades your being, but there is no fear. There is only warmth and comfort in the darkness. Yet you yearn for more. Deep within your core, a spark is born. Its ambience radiates outward from your heart, glowing with the dynamic energy of life. Washed in this living power, you reach out to take hold, but it floats just out of reach. Each action simply pushes it further away, but you continue still. Slowly, you continue your dance with the light, waltzing in what seems like eternity but you continue to dance.

The sensation recedes as your song ends.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' plant in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

As your song continues, the chorus joins your single voice yet again, luring you into darkness...

As if waking from a long sleep, the light of day blinds you with its intensity. It takes you a moment to adjust as blobs of color begin to sharpen into definable figures. As sensations flood your system, you make out a plethora of plantlife surrounding you. But your observations are cut short as a something large and brown approaches. It speaks in a strange tongue and you struggle to understand its words, but to no avail.

It draws ever closer, until it is merely a breath away. Frightened, you attempt to retreat into the comforting darkness. Its touch is not cold and alien as you had feared, but warm and soothing. The figure begins to sing softly to you, lulling you to sleep. You drift into a peaceful slumber as darkness takes hold.

The darkness lifts as you become aware of yourself again.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' plant that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

As you sing to your plant, you realize that it is the source of the chorus. Beautifully complimenting your melody, images flood your sight.

You have grown taller and stronger than before. The once strange figure is now familiar with his jovial manner and greenish thumbs. You hum with glee even now as he approaches. Brown, leathery hands stroke caress your leaves, brushing against your tiny hairs, filling you with contentment. The little halfling speaks quietly to you.

He says, "You are like my own child, little plant. I raised you from a just a tiny seedling into the proud plant you are today. You are the ultimate flora creation!"

The little halfling laughs maniacally, but calms down quickly.

He says, "Well that was embarrassing, I got a bit carried away." A faint red blush creeps along his cheeks.

"Anyway, you were created from the essences of moulis and firethorn shoots, crossbred with more docile plants. The process was long and tedious. Sometimes the soil acidity was off a smidge and other times, there was too much humidity in the air. So many little things went wrong but everything is better now. I have you!"

He continues explaining your complex origin, but frankly, you pay little attention to what he has to say. You attempt to hide your boredom, but a yawn sneaks out. Slowly but surely, his oration makes you sleepy, but slumber eludes you as you find yourself hungering for a snack.

As you awaken from the vision, your stomach growls with hunger.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' plant made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

You continue your melody, harmonized by the ethereal voice of the plant.

The tantalizing aroma of cooked meat overwhelms your senses and you writhe in agonizing hunger, attempting to locate the source of the delectable smell. Glancing around, you notice the frosted glass panes of your greenhouse residence, surrounded by numerous other plants, both sentient and not. And that is when you notice it. In the far corner, the halfling Benitrose feasts on a large steak while he brandishes a shiny silver knife and fork, finished off with a large white bib. Straining, you try to reach him, but alas, your roots and pot were not made for mobility. Sitting there helpless, you whine with such ferocity, that the shrill noise pierces the entire greenhouse.

Startled, Benitrose rushes over, glancing over you with concern. You manage to wipe a lick of sauce off his nose with one of your leafy fronds. Taking the hint, he carries you over to his dinner and shares several juicy bites with you. Sated for now, you hum merrily, offering a little dinner music for your friend.

You shake off the vision to find some drool hanging off the corner of your mouth.

Roundtime: 9 sec.


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O plant that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As you sing to your plant, it sings back to you. This odd duet continues for a few moments, before the plant quiets down again.

Roundtime: 6 sec.


Third person:
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The aubergine plant seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
As Japhrimel sings to the plant in his hand, it responds by swaying rhythmically to his melody.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The aubergine plant seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel continues to sing to his plant. In the middle of his song, his eyes close as if asleep.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The aubergine plant seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
As Japhrimel sings to the plant, you hear a strange rumbling sound. You realize that the rumbling is coming from Japhrimel's stomach.

In the middle of Japhrimel's song, he goes quiet. His eyes roll into the back of his head. The next sound you hear is Japhrimel slavering dreamily with his head tilted to the side. Drool runs down the side of his open mouth, when he suddenly snaps out of it.

[leifastagsweed]

In the middle of Japhrimel's song, he goes quiet. His eyes roll into the back of his head. The next sound you hear is Japhrimel slavering dreamily with his head tilted to the side. Drool runs down the side of his open mouth, when he suddenly snaps out of it.

Sounds like quite a party. Sure that wasn't peyote?

[shad0ws0ngs]

Copied from EG Prize Thread, pill bottle with 20 spell up pills:

Tier 5 win...!

--- Lich: ising active.
[ising]>loresing bottle that I hold;let your value now be told
>
You sing smoothly:

"Bottle that I hold
Let your value now be told"

As you sing to the brown crystal bottle a vision plays out before you...


An aged wizard stands before an alembic, chanting as he focuses his attention on the instrument. A flash of brilliant blue surrounds the mage as magic weaves its way around him, forming powerful defensive wardings.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

R>
A whistling whistling halfling skips east, wheeling his tawny maple cart happily along.
R>
Spert carefully inspects his shadowy spiked fieldplate.
R>
[ising]>loresing bottle that I hold;let your purpose now be told
You sing smoothly:

"Bottle that I hold
Let your purpose now be told"

The vision of the elderly mage returns to you...

He holds a gnarled staff in his hand as he chants enchantment after enchantment, warding himself with powerful defenses. The faceted sapphire pendant around his neck gleams with each incantation.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

R>
[ising]>loresing bottle that I hold;let your magic now be told
You sing smoothly:

"Bottle that I hold
Let your magic now be told"

A final glimpse of the wizard shows his robes bloodied and torn. With a cry, he shouts a defiant phrase and the sapphire pendant around his neck shatters into thousands of glimmering drops.

Your vision clears but the tinkling of crystals on the ground echoes in your ears.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

R>
[ising]>loresing bottle that I hold;let your special ability now be told
You sing smoothly:

"Bottle that I hold
Let your special ability now be told"

You sense that there is nothing more to be learned from the brown crystal bottle.

[Gsgeek]

Surprised no one has posted the carousel from the quest.

I got this from it:


Grey-green fog clouds your mind, punctuated only by the sound of a galloping horse. As the hoofbeats grow louder, the fog clears to reveal a cloaked elven man riding a black horse down a trodden path through a swampy forest. Despite the low-hanging branches and difficult terrain, man and beast fly unhindered. You follow the pair as they tear through the swamp, across fields, and over hills. Eventually, the pair slows as they approach a weathered old inn. A wide-eyed young boy gapes at the horse, which appears to not even have broken a sweat. The boy marvels, "Gosh, mister, that’s the fastest horse I ever seen! He doesn’t even look tired!" One corner of the elven man’s mouth twitches into a slight smile, and the man replies with a cool tone, "Not quite fast enough."

Roundtime: 8 sec.




Wisps of grey-green mist wrap around the corners of your mind, framing the scene of the cloaked elven man astride the black horse from the previous scene. The man is talking down to a bent old woman wrapped in a brightly colored crocheted shawl and matching headscarf. A brightly painted wooden carousel revolves in the background, tinkling out an out-of-tune song. She circles the horse, examining it carefully, and shakes her head. Frowning, she says something to the man. He replies angrily and produces a fat coin pouch from the folds of his cloak, which he tosses at the old woman’s feet. She retries the coin pouch and pours a few silvers into her open palm. After considering the coins for a long moment, she returns her gaze to the black horse, her eyes filled with dread. She whispers, "It comes with a price more than silvers," as she begins a droning mystical chant.

Roundtime: 9 sec.



When the grey-green mist clears from your mind's eye this time, you are atop the black horse, seated behind the cloaked elf. The horse's hair, however, is no longer jet black; the color is dingier, more of a dusty charcoal than an elegant black. Before you have time to think on it, your surroundings shift! Where you were in a forest one moment, you are now in the middle of a town! While villagers gawk at your sudden appearance, you feel the horse stumble under you. Looking down, the horse's coat has turned ashy, and its mane is peppered with grey. The cloaked elven man seems oblivious to his horse's weakened state and basks in the attentions of the villagers.

Roundtime: 8 sec.




Your mind clouds over with grey-green mist, which dissipates as a haunting carnival melody grows louder. Once again you find yourself watching the old woman, the cloaked elven man, and the horse next to the slowly revolving carousel; however, the horse is now bright white, and lies on its side, panting heavily. The elven man is shouting at the old woman, who merely holds up a hand. She says, "You agreed to the fee and have paid the price. I cannot save your horse; it is already dead. It died in Ta'Vaalor; it died in Ta'Illistim. It died in the Rest and on the Rock. You left a piece of that horse every place you tore it apart, and now," she pauses to look down at the horse, which has stopped breathing, "you leave the last piece of it here. I warned you. You cannot link such magic to a living soul."

Roundtime: 9 sec.


A vision of the slowly revolving brightly painted wooden carousel fills your mind, singing its sad song to an empty fairground. The elven man, his shoulders hunched, sits on a carousel horse painted solid black. Up, then down, again and again go the pair as the carousel spins. The old gypsy woman stands back hesitantly before hoisting herself onto the moving platform. She takes the man's hand in her own and presses an intricately painted tin carousel into it. She urges, "Visit him. Anywhere. And when its magic fades, come back to me." As she closes the man's hand around the carousel, grey-green mist envelops the scene and your vision fades.

Roundtime: 10 sec.


A haunting melody of tinkling chimes and visions of brightly painted wooden horses bob across your mind, but you learn nothing further.

Roundtime: 13 sec.


Tell me more within please
Is this all that lies within?"

A haunting melody of tinkling chimes and visions of brightly painted wooden horses bob across your mind, but you learn nothing further.

Roundtime: 18 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Reposted without Thondalar's permission, mwah ha ha:

A pair of enruned ocean green ora vambraces

Strange item...basically they're leg armor. But they have a loresong. So I have no idea what properties they may have, if any. I've had several people look at them and nobody has been able to read the runes or figure out what they're from.

Loresong:

The harmonic vibrations that your song evokes in the green ora vambraces convey a sense of great age. At a rough estimate, the vambraces is worth 1 silver, but a collector of antiquities might be willing to offer a significantly greater sum.

As the green ora vambraces responds to your song, you sense echoes of ancient enchantment drifting softly through the resonances. It is difficult to say whether or not the vambraces is innately magical, but, if not, then it has certainly been exposed to a great deal of magical energy over an extended period of time.

The resonances of your music caress the ancient weave of enchantment within the green ora vambraces. You recognize both spiritual and elemental components, twisted together and permanently altered into a new form -- the unmistakable taint of sorcery.

As you sing to the green ora vambraces, you evoke the image of a short man with silver-streaked hair. He holds the green ora vambraces in his hands, studying it intently. As he traces a fingertip over the runes, they flicker into life briefly with a faint green glow, and he nods his approval. He signals to a liveried servant nearby, and the servant quickly comes to take the vambraces away. The vision drifts away from you as your verse ends.

Additionally, you can read them, but everyone who has read them so far gets the same message:

>read vam
You squint at a pair of enruned ocean green ora vambraces for a moment, but the runes are incomprehensible to you. They make your eyes blur and your head hurt.

>touch vam
You trace the runes upon your green ora vambraces with a fingertip, and, as you do so, they glimmer into life with a faint violet radiance. The light vanishes after only a second.



However, since he is a good sport. If you want to own this item, MB is 500k right now at: http://forum.gsplayers.com/showthread.php?77109-Auction-number-2-more-stuff

[shad0ws0ngs]

Copied, with permission, from: http://forum.gsplayers.com/showthread.php?78606-Sheru-themed-Paraphernalia!

an orb-inset fel talisman

Very heavily, and awesomely scripted. Has a loresong; the loresong affects the Bard singing to it! Cannot be used unless you're aligned to Sheru [MAYBE aligned to any Lornon; haven't tested]. All information can be found here: http://www.krakiipedia.org/wiki/Orb-inset_fel_talisman. But, I'm going to post it anyways!

Description
an orb-inset fel talisman
Tendrils of fel curl around a bloodjewel orb, each finger of dark wood shaped into a slender claw tipped sharply at each end. The orb is the deep, dark red of a pure bloodjewel, nearly black towards the middle that lightens to a vivid scarlet hue along the surface of the orb. Along the orb's bottom, elegantly etched words alongside the slim outline of a jackal are filled in with obsidian. There appears to be something written on it.
In the Common language, it reads:
Without a nightmare, a dream can never be sweet.
PUSH
As you rub your forefinger over the orb on the surface of your fel talisman, it glows lightly, the image of the moon of Lornon, wreathed in clouds, suddenly illuminated.

As Owner rubs his forefinger over the orb on the surface of his fel talisman, it glows faintly, a swirling, dark grey image momentarily scrolling over the orb.
TURN
You rotate your fel talisman, and a wave of icy cold moves through your bloodstream, the air around you seemingly devoid of life in the halo of darkness that momentarily engulfs you. For a moment's time, you feel as though you are entangled in the grip of Lornon. Then as quickly as it began, it swiftly ends.

Owner rotates his fel talisman, turning it easily. Quite suddenly, the air is riddled with a chill, and Owner seems to nearly glow with an inner dark light, which fades as soon as he releases his talisman.
RAISE
Throwing your head back slightly, you raise your arms to the sky in prayer, your lips silently moving in recitation. A deep, scratchy chuckle resounds through your mind, your fel talisman darkening until the sound fades away.

Throwing his head back slightly, Owner raises his arms to the sky in prayer, his lips silently moving in recitation, and his fel talisman briefly darkens.
RUB
Brushing your fingertips over your fel talisman, a striking image pervades the orb's surface:
You look down from far above on a verdant land splashed over with warmth and green, filled with life and color. A handful of men and women stride into view, trampling across the land, with little regard for where they step. In their wake, plants dry up, lakes fill with blood, and mountains crumble under earthquakes. The sky itself fills with gas and dark mist, and the land literally withers and dies under their feet. All at once, as the last speck of life fades away, the men and women turn their faces upwards towards you, and you see that they are the human manifestations of the Lornon Arkati.

Riddled with shredded scales and gaping wounds, a magnificent blue drake crashes down into scorched earth, the light from her golden eyes slowly fading away. The image shifts slightly, a long passage of time clearly observable in the surrounding land, until an ancient-looking figure appears. Casually observant, his yellow slit-pupiled eyes run over the length of the fallen drake, and he inspects her as if she were a mere plaything, occassionally nodding to himself as he irreverently jabs at her torn remains. Finally, with a small smile spreading across his lips, the figure strides away.

Rich, dark hair flows from the jewel-crowned head of a strikingly beautiful goddess as she stands atop a jagged, black peak. Obviously a queen, the crowned figure smirks down at those who gather below her. Bathed in shadows, and lit only by intermittant flashes of lightning, a handful of gods and goddesses stand in a circle, their expressions full of a range of the darker emotions. While they appear to pay rapt attention to one another, each seems to have an individual presence of callousness that explains the gap between each in the ring of bodies.

Standing in between the blackened Gates of Oblivion, a white-winged woman with long, silver hair and brilliant blue eyes holds her hands up in the air, wrists together and palms out. Floating just above her cupped hands, a tiny representation of the Lornon moon floats, its swirling grey sphere wreathed around the center in dark clouds. Surrounding the woman are the other Lornon Arkati, grasping and grabbing at the moon, each vying to hold it in their own grip.
The image fades away, your fel talisman merely lit with a glowing, dark light.

Brushing his fingertips over his fel talisman, which flashes with sudden color and movement, Owner appears lost in thought.
Four different descriptions can happen when you rub it.

WEAR
As you slide the fel talisman over your head, it begins to pulse slightly with a glowing, dark light. Suddenly icy to the touch, the talisman comes to rest against your skin, and a wave of numbing cold flows through you.

As Owner slides an orb-inset fel talisman over his head, it begins to pulse slightly with a glowing, dark light, and a brief wave of cold flows through the area.
REMOVE
Pulling the cord over your head and lifing the fel talisman away from your skin, the talisman's cool quite suddenly dissipates and its glowing, dark light winks out.

The glowing, dark light imbued in Owner's talisman quickly winks out as he pulls its cord over his head.
GAZE
Tilting your fel talisman up slightly, you look deeply into its orb, as if you might somehow be able to see beyond the glowing, dark light that emanates from it. As you continue gazing, the image of the Bringer of Terror, a cruel sneer crossing the black jackal's expression stares up through the orb at you. The image lingers momentarily, and then flows across the orb and fades out of sight.
You blink your eyes, clearing the vision away.

Tilting his fel talisman up slightly, Owner gazes intently at it, his eyes clearly focused on the orb.
PULL
You tug at your fel talisman, reverently running your fingers along its edges. As you do so, you chant a short recitation of praise to Sheru. The orb on your talisman pulses with deep black, as if in answer to your words.

Owner tugs at his fel talisman, reverently running his fingers along its edges. You hear his chant softly, his exact words difficult to make out, though you clearly hear the name "Sheru" murmured with veneration. The orb on Owner's talisman softly pulses with deep black.

Has a Loresong; the Loresong will AFFECT the person singing to it.

"Lying in darkness, your eyelids are heavy, and slowly, ever so slowly, they droop closed. A scream brings you awake from dreamless sleep. You turn your head, looking for the source of the sound, but all you see is the empty bedroll next to you, void of its occupant. Desperate concern flows through you, quickly followed by fear. Another cry sounds, this one more intensely felt, full of horror, terror. You stand, moving quickly towards the sound. You hear the words, "Bren! Where are you?" tumble from your lips in a strangled shout."

Loresinger's face is focused, concentrated, and then suddenly laced with fear.

"Another scream, shrill, responds. You are closer to its source, and you run through jungle ferns and along slushy mud. You pick up your pace as the sound, laced with horror, slices through the air again. You stumble over several roots, nearly falling and waking from the vision just in time to catch yourself."
"Your sight is dim as you open your eyes into the vision. A shiver runs through you as another shriek explodes in the air, this one lower in tone, devoid of hope. You are close now. The wail sounds once more, fading in volume, almost gurgling as it is suddenly cut off. The distinct sound of ripping flesh, chewing, panting, replaces it. You suddenly stumble over a form, falling partially on it. A warm, gooey, sticky substance covers your fingers. Picking yourself up, you suddenly see a dark form--a large, black jackal, yellow eyes filled with intelligence, gleaming white teeth slick with fresh blood as it looks up at you. You hear gurgling come from under you and realize that you're atop a still humanoid figure, still warm, still fresh, in its death. As you hear yourself scream, with the pain of loss, and with fresh terror, you convulse and awake from the vision."

Looking up with an expression of horror, Loresinger violently convulses several times in a row.

"As you race into the vision this time, you are running as quickly as you can. The sound of a large shape pounding through the jungle, its panting heavy, reverberates through your ears you are being hunted you are prey. Panic courses through your veins, the terror pounding into your head so hard that your ears ring with the pain. The ferns snap behind you. The panting grows louder. Faster. You must run faster. How your body hasn't given out yet, you aren't certain. Then, light. You see light ahead. As you tear towards the glow, you see a clearing filled with life start to take shape. Safety--you feel a sense of hope flood your body as your steps carry you forward at lightning speed. The panting recedes. Fifty paces to go. Thirty paces. Twenty paces. Fifteen paces. The wind is knocked out of you as the jackal hits you full force from behind, causing you to slam into the ground."

Loresinger pants heavily, as if he were rapidly running. Then, without warning, he is jerkily buffeted to one side, as if hit by a heavy object.

"You blink, trying desperately to clear your head. You still feel the fear, feel it going strong. "She betrayed me." Instead of the jackal, a man looms over you, shrouded in darkness. "You betrayed me." The terror rises anew. You see a flash of claws from the corner of your eye. "Anything to say?" The claws are at your neck, their points biting in to your skin, drawing pinpricks of blood. You feel yourself freeze. Then, words are whispered from your mouth, so low in tone that you don't even hear them. The figure, however, looks at you for a long moment, his hooded eyes boring into you. Then he slowly nods. The claws retract. Without a second glance, he steps into the shadows and darkness descends on you. You blink. The terror has subsided somewhat, though you still feel the adrenaline running through your veins. You turn slightly, finding that you are on your bedroll once again, and next to you, a blonde-haired figure sleeps soundly, as if nothing has happened. You are as you were. "
"You hear yourself whisper, "It must have been a dream... a nightmare..." You turn over to try and sleep once more. As you move your hand to rest your head against it, your fingers brush against your neck. There, you feel a row of punctures. You jerk awake."

Loresinger whispers, "It must have been a dream... a nightmare..." as pinpricks of blood appear along his neck. He brushes his fingers along the blood, causing the illusion to fade away as Loresinger jerks as if startled.

[Andoff]

In case anyone's interested, here's some information on the tier six forehead gem from the Return to Black Swan Castle quest:

a black-shadowed milky quartz feather

Look: The plume is curved slightly, as if caught falling on a breeze. Small crescent incisions bring the quartz feather to life, outlining detailed barbs along the vane. While the stone is the bright, cloudy white true to milky quartz toward the feather's shaft, the edges of the feather are tinged black by some unknown source. The dark coloration seeps inward toward the shaft through the minute crevices between the barbs, enhancing their detail; however, whatever the source of the darkness was, it failed to pierce the feather's white heart.

Wear: You position a black-shadowed milky quartz feather between your eyes so that it casts a sparkling pearlescent sheen across your face.

Tap 1: Your quartz feather grows still as you tap it.

Tap 2: A sparkling pearlescent light races across the surface of your quartz feather as you tap it.

Rub: Your quartz feather gives off a momentarily bright pearlescent glow against the backdrop of your face.

Remove: You gently touch your quartz feather. It glows warmly for a moment and then falls away from your face.

Ambient 1: The quartz feather on your forehead flickers, as if a tiny pearlescent flame has appeared inside. Without so much as a breath of smoke, it is extinguished.

Ambient 2: The quartz feather on your forehead dims, then suddenly brightens in a luminous plume of tiny silver and pearlescent sparks that radiate out from your eyes in a feather-like pattern.

Ambient 3: The quartz feather on your forehead dims drastically as a cloud of darkness roils deep within the gem. After a moment, it fades, returning to its normal state.

Ambient 4: Arabesques of pearlescent twine deep within the heart of your quartz feather.

Ambient 5: Your quartz feather pulses against your forehead, sending silver and pearlescent sparks dancing around your lashes.

(There may be other ambient messaging.)

Loresong:

The feather tells a story of a woman in a castle besieged by war. Catapults and balls of magic assault and destroy the castle, and evils takes it over, turning everything dark. The vision ends with the feather darkening, and then being taken.

Flashes of silver and gold creep across your mind as a vision unfolds of a woman in a white dress, a milky white quartz feather positioned in the center of her forehead. The woman walks down a cobblestone path in the courtyard, passing gardens overflowing with red and white roses. The walls enclosing the courtyard are a smooth white marble, and a tall keep of the same bright stone rises high overhead. The keep resembles a graceful swan, wings outstretched, frozen as if landing on water. Shadows from the marble wings cross the woman's path as your vision fades.

Your vision returns to the woman in white, who is sitting before a mirror in a dressing room. She gently touches the milky white quartz feather positioned between her eyes, which glows warmly for a moment and then falls away from her face. She places the feather on the white marble vanity, which appears to be built into the castle walls. She stands, attends to her hair in the mirror, and slowly ascends the nearby staircase. After a few silent moments, you hear the faint sound of war drums begin to thump as your vision fades.

Your mind clears to an aerial view of the castle, besieged by enemy forces. Steel-plated catapults propel projectiles into the formerly pristine castle walls as ground forces gather. Churning balls of magic shoot out of the darkness from unseen sorcerers, latching onto the walls and seeming to bleed darkness into the white marble. The magic evaporates, but the darkness lingers. War drums, constant and persistent, echo through your mind as the vision comes to a close.

The dressing room returns to your mind, though the night is silent now. As you watch, a darkness seems to creep into the white marble walls, turning them black. The darkness continues its silent journey, slithering across the floor and up the sides of the stone vanity. As the shadow passes under quartz feather, the edges of the feather darken as well. The blackness creeps toward the center of the feather, shadowing the intricately carved veins, before a hand snatches the feather from the vanity as your vision fades.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Black Swan Nalea Gown Loresong:

You sing:

"O gown that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white satin gown in your hand, and you learn something about it...

Your vision blurs before opening up on a white marble-walled bedchamber. A regal-looking woman clad in a lace-edged white dressing gown lounges on a crimson velvet chaise as she gazes out the window at a pink and red sunset over a peaceful countryside. She chats companionably with a white-clad maid as the servant removes an open-backed white satin gown patterned with contrasting black feathers from within a tall wardrobe with elaborate stained glass doors. The woman stands and begins to disrobe as your vision fades.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

R>loresing O' gown in my hand;sing now your purpose in this land!
You sing:

"O' gown in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white satin gown in your hand, and you learn something about it...

A swirl of feathers eddies across your mind's view before clearing to reveal a grand ballroom filled with guests in brightly colored gala attire. Your attention is pulled to the woman from your previous vision, striking in an open-backed white satin gown patterned with contrasting black feathers. She moves gracefully through the ballroom, stopping at each guest to favor them with a smile and a kind word. She tosses her head back in laughter as your vision clouds and fades away.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

R>loresing O' gown that I see,;sing now of your magic free!
You sing:

"O' gown that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white satin gown in your hand, and you learn something about it...

Shrieks fill your mind even before the vision can fully materialize. When the vision remains cloudy, it dawns on you that dust and debris have filled the air of the grand chamber. The brightly dressed party goers frantically rush toward the exits, but the crush of people funneling into the narrow archways soon proves more dangerous than the falling debris. One woman's narrow heel catches in another's elaborate train, and both women disappear beneath the throng of panicked party goers. The woman in the white satin gown stands in the center of the ballroom, begging her guests for order. She winces and cowers as a loud crash sounds, and a fresh flurry of debris blocks your view.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

R>loresing O' gown made for battle,;sing now your ability without a rattle!
You sing:

"O' gown made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white satin gown in your hand, and you learn something about it...

Your vision blacks. A sharp *click* *clack* sound slowly grows louder through the darkness, and soon you make out the flickering light of a candle, sputtering desperately from the speed of its carrier. As the flame nears you, it casts its dim light on its bearer, revealing the hostess. She glances fearfully back down the dungeon corridor behind her, her dark kohl eyeliner streaked down her face to join soot and a smear of blood. Nervously, she fumbles the candle and it falls to ground, extinguishing itself on the wet stone ground with a hiss. For several long moments, you can hear nothing but the sound of her nervous heavy breathing in the dark.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

R>loresing o gown that I hold,;sing now your value bold.
You sing:

"O gown that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white satin gown in your hand, and you learn something about it...

Level: 0

Your mind opens up once more to a darkened underground tunnel, but the walls this time are more rough and unfinished. You pass through the caves until you see two goblins arguing by a small fire. "Oot's mooyne!" one snarls at the other. "I soow oot foorst!" She tugs something made of white satin toward her. The other goblin, however, has her hands on it, too, and tugs back equally hard, hissing, "Oot's noot yoor cooloor! Let goo!" You squint into the darkness of the caves, but can make no determination as to the location of the the gown's former wearer as the vision fades.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

[SHAFT]

From the elemental bow of vibration -

As you sing, you sense resonant vibrations coming from the bow, matching pitch with yours. Soon a harmony is achieved, and a brilliant display begins to materialize before you...

The scene unfolds in a deep, shadowy forest, with an aged sylvan craftsman gazing upward, almost sadly, to a giant white monir tree.
He gestures to a group of younger lads and walks away. The gathered youth watch him leave with a visible degree of respect before advancing on the great trunk. They begin to chop methodically, their voices rising and falling with rich texture and resonance. Their song seems to calm you, as if their singing was designed to aid the great tree itself in accepting its fate.

As you continue singing, the scene shifts...

The aged sylvan craftsman now sits alone in a wooded glade, his eyes closed, and his mouth working in some silent chant.
Arrayed neatly around him are several thick, straight pieces of white monir wood, each shining faintly in the light that filters through the overhanging tree limbs. The craftsman runs his hand along each in turn, and as he does so they seem to glimmer with varying hues. He settles his hands in his lap once again, and continues his quiet chant...

Once again you harmonize with the bow and beckon it to continue with the display...

The scene shifts to reveal the sylvan craftsman once again. His features appear the same however he looks much older, as if his work has drained him. He stands next to a work table with an oiled rag in his hand, gazing down at several polished bows of white monir, each easily identifiable by the runic patterns etched upon them. He nods quietly to himself and beckons an apprentice standing in the shadows forward to take the weapons off the table. The youth glances at her master with concern before gathering the bundle and walking out of the workshop.

Your breath becomes labored as you try to coax yet more out of thebow...

Another shift in the scene reveals the craftsman, his face hollow and shrunken, his eyes not moving, and no breath escaping his lips. He lies on a carved linden platform, and is surrounded by a score of other sylphs. Apart from these are five archers, standing at the foot of the platform facing away from the others. They slowly raise their bows and let loose into the air. As their missiles arch away from the scene, you examine them closely. One appears as if it is on fire, another leaves a faint trail of frost in the air, the third seems to shimmer slightly, and the fourth seems to boil as it flies.

The fifth arrow arcs slightly above the others, streaking across the sky in a dazzling display of electrical energy. The archer who fired that arrow turns and seems to look directly at you.

He nods slightly and says something in sylvan you don't quite catch.

[Roblar]

Highman Games full plate-

XXX appears to be raptly listening to some unheard speaker as he sings to some blue-grey rolaren full plate with a faint, deep and thrumming beat.

Deep and thrumming, the rolaren full plate in your hand begins to vibrate with a primal beat that drowns out your tune of inquiry. Your vision darkens for a brief moment but quickly clears to reveal the image of hundreds of giantman gathered around a fire. A shaman stands near the towering inferno, his demeanor at once compelling and demanding.

"Look back," he loudly exclaims. "Look back at the line of men and women that have come before you. Look to Tormala Issimir, the first clan leader, and see the path that was laid by those hands. Listen to the words of the Kegritsa and know your place within their honor."

Several onlookers release loud cheers at the shaman's words, and all around you, you feel the tribe's spirits bolstered.

"Look to Aemarlantea and feel the blood of that line course through you," the shaman continues. "Will you let the hordes of the undead, risen at Despana's command, steal that life and vitality from you? Will you bend your knee and fall before her twisted image of the world? Or will you rise to Eahnimaki's side and fight with your brethren for the freedom that so justly belongs to you!"

All around you, those gathered surge to their feet and cry out their demand to fight the hordes. The cries and shouts go on for several seconds, but soon they fall to murmured whispers of approval as a man, wearing some blue-grey rolaren full plate and flanked by a woman and man that have a striking family resemblance, steps towards the bonfire. He raises his hands for silence, a silence which he is quickly honored with, and begins to outline a plan of attack that will bring him and his clansmen into a position that will support all of the other clans on the battlefield. Slowly, as the night grows long and the voices begin to quiet, the vision fades.

As XXX sings to some blue-grey rolaren full plate, his eyes momentarily glaze over with white.

Soft as snowfall, the sound of your song fades before you, and your vision is blanketed in white. Snowflakes fall across your eyes, and you find yourself peering over a rocky outcropping into a camp filled with tents. Near one particular fire a man wearing some blue-grey rolaren full plate heatedly argues with a younger man wearing leathers.

"Your methods are dishonorable, Baklarin," argues the taller man. "Stealth and ambush are the ways of the sneaky humans, not the ways of the Bear Clan!"

"With all due respect, Clan Leader, you are wrong. Charging sightless and headlong into battle only costs lives, and there are other ways to fight, ways that can save us so much. Stealth is not dishonorable; it is new, and you are too hide-bound to see it," responds the one named Baklarin.

"We will not have this discussion again, Baklarin! If you bring it to me again, I will banish you," says the clan leader in a tired voice.

"No," Baklarin cries. "I renounce the Bear Clan and you as my leader. I will go my own way, and those who think like me will follow. No longer will I throw my life headlong down a hill into battle! Our way will be of cunning, of planning, and of stealth, and one day, I pray that I will earn your respect for what I have done."

Turning, before the clan leader can form a reply, Baklarin walks off. Within seconds, nearly a third of the surrounding clan follows him.

Snowflakes slip across your vision, and soon they fade away.

XXX's song is nearly a whisper as he stares at some blue-grey rolaren full plate in his hands.

As your song touches upon the rolaren full plate, your vision blurs and is suddenly filled with a bird's-eye view of a giantman walking through a forest. Golden sunlight slants across his path, and just as he is about to step out into a clearing near the edge of the ocean, his head turns sharply to the south. Shadows play across the forest as a krolvin slave ship passes between the setting sun and the forest. Crouching low, the giantman rubs an amulet at his neck and then follows the ship.

He follows the ship as it moves up a river that feeds into the ocean, and, when the cliffs block the view of the forest, he dives into the water. With stealth and cunning, the man manipulates debris from the river and manages to jam the ship's rudder. Several cries from above alert the man to the fact that the krolvin have discovered that their progress has been slowed, and so he stealthily makes his way around the side of the ship and adroitly avoids discovery by climbing into the ship's hold.

Moving swiftly and nimbly, the man creates a fire within the hold and turns to leave, only to be greeted by the snarling faces of several krolvin slavers. An ancient battle cry slips from his lips as he charges headlong into the ape-like sailors, and a small battle ensues.

Fighting his way up from the hold, the giantman manages to dispatch thirteen slavers before he is pinned against the railing, but suddenly an explosion rocks the decks of the ship, and flames leap to the sky. Barely escaping his deathblow, the man dives into the water, but not before he receives several grievous injuries.

Clinging to life, the giantman crawls from the water and into the safe embrace of the forest. Time seems to lengthen to an eternity, and the man's color grows grey as the sun sets in a dazzling blaze of light. Clansmen charge through the forest to his side, one among them wearing some blue-grey rolaren full plate, and he quickly reveals what has happened. Before they can respond to his tale, he tells them of another ship that was ahead of the one he has destroyed and gives them instructions on how to stop it from reaching a small town he calls River's Rest. As the last word of instruction slips from his lips, death finally seizes him, and your vision fades.

XXX's song, at first inquiring, takes on the tone of a battle chant. He nearly lifts some blue-grey rolaren full plate into the air as he finishes <<her>> tune with a note of tenacious pride.

Rising to meet your song, the rolaren full plate captures your inquiring tune and transforms it into a proud battle chant filled with the sound of bagpipes. Pennants and banners flutter across your vision, and before you stands a hill covered in dozens of tents. All the clans are present, their emblems and totems clearly visible from your viewpoint. Other races have come to see the gathering and all listen in rapture as the storytellers share the tales of Mishka being carried by her cousin Eahnimaki away from the battlefields of Maelshyve. Yet others gather around the fires of the Windrunner Clan as they share drinks and speak of the great Rajin, who valiantly took down a krolvin slaver ship on his own. All the tales of all the tribes are spoken. The fall of Kragsfell is met with silence and respect, while the tales of the building of Kilanirij are met with awe and small pangs of sorrow. Merchants mingle with crowd, children run between the tents, and the bagpipes play through the long hours of the day.

The day dwindles, and as its last light fades, you find yourself at a fire, where a storyteller shares the tales of Kiremgea of the T'Kirem Bear tribe. Great gestures and bold exclamations complement his tale as he describes the scene of a far-off time and how the kindred banded together to roam the southeastern edges of the great Dragonspine range. As his tale comes to an end, he smiles and gazes at you.

"Remember the people," he says to you and touches the rolaren full plate that you find in your hands. "Remember the strength of Kiremgrea as he joined our people. Remember the fortitude of Baklarin as he sought a new way. Remember the stability of Eahnimaki as he carried Mishka from Maelshyve. Remember the tenacity of Krulgon as he fought against those that would take what is ours. And remember to write your own tale, in Saramar, on the rolaren full plate so that when you are gone, the song lives on."

Abruptly, the vision fades.

[Zaigh]

Krolvin reading spectacles

Your vision clouds, a disorienting sensation stealing over you as images rush through your mind's eye. Symbols, runes and glyphs flicker by as your awareness quests back to a time long past.

Candlelight flickers shadows along a stone and mortar wall, inky figures dancing over its rough surface. A tome lies open upon a parchment-strewn desk, a pair of mithril spectacles resting atop its yellowing pages. Lines of strange runes span the parchment, the symbols curling about each other like so many ants over a bit of discarded cake.

The lenses of the spectacles shimmer slightly, a prismatic sheen running across their surface as your vision gazes down through them. The glyphs upon the page appear different, and you comprehend the mysteries of the few lines visible to you: "...and would one find it, the nexus of...", "...requiring few reagents, such as wyr...", "...there, and only there, would this terrible purpose come to pass...."
The loud creak of an opening door startles you as you lean closer to the page, hungry for the other secrets the sigils hold from you. As you turn toward the source of the sound, you find your vision fading and familiar surroundings returning to your senses, though the original sensation lingers....
Your vision clouds, and you find your awareness once again rushing across the vastness of the past.

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Back and forth, the soapy brush drifts across the floor. A frail-looking youth garbed in tattered linen robes kneels by a wooden bucket filled with murky water, his hand guiding the bristles along the darkly lacquered wooden floor.

The shuffling of turning pages fills the room, accompanied by the flicker of a guttering candle. Shuffle. Scrub. Shuffle. Scrub. The sounds play off each other in rhythm, each repetition deepening the frown worn by the youth in the dirty robe.
Stopping to rinse the brush in the brackish water, the lad raises his eyes to look at the source of the shuffling. An ancient husk of a man sits at a parchment-strewn desk, long grey hair flowing down his back from under a tall pointed hat.

Resentment slowly fills the youth's eyes, his gaze locked on the back of the man at the desk. Seeming to notice the cessation of scrubbing sounds, the man turns, saying, "Now, now. Remember your training."

The boy's face is calm once more, untouched by malice as he returns to the drudgery of cleaning. His gaze absently follows the brush in its strokes, but his white-knuckled grip on its handle betrays the anger within.

The vision fades suddenly, familiar surroundings flooding back to your senses....

[shad0ws0ngs]

a pale golden hazelwood bracer
The natural grain of the hazelwood is unmarked, merely polished and oiled into a smooth cylinder of striated gold. Tawny leather laces the thin wooden bracer closed on both sides.

You determine that you could wear the bracer around your wrist. The bracer appears to serve some purpose.

Self Knowledge Light (205) enhansive. Almost innumerable charges remaining!

Loresong:

Faint images coalesce in your mind's eye but they are fleeting -- a flash of pale hair, the gleam of brilliant blue eyes, a flushed and downy cheek.

A stronger vision follows: a pair of small, supple arms swinging back and forth, their long-fingered hands clasped. Both wear wooden bracers, one a golden twin to that which you hold while the other is black as pitch.

The beat of small, running feet is wound through with a melody of laughter. The hands separate and between them you can just glimpse a great temple in the distance, looming over a sprawling village, before the images dissolve altogether.

The ghostly figure of a young woman, hardly more than a child, flickers into being at the edge of your vision. As she walks, the stately columns and carvings of a temple shimmer into view in her wake. Sunlight streams through high, arched windows and paints loving highlights across her brilliant blue robe.

Others are visible now, arrayed on the opposite side of the brightly lit circular chamber. Most wear blue robes like those of the girl, but the woman at the center is clad in pure and flowing white and wears a heavy golden medallion in the shape of a stylized sunburst.

The girl finishes her circuit of the ornate chamber and kneels before this central figure. She bows her head and holds up her hands, revealing strong and slender limbs clasped about the wrists with golden hazelwood bracers.

The white-clad priestess places her hands atop the girl's fair hair and murmurs an invocation that causes them to glow. Her hands move next to wrap about the girl's wrists. This time, her voice rings out for all to hear. "Be bound to the Sun, my child," she says clearly, and the luminescence of her hands seeps into the hazelwood bracers and fades from view. "Serve in the light, and you will be safe from the darkness."

Her dedication complete, the priestess lets her hands fall and steps back. The girl stands and bows deeply, but her expression as she rises is bittersweet.

A single tear rolls down her cheek and splatters on the stone floor, shattering the vision and returning your sight to normal.

The air about you warps as you sing, bleeding colors into each other and repatterning darkness and light.

The lengthening shadows of dusk leech color from your sight. A familiar fair-haired woman, older now, walks in a line through the vast temple halls, chanting melodically and making sweeping gestures with blue-robed arms. It is a stately dance and performed with an air of long habit.

Another line of figures approaches from the opposite direction, robed entirely in black. Their movements, though lacking in the broad and airy vibrancy of the blue-clad men and women, are no less graceful for it. They trace a pattern across the floor with their steps, lighting torches on both sides of the hall with fluid flicks of their wrists and fingers.

When the two lines meet, their practiced motions mingle and complement each other. The black-robed figures weave an intricate pattern through those robed in blue, and the sway of their bodies as they light the torches is a counterpoint to the others' sweeping arms.

But when two particular robed figures, both pale-haired and strikingly similar of feature, draw near to each other, they do not sway apart but move closer still, almost touching. This gesture too, although a break from the pattern thus far, bears a practiced look. The motions of these two are controlled, straining toward each other yet neither crossing that final distance that separates them.

Their moment of closeness is fleeting, however. They pass each other in their proscribed steps. The woman raises an arm smoothly in time with her brethren, and the black-robed man brings a torch to flickering life with the rotation of one black-bracered wrist.

The two lines continue onward in opposite directions. As the last of the blue-robed figures pass by, the torches gutter and extinguish themselves, allowing the passage of day into night.

Upon a bier at its center lies the frail, white-robed body of a man. His hair is a cloud of ivory about his heavily lined face, and the black fel bracers he wears are crossed over his sunken chest. Wound through one gnarled hand is a thick chain bearing a sword-shaped pendant of obsidian edged with silver.

A shadow detatches itself from the darkness shrouding the walls. Soft light flickers across the pure white robes of a woman bent with age. Breathing shallowly, she stands beside the bier for a long moment then gives a long, drawn-out sigh. The woman straightens with a shudder, as though a burden has lifted from her shoulders, then carefully stretches out on the platform beside its unliving resident.

She curls at his side, one thin arm winding about his own and clasping his cold hand in hers. The pale golden hue of her hazelwood bracer stands in stark contrast to his own fel bands, but the joining is harmonious and perhaps long overdue.

With a smile, the old woman rests her head on the dead man's shoulder and closes her watery blue eyes. "As in birth, so in death, beloved," she murmurs, and her next words are her last. "You first, but I swiftly follow."

As the vision fades, she, too, ceases to breathe.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Gnomish spectacles: a pair of silver spectacles

You sing:

"O' spectacles in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"


Roundtime: 8 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the silver spectacles in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a faint aura of magic around the silver spectacles. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the spectacles is to cast a spell or perform some magical purpose.


You sing:

"O' spectacles that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

Your vision clouds, a disorienting sensation stealing over you as images rush through your mind's eye. Symbols, runes and glyphs flicker by as your awareness quests back to a time long past.

Candlelight flickers shadows along a stone and mortar wall, inky figures dancing over its rough surface. A tome lies open upon a parchment-strewn desk, a pair of silver spectacles resting atop its yellowing pages. Lines of strange runes span the parchment, the symbols curling about each other like so many ants over a bit of discarded cake.

The lenses of the spectacles shimmer slightly, a prismatic sheen running across their surface as your vision gazes down through them. The glyphs upon the page appear different, and you comprehend the mysteries of the few lines visible to you: "...and would one find it, the nexus of...", "...requiring few reagents, such as wyr...", "...there, and only there, would this terrible purpose come to pass...."

The loud creak of an opening door startles you as you lean closer to the page, hungry for the other secrets the sigils hold from you. As you turn toward the source of the sound, you find your vision fading and familiar surroundings returning to your senses, though the original sensation lingers....

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing:

"O' spectacles made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

Your vision clouds, and you find your awareness once again rushing across the vastness of the past.

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Back and forth, the soapy brush drifts across the floor. A frail-looking youth garbed in tattered linen robes kneels by a wooden bucket filled with murky water, his hand guiding the bristles along the darkly lacquered wooden floor.

The shuffling of turning pages fills the room, accompanied by the flicker of a guttering candle. Shuffle. Scrub. Shuffle. Scrub. The sounds play off each other in rhythm, each repetition deepening the frown worn by the youth in the dirty robe.

Stopping to rinse the brush in the brackish water, the lad raises his eyes to look at the source of the shuffling. An ancient husk of a man sits at a parchment-strewn desk, long grey hair flowing down his back from under a tall pointed hat.

Resentment slowly fills the youth's eyes, his gaze locked on the back of the man at the desk. Seeming to notice the cessation of scrubbing sounds, the man turns, saying, "Now, now. Remember your training."

The boy's face is calm once more, untouched by malice as he returns to the drudgery of cleaning. His gaze absently follows the brush in its strokes, but his white-knuckled grip on its handle betrays the anger within.

The vision fades suddenly, familiar surroundings flooding back to your senses....

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Prize item for Hunt for History.


a scratched mithril-bound manacle


Show

Fractured and cast aside, whatever once was held within this band of imprisonment has long since left it behind. Tiny divots and gnaw marks disfigure the edges of the manacle, as if the occupant reverted to animal instincts in their prolonged frustration, but those did not seem to cause the final jagged split that sundered the infinite nature of the circle.


This shackle dates from the glory days of piracy.


Loresong

The manacle grows noticeably colder in your hand, and your eyelids sink as the sound of crashing surf lulls you away

Swimming up to your consciousness is a vision of a narrow ship's hold, creaking and rocking slowly from the ocean beneath. Everything within the cell area is displayed in hueless shades, as if the colors have been leeched away like so much happiness. Heaps of filthy dark grey blankets are piled around the room, interspersed with a skein of lighter grey rusting chains and manacles winding over the dull grey planks underfoot. Even the few other occupants, wrapped in the ratty remnants of their various pasts, are completely devoid of color. Yet, within a single iron-rimmed porthole a brilliant blue shimmers.

Receding like the tide, the vision breaks into indecipherable streaks and then turns black. Bubbles rush through the darkness and your eyes blink and refocus on the true world.

What appears to be a rocky coastline is now creeping by the porthole like a great earthen drake. Sprays of foam explode in white bursts against the distant rocky beaches, and scores of seabirds float around the reefs picking at fish shredded by the underlying coral. As you watch, the coast begins to slant toward the ship. Gaining speed and catching inbound swells, it seems as though your floating prison has lost control and is heading directly into the coast! Closer the land skulks, until you can make out individual trees and bushes along the shore, and impact seems imminent.

Vaporous light solidifies into image, and once again you find yourself within the bowels of the ship's hold, with the coastline a stone throw away outside the porthole and approaching fast. At the moment where the narrow rock beach itself is visible outside there is noticeably no crash, and just as suddenly the light disappears and you are seeing a fast-moving sheer wall of rock moving past mere feet away. Piratical scrawlings occasionally decorate the stone wall in vivid slashes of color as you float by, made more vibrant and foreboding by your view from within the grey dungeon surroundings.

Roughly-hewn stone continues to pass by the porthole, then suddenly retreats into darkness and for a moment you see nothing. Fire illumination brightens the exterior, and with the minimal view the window offers it appears the ship is inside an enormous cavern grotto. Uneven pilings jut from the water and connect plank walkways and small makeshift docks. Tantalizing piles of wealth are jumbled along the distant cave wall, with heaps of ill-gotten jewelry, weaponry, and packed materials with foreign markings tangled all together.

Raised voices from the dock ahead and above on deck penetrate the grey cell, and the ship unexpectedly begins turning back around. As the rotation brings your view around you can see a shaggy human pirate standing on the largest pier, bouncing around excitedly. In his hand he is waving a shipping notice bearing an official gold and crimson seal, his other hand meanwhile is gesticulating to hurry back out to sea.

Practically bursting from the cavern lair, the porthole shows a smear of beach for an instant before again showing the pure blue horizon of the sea. After a few distorted moments of travel you can hear the stomping of feet on the deck of the pirate ship above you, marking preparation for an assault. The ship swings about, and your porthole view slides along the crystalline waters and glides slowly to a stop framing a massive Turamzzyrian vessel.

The ship flies the markings of an official Imperial transport, and though she is loaded with heavy ordnance the pirates have taken her in the perfect position. Above you the orders are roared, but then a shuddering impact roars through your ship! The Imperial ship outside the porthole has no weapons aimed your way, yet suddenly another explosion rends the air. Seawater rushes in through hundreds of fissures in the hull and the prisoners begin to scream.

Pandemonium returns in a flash, and around you the pirate's ship is breaking apart. Water spouts from every surface, and with a trembling blast the decks fold and collapse from above, dropping rigging and pirates and ripping the hull into pieces. The ocean claims the ship in one shattering gulp, leaving trails of bubbles and wreckage as the large chunks sink quickly out of sight.

Underwater, all around you people are struggling, many being drawn into the depths by debris. Breaking the surface with exploding gasps of tortured lungs, most of the prisoners from the belowdecks start swimming madly toward the Imperial vessel, cheering and shouting with ragged voices. The dazzling colors of the open sea and sky wrapping around you refreshes your senses, as if you too had been a prisoner long within the dank hope-sapping ship's belly.

Like a school of filthy malnourished fish, the ex-prisoners flail toward the galley bearing great Turamzzyrian Imperial crests upon its sails. A cannon blast roars through the air and the center of the mainmast suddenly bursts into a rain of splintering debris. The vision shifts, and behind the group of prisoners in the water you can see the cause of their captors' demise.

Rising like a black sea-demon above the waves is a massive pirate vessel, its crew crawling around the decks preparing to board the other ship. Visible from your height above the water at the prow is a burly pirate of immaculate swarthiness bellowing commands. By the red slashes marring the Imperial sigil on his shield, this could be none other than Bloody Malovor.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a small foxfire green will-o'-wisp: The will-o'-wisp is no bigger than your average piece of yabathilium fruit, and glows foxfire green. The will-o'-wisp appears to be pleased and lively. The will-o'-wisp appears to be excessively overstuffed. Through the foxfire green corona, an obscured opalescent core is visible. The foxfire green will-o'-wisp is currently bonding to you.

*partially bonded*

You sing:

"O will-o'-wisp that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As your song flows into foxfire green will-o'-wisp, your vision fades into darkness. When the darkness is lifted, you find yourself floating above the ground. Glancing about, you see numerous will-o'-wisps about, many whizzing past you. You attempt to glide about with your kin, but the connection is severed and everything returns to normal!

Roundtime: 7 sec.

R>loresing O' will-o'-wisp in my hand;sing now your purpose in this land!
You sing:

"O' will-o'-wisp in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

As you continue your song, your vision clouds in an array of foxfire green hues. You return to the same setting, you can make out a forest with fresh water nearby. You flit over to a group of other will-o'-wisps but can't seem to catch up to them. As you finally get closer, the verse ends and your vision returns to normal.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

R>loresing O' will-o'-wisp that I see,;sing now of your magic free!
>
You sing:

"O' will-o'-wisp that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

Your song continues and you once again find yourself in the forest, but something is different this time, you are the only one left. The lush forest is vacant of will-o'-wisps. You begin to panic, and the verse ends!

Roundtime: 7 sec.

R>loresing O' will-o'-wisp made for battle,;sing now your ability without a rattle!
You sing:

"O' will-o'-wisp made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

Before the words fully escape your mouth, you return to your spirit form of the will-o'-wisp. You are trapped inside a seed of some sort. Your new home. Filled with fear, the only thing you can do is hope your fate will end well. The song ends and everything returns to normal.

Roundtime: 10 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a faceted golden blazestar ferroniere strung from a delicate faenor chain

- Wizard only
- enhances earthlore +10 skill
- mana regen +1
- Costs 24k BPs to recharge.
- head worn

No idea how many charges because of the loresong. Assuming it is persistant.

loresong:

An image coalesces in your mind's eye. An elven child strides jauntily up a mountain trail with an older man at her side. In a flash of prescience, the man pushes the girl aside, an avalanche of rock and dirt crashes onto the path, burying him. The girl screams in horror and flings herself on the pile, vainly pushing at the large rocks. Abruptly, the earth and rock begin to shift and slide, unearthing the injured man. The girl sheds tears of joy as she dusts him off and he pats her back soothingly.

A new image falls across the canvas of your mind. The girl is years older, though still young, her cropped brown hair revealing upswept, pointed ears, and her golden robes suggesting a slim, boyish figure. She stands at the center of a domed hall and bows her head as a white-robed, snow-haired woman crowns her with a faenor-strung golden blazestar. The girl lifts her head, and her brown eyes sparkle with pride as she meets the gaze of her father, leaning on his cane near the back of the assembly.

The thundering beat of hooves washes over you as you continue to sing. The elven maid rides into the thick of battle, firing arrow after arrow into the throng of raging barbarians. She rushes toward a troupe of beleaguered elves cornered on the far side of the field. As she rides, she raises her arms and invokes a spell, the golden gem on her brow flashing. Abruptly, the earth at the feet of the attackers explodes, knocking them to their knees and pummeling them with shards of rock and clods of dirt.

As your song winds to a close, a final image flickers across your mind. A portrait of the warrior maiden stands on an easel at the heart of the domed assembly hall. Before the portrait, a small altar stands with a tall faenor urn upon it. The assemblage of mages passes before the urn, bowing their heads in respect, some kneeling briefly or kissing their fingertips and touching the urn as they pass. Upon each brow is a golden blazestar, and as the image winks out, you notice a like gem adorning the urn.

[shad0ws0ngs]

You sing:

"O bandolier that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

As the song begins, the world dissolves into a grainy image of windswept tundra where a pair of hunters hide behind some scrub. Time passes, and a beast of burden lumbers past. The younger hunter stands, takes aim with his single spear, and hurls it with all his might, yet for naught, as it flies wide. The elder sighs as he watches the beast tramp away. He quips, "Too bad little brother; you shall feel father's bow across your back when we return home with no game." The picture dissolves away.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing:

"O' bandolier in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

Sitting around a fire, the young hunter has grown, and many rings adorn his upswept pointed ears. He sits tailor-fashion, stretching the hides of a tribe of fenghai he has slain in his trial of manhood. He stares at them with fascination as he carefully scrapes the skins and alternately glances at the old shaman sitting before the fire and chanting in an old, forgotten tongue. "Old one, in my hunt, I was burdened carrying an entire sheaf of spears, and my stealth was less than I was capable of," he says. The old man stares into the smoke, lost in thought.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing:

"O' bandolier that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

Many moons have passed, and a group of hunters stand around a bier. The elder hunter intones a ritual as the old one is lowered into a pit lined with oil-soaked grass and sticks. The hunter, now a warleader in his tribe and considered one of the smartest in his village, removes the shaman's pouch and sorts through it. A single scroll with an unbroken seal is the only item that he has never seen, as the other items are common: a smoking pipe, various herbs and medicinal items, some assorted bones, and a slender willow wand. He opens the scroll and gazes fondly at the body. "You finally came to an answer for a young man's question." His eyes mist over as he casts a torch into the pyre, sending the old man home.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing:

"O' bandolier made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

Sitting in a circle, the village elders chant ritual verses. The old hunter's son is ready to face his trials. His son straps on a quiver of tanned fenghai hide, adorned with many glass beads and leather fringe from which old bones hang. The old man gazes fondly at his son, and, reading from the old scroll, draws arcane symbols into the air. The single spear within the quiver glows softly for a moment as it changes. "Take it," he commands. The boy grabs it and pulls, and to his surprise, it shimmers as he holds a spear in his hand, yet the one spear still remains within. The old man lifts his head to the sky and silently gives thanks.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[Elvenlady]

A wonderful friend gave me her RtCF raffle win to add a loresong to a piece of Rohese's jewellery. I wrote the loresong to give an insight into her backstory:

You accept Rohese's offer and are now holding a glass peacock eye pendant.

>l my pendant
Strung on tangled electrum threads, this large oval-shaped pendant is crafted from brilliant emerald green glass. A spherical dark-hued lapis lazuli stone flecked with gold has been fused in the center of the glass, creating the illusion of a peacock eye.

You sing with a warm alto in Elven:

"Through forests of litany
A lover meanders
His hopes on a pendant
As proof of his candour"

Gold motes stir within the pendant's eye as your song evokes memories of an elven childhood. Beneath a cloudless lapis blue sky, two young girls chase each other around a cottonwood tree laden with fluffy white catkins. A gentle breeze ruffles their silvery blonde hair and sends a flurry of seeds around them as they laugh and play. Their glee is interrupted only by the entrance of an elegant woman, her glass pendant glinting in the sunlight. She extends her arms and both children rush into her embrace.

[The peacock eye pendant seems to respond to the magic of Cappyn's song.
Cappyn's eyes turn a dazzling lapis blue as she sings to her peacock eye pendant. A sudden warm breeze brings with it a flurry of fluffy white cottonwood seeds and the faint echo of children's laughter.]

You sing with a warm alto in Elven:

"Down paths of confusion
His intentions do wend
To offer the pendant
And thus make amends"

Your song falters as the gold motes flicker and fade like a dying candle flame. Images of harmonious family life flood your mind until one scene lingers. Decades have passed and the joyous sounds of laughter have been replaced by a somber mood. Clad in black, an elven cleric stares dolefully out of a library window, his fingers locked around a glass pendant. With a mournful sigh, he settles his gaze on his two teary eyed daughters and hands the pendant to the eldest before walking away without a word.

[The peacock eye pendant seems to respond to the magic of Cappyn's song.
A solitary tear rolls down Cappyn's cheek as she struggles to sing to her peacock eye pendant. The coo of a nearby mourning dove adds a doleful counterpoint to her melody.]

You sing with a warm alto in Elven:

"Cross streams of injustice
Where anger is rife
The pendant a motive
For his journey of strife"

The pendant's eye darkens with your new refrain but pulsates with a ghostly blue radiance. With each waning pulse, a velvety shroud of darkness shifts to reveal a towering glowbark tree. A willowy young elf is kneeling before her black-robed sister, who clutches a glass pendant tightly in her clawed hand. The elf lifts her head as if to accompany the eerie ballad of the nearby sirenflowers, but all she can manage is a grief-stricken silence. The incandescence fades and with it the heart wrenching image

[The peacock eye pendant seems to respond to the magic of Cappyn's song.
Cappyn's eyes cloud over with a ghostly blue haze as she continues to sing to her peacock eye pendant. For a brief moment, she is accompanied by the eerie whispering lilt of sirenflowers.]

You sing with a warm alto in Elven:

"At a bridge of contention
Our lover takes pause
To ponder the pendant
And measure his cause"

At first it seems your song may fail, but your phrasing subtly transforms into a dirge and lifts the shroud again to reveal a mausoleum. A black-robed elf with ashen hair stands over a linden casket. Her expression shows no emotion as she places a glass pendant onto the lid and leaves. Moments later, a willowy elf steps from the shadows to retrieve it. Tucking it carefully it into her white robes, she replaces it with a purple mournbloom. A distant peacock's scream startles you back to present day.

[The peacock eye pendant seems to respond to the magic of Cappyn's song.
The peacock eye pendant in Cappyn's hand flashes with a sapphire blue radiance as her song subtly transforms into a dirge and ends abruptly with a distant peacock scream. An unexpected breeze brings with it the melancholy fragrance of mournblooms.]

[Nathala Crane]

Very well written and paints a lovely, sad picture. Awesome.

[Elvenlady]

Thanks :)

[shad0ws0ngs]

a brilliant crimson eahnor pike inlaid with a spiral of gold wyverns


You sing in Guildspeak:

"O pike that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."

The first thing that strikes you about the pike is the sturdy craftmanship and unique. You feel it's quite valuable. Rare metals have been worked throughout the pike.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' pike in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"

Your voice echoes against the a brilliant crimson eahnor pike inlaid with a spiral of gold wyverns, and the vibration returns in the form an image. A muscled elven smith works over a forge, turning the pike over as it heats.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' pike that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"

You sense that a brilliant crimson eahnor pike inlaid with a spiral of gold wyverns is a powerful weapon, with a heavier edge than is normally found in one of its kind. An odd aura of magic surrounds it.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O' pike made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"

Voice cracking, you continue to coax information from the pike. You sense that this weapon is most effective in the hands of a elven wielder.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[Illusionist]

Ta’Vaalor Coronation forehead gems

a gold-flecked crimson blazestar
There are only two of these particular gems.

Crafted from a single flawless fiery crimson blazestar, this adornment has been masterfully cut to resemble a wyvern in flight. Subtle facets refract even the most miniscule amount of light into the illusion of outstretched wings.

There appears to be something written on it.

In the Common language, it reads:
Etched in tiny letters on the back of the gem are the words, "For service to the Crown. Gifted to Isola Le’Elfain on 5/19/5113 by King Qalinor Vaalor."

In the Common language, it reads:
Etched in tiny letters on the back of the gem are the words, "For service to the Crown. Gifted to Pulsegiver Ravenscorn on 5/19/5113 by King Qalinor Vaalor."


XXXXXXX sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The crimson blazestar seems to respond to the magic of XXXXXX's song.
XXXXXX cups the blazestar gently in her hand, focusing her voice on it. She stares blankly into its depths for several moments before her song softly fades.

As you begin singing, the power of the gem overtakes your sight and a vision of the past appears before you. You find yourself standing in a vast fortress in the middle of a courtyard during a lovely sunset. The townspeople and residents are seemingly at peace and going about their business as usual. After a moment, a light thumping sound catches your ear, followed by a soft horn call in the distance. Your vision blurs as you are pushed forward into that night, and you find yourself standing at one of the town's gates as it's being attacked by a horde of trolls. Bodies of mangled elven soldiers are mingled with those of fallen trolls. As the small rivulets of blood swirl together from both elf and troll, the sanguine stream passes before you in a torrent. Dark clouds gather, and with a deafening clap of thunder, they disperse. Standing in their place is an enormous troll witch.

XXXXXX sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The crimson blazestar seems to respond to the magic of XXXXXXX's song.
XXXXXX focuses her voice on the crimson blazestar and tiny golden flecks begin to swirl within it. Visibly shaken, XXXXXX struggles to tear her gaze from the crimson blazestar. Failing, she stares enrapt.

The crimson blazestar grows warm in your hand, swirling with tiny flecks of gold as you focus your song on it. The vision returns, bringing you to a gate flooded with waves of trolls. One after another, the Crimson Reservists fall to the troll assault. Mangled corpses litter the bridge, and the screams of terrified children echo around the gate. As the Reservists struggle to drag the bodies of residents through the gates, two unlikely visitors step forth onto the bridge and begin their own counter assault against the troll invaders. Allowing the crimson-garbed elves to drag their fallen through the gates to safety, a half-elf sorceress and giantwoman cleric stand their ground and hold the troll hordes at bay. Wave after wave of trolls meet their fate at the hands of the two women, the beasts struggling in vain. Through the cacophony of the groaning wounded amid the sounds of battle, a moment of almost perfect silence descends as a sinister herald. A panicked yell breaks the unnatural silence. "ASSASSINS IN THE KEEP!" rings out across the fortress. Like echoes, the warning of the assassins spreads throughout the defenders. A crimson-garbed elf runs from the gate and directs the spellcasters to keep the trolls from breaching the gates at all costs before rushing off towards the keep as quickly as he came.

XXXXXX sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The crimson blazestar seems to respond to the magic of XXXXXX's song.
As XXXXXX sings softly to the crimson blazestar, the tiny golden flecks swirl faster and faster. Shivering slightly, XXXXXX pulls her arms in close for warmth.

The crimson blazestar cools to the touch as the swirling flecks of gold obscure your vision once again. Disoriented, you find yourself just inside the gates of Ta'Vaalor. While the wounded are being treated, the two outsiders stand near a group of Crimson Reservists who are carefully attending to the words of a commanding officer. "A map of the Keep has been recovered, along with a note implying a traitor is among us" he quietly says. Accusing eyes dart around the area and a slight chill passes through you as their gaze falls upon your position. The commanding officer does his best to ease the obvious tensions rising amongst his people. He speaks further of pride, honor, and glory, as sadness settles heavily upon his weary countenance. He expresses regret at the loss of life sustained and reminds the people that the fight is not over yet, and failure is not an option. He gives orders to protect the Keep, protect the innocent, protect each other, and above all, protect the King!

XXXXX sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The crimson blazestar seems to respond to the magic of XXXXXX's song.
The crimson heart of the crimson blazestar flares brightly in XXXXXX's hand, pulsing slowly.

The crimson heart of the crimson blazestar flares brightly as your reality shifts backward through time once again. You are thrust violently into the chaotic scene of battle, once again finding yourself on the now familiar bridge, and once again, the two spellcasters hold back the increasing tide of trolls. Though not of the city, the sorceress and cleric risk their own lives for its safety. You watch as they combine their magic, hurling spells that manage to keep even the strongest of the troll generals and assassins at bay. A cry rings out once again in the Keep, "ASSASSINS!" The call sounds different from the others, carrying with it a tone of confusion. The horde of trolls slowly dwindles with each mighty spell cast by the women until they have all but extinguished the invading force. Glancing at each other in bewilderment at the lack of foes, the pair looks shocked as the intense sounds of battle reverberate from within the city. "VARGESH!" is the last sound you hear as your vision fades into darkness.
XXXXXX sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The crimson blazestar seems to respond to the magic of XXXXXX’s song.
The blazestar in XXXXXX’s hand returns to its normal crimson hue. A look of discomfort crosses XXXXXXX's face as she focuses her voice on the crimson blazestar and loses herself in the song.

The blazestar in your hand returns to its normal crimson hue, though the golden flecks within move rapidly in a chaotic pattern at the sound of your voice, and the world around you dissolves. Tiope stands at the end of the bridge holding a knife to the king's throat, a wild look in her eye. Before anyone can move to stop her, Tiope laments, "What I do, I do for Vaalor!" and she drags the knife across the king's throat. His body collapses into a crumpled heap at the traitor's feet as a bolt of lightning strikes nearby. A swirling crimson portal opens directly behind Tiope, and she steps through before the stunned defenders can impede her -- the portal snapping closed in her wake. The world around you tilts precariously, and a wave of nausea nearly overwhelms you as your vision shifts again. The battle rages at the gates, Vargesh fading in and out, killing those around her. Fate guides the hand of a handsome commander with a precise, well-timed strike; he pierces the troll leader as she fades into existence before him. As she slips from his blade, the battle is won, and a disconsolate voice pierces the cheers from the far end of the bridge. "The King is dead! Tyrnian has been murdered!" You follow the rush of the crowd to the body of the king. The mass of elves falls to their knees in disbelief, and a young elf cries out in such agony, you struggle to choke back sobs of your own as the vision drifts away.

XXXXXX sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The crimson blazestar seems to respond to the magic of XXXXXX's song.
Blinding crimson light flares forth in a fiery burst as XXXXXX's song touches the crimson blazestar a final time.

The crimson blazestar in your hand shifts under your song, flaring once in a brilliant crimson display. You stand among a group of bereaved elves facing a tall pyre surrounded by piles of wood. The area is full of onlookers of various races and backgrounds, all of them here for one reason. "Make way for the steward" declares an elven guard. While the heroic elf who struck Vargesh down that day on the bridge walks in, a procession of elves carrying the body of the fallen King Tyrnian place him atop the pyre. Words are spoken as you gaze around the assembled crowd. Tear streaks mar each of the proud elven faces. A guard steps forth and ignites the pyre. In a quick blaze, the body of the king is gone, leaving only his ashes. Guards move in to encircle the ash pile that was their king. Your vision quickens, as time hurries past. A jumble of images bombards you. Elves weeping, stunned faces, and children clinging to their mothers' hands all race through your mind's eye. Most notably, you watch as a group of gnomes build a monument of gold-flecked crimson marble around the ashes, sealing them from the world forever.

[The Devil you know...]

You sing smoothly:

"Medallion that I hold
Let your value now be told"

The whole of the carved wooden medallion resonates with the sound of your voice, as if attempting to establish its own natural harmonization. The eyes of the central deringo serpent carving briefly glimmer to life, acknowledging your effort.



As your song continues, your surroundings blur and shift away into a formless verdant shroud. Regaining your bearings, you find yourself in the middle of a forest meadow, surrounded by the diminutive buildings of a makeshift gnomish settlement. One of its residents bears a medallion nearly identical to your own, as she forages around the outskirts of the trees.

Your surroundings begin to cycle through a number of scenes, each centered around the same young forest gnome with the medallion hanging around her neck -- defending her kin from a pair of forest trolls, nimbly traversing treacherous terrain while tracking game, and casting protective spells upon domiciles to protect them from the elements...

When your vision shifts again, you find yourself in serene darkness, the sounds of nighttime creatures lulling you to sleep. A blood-curdling scream abruptly pierces the calm, causing you to bolt upright. You instinctively clutch at something resting upon your chest, and rush out of your home.

Chaos suffuses through your surroundings, a number of your forest gnome kin laying dead or dying, scattered across the settlement. Before you can move to react, however, an excuciating pain shoots through your body, emanating from between your shoulder blades.

As you slump to the ground, the last thing you see is an unfamiliar short figure, his body marred with tattoos and piercings. He tears the medallion from your grasp, and you feel only a deep sense of forlorn. The darkness that ensues inspires nothing resembling the peace that you had felt only moments ago.


The environs blur and shift away again, leaving you this time in a roiling sea of dark fog. Soon, the silhouettes of twisted trees and hooded figures come into view, as you find yourself within a deep thicket. A number of torches surround a small clearing, one of the figures at its center.

The figure begins incanting with a monotonous sonance, and the torches flare up brightly in response. Streams of flame rise overhead, forming a dome on the clearing. The flames converge at the dome's apex, and send a column of fire down to the figure's feet.

Four of the other figures step forward, each joining in the archaic-sounding tongue. They simultaneously gesture toward the column of fire, causing a dark core to appear at its base, which quickly overcomes the entire height of the column with black and green tendrils.

A morose sense of loss filters again through your mind, as you feel as if a part of you has been torn away. You find yourself near the first figure, as he lowers his hood and retrieves a dark disk from where the blazing pillar had been. The tattooed and pierced gnome now approaches, picking you up in his grasp before plunging the disk into you. With a twisted grin and incantation, he seals the disk in place, and you feel a searing pain brought about by another unfamiliar presence...

A burning chaotic desire flows through your veins, as you set forth through the forest in a firestorm of destruction. You watch gleefully as the battered and scorched figures lie broken before you. As you turn to face your next victim, a hideous glowing golden light rattles your senses, and you feel your entire existance being pulled apart before all goes dark again.

[The Devil you know...]

Delving again into the depths of the carved wooden medallion, you feel completely disoriented and scattered, though you feel the faint comfort of your brethren nearby. A sliver emerges on the horizon, and rapidly expands into blinding daylight. You find yourself looking into the face of an old forest gnome, his features kind and wrinkled. He appears rather satisfied with himself as darkness overcomes you once more.

When day breaks anew, a much younger gnome peers around curiously into your confines, despite the look of genuine grief in his silvery green eyes. He cocks his head in puzzlement briefly before closing the box around you again.

You sense a passage of time and distance as you are carried within your dark home in pieces, longing to be reunited again. The box is opened and closed numerous times, allowing you to see a variety of curious gnomish and human faces alike.

You attempt to impress your longing desire of unification upon the young gnome, whose face has transitioned between curiousity, puzzlement, and frustration. Slowly but surely, you begin to regain your strength as he reunites you with the others, until finally you are made nearly whole again. The joy that wells up within you is reflected in his triumphant grin. Your elation is short-lived, however, as you sense a familiar, chaotic, dark presence overcome again...

The sadistic urge for disorder and turmoil overwhelms you anew as a long-dormant power burns through every muscle in your body with renewed strength. You revel in the screams, the searing flesh, as your twisted creations propogate your reign across the continent. Though the environment is different than it was previously, your victims are plentiful, and that is all that matters.



You weave your song through the ring of the carved wooden medallion once more, and your surroundings fade again, leaving you shrouded in a thick grey fog. As clarity returns to your sight, the scene of a town blanketed in black mist greets your senses. Fires rage, spewing forth with their black and green tendrils, devouring anything in reach of their grasp...

You find yourself surrounded by a motley congregation of people at the base of a waterfall, though only one has your focused attention. His bloodline reeks of treachery -- the thought of erasing him from existence is all that fuels you as you lash out at him with murderous aggression.

A familiar wretched, sickly golden light flashes before you as your bloodlust is forcibly torn from you. Confused bewilderment sets in momentarily, but it is soon replaced with pure serenity and comfort, as if everything was finally in balance again after so many years of separation, loss, and despair.

A deep force of natural power wells up within you, as you notice another shift in the environs. An endless field of golden grain extends far off into the horizon, a clear dark blue sky above. Instinctively, you release the energy, sending a band of golden incandescence streaking overhead, trailed by whorls of verdant green that momentarily paint the heavens with its color...

You sense that the flows of the magic within the carved wooden medallion are drawn to Thondalor.

[Allereli]

an oak-hafted white ora spikestar (T2 Iasha)

As you begin to sing, your vision clouds over and a scene unfolds before you. The image of a scarred dwarf in white leathers, laboring deep in a dark, dank mine, grunting as he extracts precious white ora ore, fills your vision.

As you continue to sing, you can see the dwarf laboring over a hot iron forge. He mops his brow continually as he pumps the bellows, then returns to the anvil, coaxing a weapon from the white-hot metal. As he hammers again and again with a perfect eonake forging-hammer, he looks more and more pleased with his work. He now and again sticks it into a trough filled with a shimmering oil. After a few more minutes of hammering, he begins to look unsatisfied with his results and then suddenly tosses it back into the fire. "I can do better than that, for Eonak's glory!"

As you continue to sing, your inner vision once again focuses on the scarred dwarf who is now carefully polishing the white ora spikestar before handing it to an imposing priest. His raiment is of the finest quality, from the magnificent cloth-of-silver cope to his bejeweled miter to the gleaming amethyst on his hand marking him as one of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. He sets the weapon on the altar and cries, "In the name of the Arkati, I consecrate this weapon."

As your song comes to an end, you see the spikestar being used in combat training in the monastary. A burly dwarven acolyte rains down blow after blow versus an obviously overmatched elven clark. Finally, the white ora spikestar bursts into flames and sets the elf's shield alight! He cries out, "The day is yours M'laird Dwarf. I prostrate myself to your superior skills and must atone for my lack." He glances at the knotted scourge on the training wall and grimaces.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a coiled lute string bracelet - This bracelet is made of a single metal lute string, coiled and looped around itself and held by a small silver band. Engraved on the band in an ancient-style script are the words "The music cannot die so long as our love lives."

Ardwen whispers, "Bracelt is from the first pay foehn's prmoise."

Music and birdsong fill your ears as you begin to sing to the lute string bracelet. An image slowly builds in your mind...a sunny afternoon, a willow-shaded glade, a slow-moving river. A young Sylvan woman and a Half-elven man sit on the river bank beneath the graceful willow branches, the remains of a picnic scattered about them. As she sings a cheery song he accompanies her on a lute, his long, delicate hands shifting easily over the rosewood fretboard. Her mellifluous voice carries the tune out across the wide, green river.

The melody, fainter now, continues to captivate you as the scene shifts. You see the merry young couple...but from a new perspective. Now you gaze at them from across the slow-moving river, from behind the narrow trunks of a stand of tall haon trees. You hear a harsh, whispered voice ask "Ird ruo tnowr ghr'w?" A guttural chuckle is the only response. Slowly a warband of trolls, bent low and carrying cruel-looking battle axes, moves forward through the trees. At an abrupt hissed command, the trolls wade out into the river. They are a third of the way across before the Sylph suddenly stops singing and grasps the shoulder of her companion.

Dizziness sweeps over you as you continue to sing to the lute string bracelet. The young couple race through the sun-dappled woods, their eyes wide and their breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind them, rattling through the underbrush, can be heard the rapid thudding of many booted feet. The Sylvan woman leads the way, gliding easily through the woods despite her obvious fatigue. The Half-elven man follows, burdened by his beloved lute. As the sound of the pursuing trolls grows closer he reluctantly casts the lute aside. Abruptly the woman grasps her companion by the wrist and pulls him off the trail into a low cave. You hear the jangling crunch as booted feet run over the lute.

You are enveloped by cool air laden with the smell of mold and fungus. In the dim, filtered light of the cave you see the couple pressed up against the jagged stone wall. The sound of booted feet race by without slowing. The couple does not move for a long moment. Outside the cave mouth a twig suddenly cracks. A shape, large and knobby, blocks the light. The man reaches into a leather belt pouch and pulls out a coiled metal lute string. He wraps the ends of the string around his hands. The troll bends low to enter the cave. As the creature steps inside, the man loops the lute string around its neck and jerks it tight. The troll, unable to speak or call out, struggles mightily. The man pulls the metal string tighter still. It bites deep into the troll's neck...and slices the man's long, delicate hands to the bone. The woman pulls a dagger from the troll's belt and sticks it through his eye. She drags the dead troll completely into the cave, then looks up to see her companion staring at his bloody, ruined hands.

[Jace Solo]

If anyone is looking to add a loresong to something...I have one from RtCF I still haven't found anything to add it to. Send me a PM and we can work something out for a few million.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a folded coraesine short sword inscribed with a swooping hawk

>look my sword
You see nothing unusual.

Two bands of sigils are engraved along the length of the blade, intertwining among one another as they twist and shift slowly.

The swirling orb-shaped sigil pulses rapidly with a pale white glow.

A wreath of misty thorns continually spiral and twist around the length of the coraesine short sword in a twining dance, their tips swept with deep scarlet.



The sword begins to resonate with the tone of your voice, and you find your vision swept away on currents of air...

Only to be replaced by utter darkness. But other things reach you in the blackness of the earth that surrounds you entirely... waves of power wash across you, soothing the very core of your being as threads of essence curl and nestle within you.

Millenia pass by in a heartbeat -- the power only growing further within you -- its mere presence further changing and shaping you as you stand as a silent and ancient receiver of its strength.

The blackness gradually fades away into the vivid colors of reality.


The heavy darkness returns to you once more as the sword gives way to the power of your song...

As you become used to the gradual waves of power collecting within you, flashes of bright white light accompany the darkness -- as if another awareness were reaching out to you.

As the years continue to pass by, the flashes become more drawn out -- their whiteness resolving into a pale grey that encompasses everything, as if the world itself were a huge swirling vortex of mist-laden air, its eddies and currents stretching for untold miles as it constantly shifts and reforms itself in an ethereal dance of beauty.

Realizing that somehow these visions are connected to the power which even now washes over and fills you completely -- the very power that fuels the awareness you now experience. You surrender yourself to the visions, and you feel the white-hot explosion of the power within you pushing you into transcendence...

And then the vision fades away into nothing but a lingering memory.


A tingling sensation overcomes you as the darkness settles over your vision once again...

Vaguely aware of your surroundings, you push at the borders of your dark world, your presence manifesting itself by slamming against the surrounding rock to no avail. With little else to do, you take in the power that has forever washed over you for centuries...

Until a chink of light breaks the endless blackness, a tear in the great velvet shroud illuminates your world...and you find yourself falling...

Dimly aware of the world, you sense a strange, alien presence among you, radiating its own sense of power as it retrieves you...

The world becomes a dizzying array of new sensations as you're moved for the first time in you existence. It soon melts away into reality as the vision comes to an end.


A strange heat ripples along your spine as the sword surrenders to your song...

You feel heat surround you on all sides, and intermittent strikes from above shape your form into something new altogether. You focus your power upwards occasionally striking the alien presence hovering near you -- the vibrations of its startled screams passing over your surface. The being's determination is relentless, however, and you find yourself wrought into a new form...

Soon after, you feel a distinctly different presence -- alien, as the others, but radiating a strange sensation -- a vaguely familiar feeling that touched you in ages past.

The vision's blackness recedes into the warmth of reality.


Tingling sensations race across the black void as you're plunged into it...

The familiar presence touches you with its power -- and for a moment you feel a white-hot surge of essence burst through you -- and then the blackness recedes into a hazy image of the world around you...as if you were seeing through the being's eyes.

Dark cavernous walls surround you, and the lithe shadow of the Faendryl wielding you plays across the craggy surface. As you feel yourself whisked through the air and feel your edge slice into the body of another awareness...a strange energy courses through you, further amplifying your power -- allowing you to better understand the familiar presence which now wields you. Focusing your energies, you unleash a burst of essence, shrouding the one who wields you in a cloak of air -- propelling him into a second strike quicker than lightning against the alien presence, which expires.

The washed-out vision gives way to the lush colors of reality.


You sense the weight of many years as you delve into the memories of the coraesine short sword...

The master fluidly slices through battle, your senses perfectly in tune with his own. Calling up your power, you extend your presence to aid and protect him as he defeats foe after foe -- the number of alien presences surrounding you innumerable.

As the battle rages on, you sense a presence behind the master, poised to strike -- you twist in his grip to block the blow, but it is too late -- you feel the spark of his life fade away like a dying star and you merely drop to the ground.

The alien slayer reaches to pick you up, and you surge forth with your power to sprout spikes that flay off the presence's flesh, causing its rumbling screams to vibrate along your surface.

No longer able to sense the master who bonded with you so long ago nor see through his eyes, your world fades into darkness...
And the vision comes to a close, the darkness gradually fading into reality.

You get a sense that was the sword's last memory.


The power of your song is pushed right back at you by the coraesine short sword, rendering you completely clueless as to its properties. Perhaps you should try again.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a glimmering pure gold key - Faint reflections shimmer across the surface of the polished gold key.

As you sing to the pure gold key, it vibrates in a truly peculiar fashion. Concentrating, you realize that the gold of which the key is made is not entirely a thing of this world -- the harmonies produced by your voice resonate both through this world, and another place... it is obviously an artifact of great and subtle power.


Images of ghosts and spectres flicker through your mind, evoked by the vibrations of the pure gold key. This is an artifact of the Ebon Gate, that far, dark realm where the Arkati Lorminstra permits the living to mingle with the dead upon the Eve of the Reunion.


As you continue to sing to the key, you sense that the power surrounding it is of sacred origin. The key doubles in your vision, then quadruples, and then becomes merely one key of hundreds... no, thousands!... upon a massive ring of keys. The keys are backed by shimmering black cloth, yet you perceive that the cloth is more than cloth. It is part of the very barrier that separates life from death. Unbidden, a chill sweeps swiftly up your spine, and the vision fades away.


The world around you shimmers before fading away, and, in its place, you see a snowy forest and a winding path. At the end of the path, an ornate black gate stands closed, and a glimmering pure gold key rests in its lock.

The vision fades, but the key remains, lying cold, solid, and real in your hand.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a tiny piece of cubical urnon - The cubical urnon is a small perfectly-formed block, yet at times it shifts and pulsates, like some beating heart. A myriad of hues runs along its sharply-angled edges resembling crackles of rainbow electricity.



You weave your melody about the urnon, and it begins to shudder intensely as if it was on the verge of breaking. It melts into a small puddle in the palm of your hand and begins to emit a piercing shrilling noise that is heard more in your mind.
You attempt to match the tone, and the urnon's noises increase in tone to an almost urgent pitch, and your vision flashes briefly with images too fast to comprehend or decipher.

The urnon become still, then reforms into its normal shape.


You attempt to match the cubical urnon's faint hum you heard before, your voice rising with the same urgency it now seems to speak with in your mind. Faint feelings begin to flash across your senses as the urnon ripples violently, and you feel its power reaching out to you...

A vision suddenly flashes across your eyes, too quick to see clearly, though it breaks your concentration and brings your song to an abrupt end. Looks like you'll have to try again.


You match the cubical urnon's metallic humming with perfect clarity this time, and it shivers violently as its tones mix with yours. Suddenly your senses are utterly overwhelmed by flashes of feelings and visions...

You feel embraced by everything in nothing...
You drift endlessly in a sea of intense joy and immense sadness...
You laugh the laugh of a madman and comprehend all...
You see everything yet your eyes are shut...
You hear all, but you have no ears...
You lie dead on the floor, but feel more alive than you have ever felt...
You massacre a field of people, yet they smile invitingly at you...
One thing remains constant as the different feelings pass over you... a faint shadowy presence looms across each like a predator in wait. As the visions and sensations pass, you get the sense that you felt the touch of pure chaos for the briefest of moments.


You make a clunky attempt to weave a melody around the cubical urnon, and you sense its energies pulling away from your song rapidly. As you search for the perfect tone, your voice suddenly cracks, and you let out a piercing falsetto note that causes the urnon to shiver almost to the point of breaking. You decide not to press your luck further.

[shad0ws0ngs]

From Zoece's Divination Contest at EG'13.. We had to hold it and try to perceive the story it had, via RP and not singing it. No idea why Rolfard's name is on it.

a rope-strung scallop shell locket: Several small baubles are strung from a twisted, fraying rope. Most prominent is a small scallop shell, which is fashioned into a locket and held fast by a pearl clasp. An irregularly shaped piece of blue sea glass surrounds the scallop shell locket on one side, while a patinated copper ring hangs from the other side. The rope is just long enough to suspend the baubles over the wearer's heart.

There appears to be something written on it.
>read my locket
Scratched into the surface is the name, "Rolfard."


The smell of salt water touches your nose, and the call of gulls suggests the sea is nearby. Your vision centers on a bride and groom clasping hands before a bronze shrine. Sunlight filters down onto the couple through lush boughs of an oak tree. The two kiss, and applause and cheers erupt around you as the image fades away.


Your vision returns to the same couple as before, though the festivities are now over. The pair now stands outside a small hut in a fishing village. The man is dressed in fisherman's gear and is gathering up his nets as the wife looks on. He looks at her, drops his gear, and sweeps her into a deep kiss. He then takes up his things and walks off toward the boats as the vision fades.


The image of the woman alone fills your mind. She leans against a railing, gazing out at the sea from her perch on the widow's walk. Time seems to pass around her, her face aging before your eyes as the sea breeze whips her hair, first brown, then peppered, now grey. Her blue eyes, filled with longing, never waver from their duty of scanning the horizon, looking for a boat that does not come.


A large ship sails into the harbor of the fishing village, which has been ravaged by some unknown pillager. The gangplank drops, and a single passenger disembarks. The elderly man scans the ruins with a pained look in his eyes. Suddenly, an old woman with blue eyes appears from the doorway of one of the ruined huts. The two stare at each other for a brief moment before rushing to embrace each other, reunited again after so many years.

[shad0ws0ngs]

The content's of Trelphyn's box:

a clear heart-shaped crystal: The beautiful heart-shaped crystal is covered with tiny facets formed by chiseling into its perfect surface. Ambient light catches within the gem, creating tiny rainbows about the area.

Your sight fades for a moment, and then becomes clear again, allowing you to see a small village housed within a mountain fortress. A small boy with sandy hair and freckles herds a small flock of goats. A tiny girl with golden curls follows behind. She is singing and dancing with youthful abandon as the boy glances at her with annoyance.
The vision fades as quickly as it appeared.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The heart-shaped crystal seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel's eyes fade in and out of focus as the bleating of goats fills your ears and the smell of pasture surrounds you.


A village scene fills your mind. A teenage girl with golden curls fills a bucket from the town well. She walks past a goat pen, occasionally glancing at a young man with sandy hair. She pretends to not notice when he looks her way. She moves up the road as the young man watches her leave, his eyes bright and full of warmth.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The heart-shaped crystal seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel gazes into the distance, a slight blush creeping over his skin.


A beautiful meadow comes into view. A young woman with golden hair sits among a field of wildflowers. A young man sits by her side as he takes her hand in his. He gently strokes her skin as he gazes into her eyes. She closes her eyes as he lightly kisses each one. When he moves away, she gazes at her hand with wonder, a narrow silver ring set with a tiny heart-shaped crystal glistening in the sunlight.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The heart-shaped crystal seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel holds up his hand, tilting it slightly.


Your eyesight grows dim, a foggy scene coming into view. The young man lies in a bed, his brow feverish. He gazes at a hand-drawn picture of a beautiful young lady. As his breathing labors, he writes on the back of the portrait, folds the parchment and places it inside a small box. With the last of his strength, he places a small heart-shaped crystal inside the box and closes his eyes. The young man breathes one last time as he sinks back into his pillow.

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The heart-shaped crystal seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel's eyes stare off, unfocused, as his exhales.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Adding a Loresong:

It is now possible to get a loresong added on in the script/zest spot. This, I speculate, means it will be easier to get a loresong added than it used to be, but the item getting the loresong cannot already have a zest/script on it. It also is a bit more unwieldy in it's application as the loresong is not flexible enough to change if you get the item altered. As such, when the loresong is added, apparently, it requires a note by the GM to approve future alterations and those alterations likely cannot change the item from what the loresong indicates.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Got this done recently, thanks to Jace Solo! Thanks! It's a large part of the back story I created for Japhrimel ages ago. Was so excited to finally get to create it.

a suede-wrapped black ora dagger - The slender needle-like blade of this dagger appears ancient, the fine carving and detailed designs having faded with time. At the base of the weapon is a jagged end, suggesting that this weapon was originally the tip of a much larger pike blade. Simple black suede has been used to bind the lower portion, creating a serviceable grip. The base of the grip has been tied off around a single despanal bead carved into the likeness of a fox.


Focusing on the dagger, your vision turns dark. You blink and find yourself on a battlefield filled with sights of carnage and loss. A tightly formed squadron of Faendryl match blades with a small party of orcs, until the eyes of one of their own fill with madness and he turns on his allies, wielding a black ora pike. The scene fades, replaced by another. The same man, weeping, bashes his pike against a granite outcropping until it shatters, but one piece splinters off and takes him in the neck.

The black ora dagger seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel trembles slightly as tears leak from his eyes as he sings.


Sound and sight merge into a new scene. The unmistakable sound of a woman crying fills the interior of a well-appointed home. The door stands ajar as two Faendryl men carry in a lidless coffin and place it on marble blocks. Inside it, another Faendryl tightly grips a broken blade of black ora, a look of revulsion permanently twisting his cold features. One of the pallbearers pries the shard from his mortal grip and passes it to a red-haired Faendryl youth. The crying waxes until the vision fades away.

The black ora dagger seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel stares intently at the dagger as he sings, his tone demanding.


You renew your focus upon the dagger and your vision grows hazy. A series of visions crowd your sight, two similar scenes appearing over and over. A wild battle ends in the death of a Faendryl with a black ora pike, sometimes at the hands of enemies, sometimes at the hands of allies on whom he's turned. A young boy is handed a black ora weapon over the body of his father, those who hand it to him always grim, silent, and brusque.

The black ora dagger seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel stares at the dagger he holds with a look of growing revulsion.


Your song strains to coalesce into one final vision. A cacophony of sights rush past, each seemingly farther backward in time. In each, a Faendryl fights, goes mad, and dies. Back, and back further, till his skin lightens and nothing separates him from regular elves, til his pike too pales to plain ora. On one last battlefield, an elven army faces an onslaught of the undead. Robed elves stand in a circle, chanting, and before them forms a rift. The rift opens and all fades to black.

The black ora dagger seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel finishes his song and nearly flings the dagger from him in disgust.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a simple ebonwood box with delicate vaalin tracery - gem message box

Your vision suddenly clouds, the magic of the box mingling with the sound of your voice and creating a vision that slowly unfolds before you...

In a large and opulent chamber, a young maiden sits at a table, weeping. A much older man, who could only be her father, storms out of the scene, slamming a large gilt oak door behind him. The poor girl, obviously broken-hearted, picks up a small silver box, places a small star ruby within it, and closes the lid. Although hard to see because of how close she holds it to her body, it appears that her delicately pale fingers have toggled a small switch recessed into the bottom of the box. She then rubs the box and whispers a name, slowly and with precision, to the box...

Your vision begins to clear, and suddenly you find yourself as you were.


Your vision suddenly clouds, the magic of the box mingling with the sound of your voice and creating a vision that slowly unfolds before you...

The young maid still sits at her desk, holding the box as before. She glances around, perhaps nervous at the magic she is even now practicing, and toggles the switch again. Once more she rubs the box, and then whispers something, a message, to her beloved. The box pulses with magic in response to her words, then settles.

Your vision begins to clear, and suddenly you find yourself as you were.


Your vision clouds again, the sensation becoming more normal. The scene unfolds again...

The young maid rubs her box again, and this time she listens intently. A silent voice from within suddenly repeats back the very words she just spoke to it! With a smile on her face and a content nod, she removes the star ruby and sets the box aside. Moments later, she calls a messenger and tells him to deliver this gem to someone with all expediency.

Your vision clears again, and suddenly you find yourself as you were.


Your vision clouds rapidly, but you are staring into a different scene. A courtyard, wide and green with flowering bushes and roses, surrounds a great fountain in the middle of the carriage drive.

The messenger from before hands the ruby to a young man, who removes to another part of the courtyard. He rubs the ruby, and it suddenly glows an eerie pale green, revealing the image of the maiden from before! Her pale and beautiful form whispers something quietly to the young man, and he smiles as only a young man in love would. The ruby seems to turn to dust in his hand as the image fades.

You vision rapidly clears, and you find yourself as you were.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a teal-speckled alabaster mushroom: A multitude of pale teal specks cover the smooth, alabaster-hued flesh of the mushroom, along with a layer of fine, white powder. Nearly six inches tall, the fungus rests within a decorative opalescent white pot filled with fragrant loam. Delicate, tawny gills line the underside of the thick mushroom cap, loaded with numerous spores

spore producing mushroom

>rub mushroom
You rub your alabaster mushroom and the gills underneath its speckled cap flare suddenly...
A cloud of pale white powder swirls about your left palm and dissipates, revealing a mottled light brown spore.
Roundtime: 10 sec

The mushroom just sits there in your hand as you sing.

Shadows overhwhelm your vision and darkness engulfs you. The surroundings are warm and moist, and you feel secure and comfortable among your many brothers and sisters. All is well, until you are expelled from your haven, sent out into unknown.

The disorientation fades away, and you are yourself again.


As you continue to sing, the mushroom still doesn't do anything.

Suddenly, you feel your corporeal body grow less distinct. Colors and light assault your senses in dizzying whirls and blurs. You feel yourself floating on warm air currents, flying like a downy feather across a vast expanse. Elation fills your being as you dance in the sky.

The scenery changes back to normal as your song verse ends.


The melody envelopes the mushroom, but it does not do anything apparent.

Your body feels heavy, and you find yourself sinking into moist, loamy earth. The thick, heavy scent of the soil infuses your being with vitality. A whisper of a sound flits at the edge of your awareness, like a contented sigh.

You awaken from your vision with the lingering scent of soil.


You start another verse of your song, focusing on your mushroom.

The world shift slowly, transforming into lush woodlands. Heavy footsteps draw near until you feel yourself being lifted from your home. Soft hands cradle you and a soothing voice reassures your frightened spirit. You are set gently down into a pot of rich loam and enter a peaceful slumber, listening to a melodious lullaby.

You open your eyes and blink away the fog of sleep to find yourself back to reality.

[shad0ws0ngs]

an ancient invar claidhmore - The handle on this claidhmore is wrapped in blackened leather which is a bit ragged at the edges. The metal on the blade shows signs of wear, pockmarks in some places, and tiny bits of rust in others. Engraved near the handle of the blade is a small scene of a dwarf holding a claidhmore over his head readying to attack a giantman holding a hammer at his side. Under the engraving is written one word, "Sunfist."

A deep voice begins to sing,

"The clans had gathered on a sweet late spring eve,
And prepared to tell some stories they'd weave."

Roundtime: 8 sec.

The voice continues on with the song,

"There were stories told of groups of huge folk near,
The scouts came back and said, "They're here!""

Roundtime: 7 sec.

The voice sounds excited as it continues to sing,

"The giant folk that come and play,
Are in the dell not far away."

Roundtime: 9 sec.

The voice quiets some as the song continues,

"The dwarves that eve crept up the hill,
Next morn they gathered all their will."

Roundtime: 10 sec.

The voice booms out, continuing the verse,

"They charged the giants, running down to fight,
With clamors and shouts at first light."

Roundtime: 8 sec.

The voice continues to sing,

"The battle raged for days on end,
Both sides fought with vigor again and again."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

Sounding tired, the voice sings on,

"They fought for weeks, then months at a time,
Little rest did they get, come rain or shine."

Roundtime: 9 sec.

Almost weeping, the voice continues on,

"Neither side was losing; there was slim hope,
That the war would be won on this little slope."

Roundtime: 10 sec.

Sounding lighter, the voice sings,

"The warlords stopped the fight on a late summer day,
They talked in hushed tones about the best way,"

Roundtime: 8 sec.

The voice continues with its light verse,

"To end this battle and it was agreed,
That they would have drinks and feed."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

Softly, the voice winds down some,

"Thus the two tribes, the dwarf and the giant,
Became battle brothers no others would supplant."

Roundtime: 9 sec.

The voice quiets to say, "Thus is the song Sunfist."

Roundtime: 10 sec.

[Kakoon]

i used to have this weapon but I turned it over to the Vaalor GM to add it to the historical society

It's a veil iron bastard sword

Forged of pure veil iron, this impressive weapon has clearly seen many ferocious battles. The grip is wrapped in sinuous crimson leather strips which have been worn smooth with use. The bright golden hilt has been engraved with the regal figure of a wyvern in flight. While the surface of the blade shows years of wear, it has been polished so that it shimmers dramatically whenever it catches the light. An elven word has been meticulously etched along the edge of the blade.
There appears to be something written on it.

>read sword
In the Elven language, it reads:
Aramier



As XXX sings to the bastard sword, the scent of pine and fresh meadow flowers fill the air.
You find yourself in the middle of a clearing nestled within a vast forest. Your senses are overwhelmed by the sights, smells and sounds surrounding you. Scents of pine and fresh meadow flowers abound and your lungs fill with the fresh crisp air of nature. Song birds warble their notice of you from their lofty woodsy perches along the treeline. Just ahead is an elf bent over an odd shaped stone imbedded deep within the earth. The elf labors without pause to continue digging up the stone.


As XXX continues to sing to the bastard sword, sweat pours off her brow.
Your vision blurs and you find yourself in a huge glowing forge. An incredible heat floods over your skin and through your body, suffocating you as the air is taken from your lungs. As you recover, you spot a familiar silhouette and focus your eyes to it. It is the same elf that was in the clearing. He is hammering a glowing red-hot piece of metal, sparks scattering across the anvil with each hit exacting and precise. Sweat pours from his brow as he continues his work, taking his time.


As XXX continues to sing to the bastard sword, her eyes flutter in the back of her head for a moment.
Gazing now with clear eyes you see you're in the same forge standing over the elven blacksmith. He is meticulously putting the finishing touches on the sword. Your eyes fade to darkness. Your ears pick up the distinct sound of the smack of metal on wood. Clarity of vision seeps into your eyes and now before you is an elf dressed in military garb. By his appearance and physique he seems to be just approaching maturity. He stands in front of a practice dummy swinging a sword. His form is flawless.


XXX shivers as she finishes the last verse to the song that she sang to the bastard sword.
You find yourself standing on burning battlements filled with archers who are overlooking an intense battle. You observe a sea of undead fighting a Fist of crimson garbed elven soldiers. Near the head stands that same elf you watched practicing in the training hall. In the distance you hear the faint yet clear battle cry, "Honor, Pride, and Glory!" The horde of undead close in on the remaining soldiers as your vision goes dark and you return to reality.

[Jhynnifer]

a lock of black hair bound with a cerulean ribbon

XXX's song begins softly, the melody building toward a sudden crescendo, which leaves her countenance pale. The sudden puzzling image of a candle snuffed in a harsh gale flickers through your mind.

Your song fades into the background of your perception. Like a sigh, an empty ballroom comes into existence around you, lit with dim candles. A raven-haired couple dance into view, her emerald satin gown mirroring the color of her eyes, locked with his eyes of sea-blue as she leans toward him for a kiss. Suddenly her eyes fly open with a shocked gasp, brow knitted in puzzlement. Grinning triumphantly, he forces her into a painful mockery of a twirl, exposing the red stain spreading from her belly.


XXX resumes her song, glancing down at the lock of hair with a knitted brow. The melody takes on a disconsolate air, evoking the sound of sirenflowers in as it draws to an end.

The notes of your verse seem to mimic the lonely sound of sirenflowers as your surroundings blur. A dark-haired elf gazes lovingly at the same man in a seaside garden. She offers her hand, her olive-green eyes dancing with happiness. Taking it with a kiss, he draws her into his embrace, her emerald gown shimmering. She blushes prettily, laying her head on his chest, before stumbling with a shocked gasp. Smirking, the man steps back, avoiding the blood pouring from a rune-etched dagger in her belly.


Visibly steeling herself, XXX's song does not wander out of a dark minor key. She absently strokes the lock of hair, her flinty gaze fixed at middle distance.

Your tone darkens, and you close your eyes briefly, opening them to a new tableau. Reading a thin volume, a jade-eyed woman chews on a lock of her raven hair. Behind her, a door admits the smiling sea-blue eyed man, with a black and gold gift box. He motions toward her room and she vanishes with a squeal of delight. Moments later she returns, twirling in her new shimmering emerald-hued gown. She dashes to embrace him, only to stumble as she reaches him. His grim smile reveals all that's necessary.


XXX continues her haunting song, catching slightly on a tiny gasp as she frowns down at her hand and then glancing up at those listening. Weighted by the melody, your thoughts turn inward, and a pair of green eyes flash unbidden in your imagination.

Your haunting song plunges you into a final scene. Sea-blue eyes gaze at a young sylvan. He caresses her cheek with the back of a hand, turning it to reveal a silver locket. Taken aback, she slowly turns and lifts her dark hair from her neck. A look of consternation flickers across his face, but with a shake of his head, he secures the locket and resumes smiling. Opening the gift, she spies a lock of black hair within and turns to him. He reaches for her hand and reveals an emerald gown laid nearby.

[shad0ws0ngs]

The ebonwood enshai was released as a master quality instrument at the 2006 EG auction. It is still with the original owner, who has since departed from the game, but it was placed in the test server. Naturally, we grabbed it to get it sung to. For everyone's perusal, here is the loresong we were able to extract.


First verse, third person: Singing soft and low at first, Bard holds the enshai in his hands, touching the instrument lightly.

First verse, first person: As you begin to sing to the enshai your mind is filled with the colorful trappings of a festival. Surrounding you are tapestries and bejeweled trinkets, their sparkle glinting off the dancing firelight. The sounds of happy voices and musical merriment flood your senses.

Second verse, third person: Bard raises the intensity of his song as his eyes squeeze closed tightly.

Second verse, first person: You continue to sing, raising your voice an octave higher as your eyes follow a young Eritian woman who has entered the celebration hall. The surrounding crowd throws fragrant petals at her feet as she walks in circles around the room in time with the melody of the musicians song.

Third verse, third person: Bard continues his intense song, tightening his grip on the enshai.

Third verse, first person: Raising your voice up again, you watch as the woman rests at the center of the room where her bridegroom is waiting patiently. Through the pale candlelight you see whispers being exchanged between the couple and hands being joined. After a short time the couple stand and turn to face the surrounding crowd. A moment later the hall explodes in an eruption of applause and cheers.

Fourth verse, third person: Bard continues to weave a fluid string of notes, his chorus becoming bright and uplifting.

Fourth verse, first person: As you continue to string together the notes of an uplifting melody, the bride and groom parade around the hall. The musicians begin a joyful tune which echoes across the stone walls. Your vision beings to blur into a colorful swirl of flowers and firelight before completely fading.

Fifth verse, third person: A muted tone comes from the enshai as Bard weaves a song, then it falls silent.

Fifth verse, first person: A muted tone comes from the enshai, then falls silent.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a lor-hilted lucid ethereal flamberge

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O flamberge that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You learn nothing new about the flamberge.


Roundtime: 8 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the lucid ethereal flamberge in your hand, and you learn something about it...

The first thing that strikes you about the flamberge is the weight, which is about 7 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 1,600,000 silvers. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the lucid ethereal flamberge.

>loresing O flamberge that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O flamberge that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


Roundtime: 7 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the lucid ethereal flamberge in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a faint aura of magic around the lucid ethereal flamberge. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the flamberge is as some type of weapon. In addition, its use appears to be magically restricted in some way.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O flamberge in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


Roundtime: 8 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the lucid ethereal flamberge in your hand...

It has a bonus of +35 from a normal flamberge, and the way it vibrates in tune with your voice tells you that it requires skill in twohanded weapons to use effectively.
The flamberge hums clearly, indicating that the item will prevent itself from being used unless the acting party meets certain conditions.
You think that you could probably find out something more about the nature of the flamberge's restriction if you tried.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O flamberge held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


Roundtime: 10 sec.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the lucid ethereal flamberge in your hand...

The flamberge hums clearly, indicating that the restriction's conditions are as follows:
This item has restrictions whose type are unclear to you.

[shad0ws0ngs]

an archaic black ora phalanx shield rimmed with rusting razor sharp spikes
7x tower shield, max lightened to 6 lbs, spiked, loresong, inspects as black ora, further enchantable if you've got the potions.

Loresong:
The vision of a vast blood soaked battlefield strewn with the bodies of the fallen accosts you. As a remnant of Giantkin tends to their wounded, a fresh army of troll invaders in full battle regalia flows into view over the top of a distant hill. The trolls’ cursed weapons wreak death and destruction upon the giants, laying them to waste at every turn. The giants retreat to high ground and fight the trolls to a stalemate. Suddenly, a garbled challenge rings out: “Enough! Send us your champion!”

The shield’s harmonics consume you, your world dissolving into the disturbing vision of a deep, dark, dank mine. A maimed and scarred dwarf labors to extract rare black ora ore in the claustrophobic space. Orcs, goblins, and other slaves load the precious ore and push carts toward a towering smelter. An oversized troll cracks a weighted scourge as the miners pass, tearing skin, leather and fur with equal ease. The maimed dwarf grunts with contempt, secretly stuffing another chunk of ore into his boots.

Reality fades and you see an aged dwarf laboring over a hot iron forge. He mops his brow continually as he pumps the bellows then returns to the anvil, coaxing a thick sheet from the reluctant white-hot black. Slowly, the cursed metal takes the form of a tower shield tall enough for a troll to wield. He quenches it in a large barrel of glowing oil, then one of congealed blood. “To vengeance!” he hisses over his shoulder. The maimed dwarf in the shadows vehemently grunts in agreement, smiling grimly.

The scene of a circle of clan chiefs in a Giantkin war camp tent unfolds before you. The eldest speaks to the tall and well muscled young giantman sitting next to him: “Even as our champion, we cannot allow you to meet theirs in battle, Sorrowen. Their vastly superior accursed weapons would mean certain death, no matter how gifted you-” A rustling outside the tent silences the elder, and Sorrowen stealthily exits. A brief moment later he returns, curiously examining a gleaming black ora phalanx shield.

Third person:

To (bard’s) apparent surprise, as he/she begins to sing, the black ora shield begins to vibrate in phase with the pitch of his/her voice, in this way appearing to dictate the tune to her/him. A steady monotone drone establishes the key and slowly evolves into a suspenseful chant in an oddly disturbing mode unlike any you’ve ever heard. (Bard’s) eyes grow wide and a look of growing horror begins to form on his/her face. After a few moments, the shield ceases vibrating and to (Bard’s) relief, the verse ends.

(Bard’s) black ora shield again begins to vibrate in varying frequencies, continuing its song, having now modulated upward a whole step while maintaining the same intense intervallic chant. The tempo has increased, but the feel of the tune remains very dark, pulling from the melodic minor scale. (Bard’s) talents begin to shine as he/she capably follows the shield’s mourning melody, and, visibly shaken now, a tear rolls down his/her cheek as the verse comes to an end.

Steeling himself/herself against the vibrations that were sure to follow, (Bard) again begins to sing under the guidance of the black ora shield, and again the tune modulates upward another whole step. The tempo increases again, and some of the intricate leaps and runs seem to be challenging (Bard’s) vocal skills. He/She appears to be a bit winded by the effort and simply stares at the shield in awe when its verse has ended, a disturbing look upon his/her face.

(Bard) begins to sweat as the tempo reaches a fever pitch. Chromatic runs continue to increase in intensity, meandering ever sonically higher. He/she strains to reach the high notes dictated by the black ora shield before a sharply declining fully diminished arpeggio resolving in a deep bass drone brings (Bard) to the lower limits of his/her vocal range. The shield’s vibration threatens to wrest itself from (Bard’s) hand before suddenly going still and (Bard), visibly exhausted, struggles to regain his/her composure.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a shadow-dark modwir shortbow: - void ebow - Shadows cling to the length of curved modwir comprising the bulk of the bow, seeming to shift and dance over the wood's surface as if of their own volition. They contrast starkly with the bright silver hue of the bowstring. Curving rose vines writhe over the surface of the wood, possessed more of thorns than of blossoms. They culminate in wreathes of unfurled leaves at either end of the wood. You also notice a small enchanter's glyph.


The noise and light fades around you. Blinking your eyes you find yourself among an armed and armored group of Sylvankind, many sporting wounds and bandages. All around the sounds of heavy fighting filters in from among the trees. Screams and cries of things only dreamt of in nightmares can be heard coming from the edges of the encircled position the Sylvans hold. The leader of the band, an arrow protruding from the shoulder, gives an unheard command and her retainers begin stripping off the most powerful of their artifacts. Once shorn of the items they wrap them in cloth and place them in a chest. The chest is then lowered into a hole dug beneath a massive oak's roots and covered with loamy earth. The sole remaining cleric in the group blesses the ground to hide the cache from the unholy. The leader of the band gives a curt nod and the group with you among them draw their remaining weapons and charge one last time into the forest. Suddenly feeling a sharp pain, you see a feathered shaft has sprouted from your chest. With a final scream you collapse and everything around you goes black.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a banded black alloy quarterstaff
>look quarter
The haft of the staff is carved from petrified witchwood, the distinctive grain of the wood replaced by pale minerals but still flowing and sinuous. Much of the weapon's length is shod in thin rings of midnight-dark metal, the edges of which seem to drink light. Hazes of shadow about each length of metal twitch with a pulsing, rhythmic beat. A single ring of vaalin adorns the center of the quarterstaff, etched with a tangle of fruit-laden grape vines. You also notice a small enchanter's glyph.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O quarterstaff that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You sing to the black alloy quarterstaff, modulating your voice to unlock the secrets of the quarterstaff. As you weave another harmony, darkness falls over your vision, and swirling shadows seem to engulf you! The darkness quickly fades to a hazy grey, and you could swear that something moves just beyond, out of your grasp. Dark flows of shadow spin through the haze, red pinpoints of light appearing and disappearing. You strain to see through the haze to the Truth beyond, but the swirling shadows suddenly surround you! You have the feeling that you're suddenly falling as your vision clears.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a rose-carved blued rolaren bastard sword inlaid with sharp vines of twining dark green faenor
Darkly hued veins of green faenor flash sharp edges and ruby-tipped thorns that twine about the intricate, acid-etched carvings of roses that cover both sides of the bastard sword's blade. Faint hints of bloodstains add color to the roses, and the damascened blade retains a wickedly sharp edge. The lengthy weapon is hilted with steel-strengthened silver, and the quillons are bloodstained rolaren briar thorns. A shimmering sapphire, carved into a rose in bloom, rests between tiny malachite leaves and serves as the weapon's pommel.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O bastard sword that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You sing gently to the rolaren bastard sword, and a tiny vine winds its way out of the blade. Nothing else happens.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>tap my sword
You rap your knuckles sharply against your rolaren bastard sword. Several vines of briar and thorn slither out of the top of the blade and twine about your wrist. Droplets of crimson blood are quickly absorbed by the writhing vines.
Roundtime: 3 sec

>look my sword
Darkly hued veins of green faenor flash sharp edges and ruby-tipped thorns that twine about the intricate, acid-etched carvings of roses that cover both sides of the bastard sword's blade. Faint hints of bloodstains add color to the roses, and the damascened blade retains a wickedly sharp edge. The lengthy weapon is hilted with steel-strengthened silver, and the quillons are bloodstained rolaren briar thorns. A shimmering sapphire, carved into a rose in bloom, rests between tiny malachite leaves and serves as the weapon's pommel.
You gaze intently at the vines of briar and thorn wrapped about your wrist. They pulse and twist, as if uncomfortable with your scrutiny. Judging from the tinges of crimson throughout the vines, you estimate their influence on your rolaren bastard sword to be about 100 percent.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O bastard sword that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

Vines writhe across your vision as you sing to a rose-carved blued rolaren bastard sword inlaid with sharp vines of twining dark green faenor. The erratic vision you ended on coalesces into something more substantial. The old woman and young girl work on together on the shard of metal you have seen in visions past. A sense of mentorship permeates the scene, and you realize the woman is teaching the girl to enhance her obviously innate magical talents.

Time moves forward in snippets of visions:
The woman takes the girl to a metalsmith who teaches her to work the metal, and she quickly eclipses his talents.

The woman and the girl work in the garden among the roses, metal and vine, blood and rose and magic.

The girl blossoms into young womanhood, and her talents in metal put food on her home table.

Unseen by either, a young man lurks in several of these scenes. The faint scar on his cheek mark him as the ringleader from the young woman's earlier years. In one scene, he smirks triumphantly as he watches the young woman's mother scrub the floors of his elegant manor.

An overwhelming sense of foreboding hangs over the vision, which abruptly cuts off.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O bastard sword that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

The vines of a rose-carved blued rolaren bastard sword inlaid with sharp vines of twining dark green faenor tighten around your wrist as you sing to it, and your vision comes swifty.

Several years have passed, and the young woman is now in her early twenties. She moves throughout the old woman's small cottage, but it is quickly evident the old woman is no longer here and that the young woman calls the cottage home.

Every so often, the woman leaves the scene, and a pretty ebon cat strolls through.

Sorrow and regret tinge your vision until the young woman enters a gem shop and meets its proprietor, a handsome man about her age. Love suffuses the scenes that now flash you by, as the young man and woman court and marry, making the cottage with its bright rose garden their home.

In an unusual scene, the pretty ebon cat strolls along the top of the stone wall surrounding the garden, watching the man carve gemstones.

You are about to stop singing on this happy ending when a jab from the briar in your wrist jerks you forward. The couple argue about the woman's semi-frequent disappearances, and doubt suffuses the scene. You can feel the woman's panic at losing the love of her life undercut with a sense of helplessness.

Another jerk forward, but this time, all you can see is dark green water around you and the shadows of water lilies above. Hands are around your neck or is it the young woman's? Reality and vision blur for an instant, and it takes the burrowing of several briars into your wrist to pull you out of your magical weavings.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O bastard sword in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

You learn nothing more about the item.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

hitting its mark and knocking her into the dirt. Her hand closes on a scrap of metal, and you can feel pain in the palm of your hand mirroring her own as she squeezes it tightly enough to draw blood. She waves it at the largest child looming over her, and a small thorn shoots from the metal and bounces off the boy's shirt.

The vision cuts forward to the girl at home, an impoverished but loving mother tending her bleeding hand. The girl explains animatedly what happened, but it is obvious from the look on her mother's face, that she does not quite believe her daughter's story. However, when the girl refuses to give up her scrap of metal, the mother smiles indulgently and is rewarded with an impulsive hug.

A single stab from a briar in your wrist pulls you out of the vision.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>
>loresing O bastard sword that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
>
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O bastard sword that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

You learn nothing new about the sword.
>
>loresing O bastard sword held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O bastard sword held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

The vines of a rose-carved blued rolaren bastard sword inlaid with sharp vines of twining dark green faenor tighten around your wrist as you sing to it, and your vision comes swifty.

Several years have passed, and the young woman is now in her early twenties. She moves throughout the old woman's small cottage, but it is quickly evident the old woman is no longer here and that the young woman calls the cottage home.

Every so often, the woman leaves the scene, and a pretty ebon cat strolls through.

Sorrow and regret tinge your vision until the young woman enters a gem shop and meets its proprietor, a handsome man about her age. Love suffuses the scenes that now flash you by, as the young man and woman court and marry, making the cottage with its bright rose garden their home.

In an unusual scene, the pretty ebon cat strolls along the top of the stone wall surrounding the garden, watching the man carve gemstones.

You are about to stop singing on this happy ending when a jab from the briar in your wrist jerks you forward. The couple argue about the woman's semi-frequent disappearances, and doubt suffuses the scene. You can feel the woman's panic at losing the love of her life undercut with a sense of helplessness.

Another jerk forward, but this time, all you can see is dark green water around you and the shadows of water lilies above. Hands are around your neck or is it the young woman's? Reality and vision blur for an instant, and it takes the burrowing of several briars into your wrist to pull you out of your magical weavings.

Roundtime: 10 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

an intricately carved wooden medallion
Thirteen carved figurines lie interconnected end-to-end, forming an unbroken ring of alternating woods around the perimeter of the medallion. Each carving depicts a different animal: a wolf, a jackal, a lion, a panther, an owl, a hawk, a rat, a porcupine, a bear, a serpent, a burgee, a mantis, and a yierka. The figurines surround a polished pale yellow monir core, which is engraved with the relief of a sheaf of grain. A thick, rope-like verdant vine connects twice to the top of the medallion, currently centered upon the ruic carving of the lion.
There appears to be something written on it.
>read med
A small, flowery script is inscribed into the back of the carved wooden medallion in the Common language:

When corruption rose in portside town,
Threatening lives the world around,
Heroes rose to tainted fire stave,
And quell the carnage that it did crave.
A life restored from a scorched duress,
Gratefulness that one cannot express.
What was once corrupt again shone pure,
Restoring balance that must endure.

- Ahndo Maeza
Phoenatos, 5105.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O medallion that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

The whole of the carved wooden medallion resonates with the sound of your voice, as if attempting to establish its own natural harmonization. The eyes of the central ruic lion carving briefly glimmer to life, acknowledging your effort.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>

loresing O medallion that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O medallion that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

As your song continues, your surroundings blur and shift away into a formless verdant shroud. Regaining your bearings, you find yourself in the middle of a forest meadow, surrounded by the diminutive buildings of a makeshift gnomish settlement. One of its residents bears a medallion nearly identical to your own, as she forages around the outskirts of the trees.

Your surroundings begin to cycle through a number of scenes, each centered around the same young forest gnome with the medallion hanging around her neck -- defending her kin from a pair of forest trolls, nimbly traversing treacherous terrain while tracking game, and casting protective spells upon domiciles to protect them from the elements...

When your vision shifts again, you find yourself in serene darkness, the sounds of nighttime creatures lulling you to sleep. A blood-curdling scream abruptly pierces the calm, causing you to bolt upright. You instinctively clutch at something resting upon your chest, and rush out of your home.

Chaos suffuses through your surroundings, a number of your forest gnome kin laying dead or dying, scattered across the settlement. Before you can move to react, however, an excuciating pain shoots through your body, emanating from between your shoulder blades.

As you slump to the ground, the last thing you see is an unfamiliar short figure, his body marred with tattoos and piercings. He tears the medallion from your grasp, and you feel only a deep sense of forlorn. The darkness that ensues inspires nothing resembling the peace that you had felt only moments ago.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>
You sing in Guildspeak:

"O medallion in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

The environs blur and shift away again, leaving you this time in a roiling sea of dark fog. Soon, the silhouettes of twisted trees and hooded figures come into view, as you find yourself within a deep thicket. A number of torches surround a small clearing, one of the figures at its center.

The figure begins incanting with a monotonous sonance, and the torches flare up brightly in response. Streams of flame rise overhead, forming a dome on the clearing. The flames converge at the dome's apex, and send a column of fire down to the figure's feet.

Four of the other figures step forward, each joining in the archaic-sounding tongue. They simultaneously gesture toward the column of fire, causing a dark core to appear at its base, which quickly overcomes the entire height of the column with black and green tendrils.

A morose sense of loss filters again through your mind, as you feel as if a part of you has been torn away. You find yourself near the first figure, as he lowers his hood and retrieves a dark disk from where the blazing pillar had been. The tattooed and pierced gnome now approaches, picking you up in his grasp before plunging the disk into you. With a twisted grin and incantation, he seals the disk in place, and you feel a searing pain brought about by another unfamiliar presence...

A burning chaotic desire flows through your veins, as you set forth through the forest in a firestorm of destruction. You watch gleefully as the battered and scorched figures lie broken before you. As you turn to face your next victim, a hideous glowing golden light rattles your senses, and you feel your entire existance being pulled apart before all goes dark again.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O medallion held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Delving again into the depths of the carved wooden medallion, you feel completely disoriented and scattered, though you feel the faint comfort of your brethren nearby. A sliver emerges on the horizon, and rapidly expands into blinding daylight. You find yourself looking into the face of an old forest gnome, his features kind and wrinkled. He appears rather satisfied with himself as darkness overcomes you once more.

When day breaks anew, a much younger gnome peers around curiously into your confines, despite the look of genuine grief in his silvery green eyes. He cocks his head in puzzlement briefly before closing the box around you again.

You sense a passage of time and distance as you are carried within your dark home in pieces, longing to be reunited again. The box is opened and closed numerous times, allowing you to see a variety of curious gnomish and human faces alike.

You attempt to impress your longing desire of unification upon the young gnome, whose face has transitioned between curiousity, puzzlement, and frustration. Slowly but surely, you begin to regain your strength as he reunites you with the others, until finally you are made nearly whole again. The joy that wells up within you is reflected in his triumphant grin. Your elation is short-lived, however, as you sense a familiar, chaotic, dark presence overcome again...

The sadistic urge for disorder and turmoil overwhelms you anew as a long-dormant power burns through every muscle in your body with renewed strength. You revel in the screams, the searing flesh, as your twisted creations propogate your reign across the continent. Though the environment is different than it was previously, your victims are plentiful, and that is all that matters.

Roundtime: 10 sec.

You sing in Guildspeak:

"O medallion that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

You weave your song through the ring of the carved wooden medallion once more, and your surroundings fade again, leaving you shrouded in a thick grey fog. As clarity returns to your sight, the scene of a town blanketed in black mist greets your senses. Fires rage, spewing forth with their black and green tendrils, devouring anything in reach of their grasp...

You find yourself surrounded by a motley congregation of people at the base of a waterfall, though only one has your focused attention. His bloodline reeks of treachery -- the thought of erasing him from existence is all that fuels you as you lash out at him with murderous aggression.

A familiar wretched, sickly golden light flashes before you as your bloodlust is forcibly torn from you. Confused bewilderment sets in momentarily, but it is soon replaced with pure serenity and comfort, as if everything was finally in balance again after so many years of separation, loss, and despair.

A deep force of natural power wells up within you, as you notice another shift in the environs. An endless field of golden grain extends far off into the horizon, a clear dark blue sky above. Instinctively, you release the energy, sending a band of golden incandescence streaking overhead, trailed by whorls of verdant green that momentarily paint the heavens with its color...

You sense that the flows of the magic within the carved wooden medallion are drawn to Nuadjha.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Long one, sorry.. the contents of the RR museum:

You remove a tinsmith's hammer from on a sturdy exhibit table.
>look my hammer

The tinsmith's hammer is a smallish tool, more useful for delicate tapping than for dedicated pounding or banging. The wooden handle is dark with age and use.

The small tag attached to the hammer states, "This is the Gavel of Walga. Although no legal records survive from the River's Rest Smuggling Wars era (5018-5020 M.E.) it is widely believed the death toll would be significantly higher but for the jurisprudence and legal wisdom displayed by Walga in resolving conflicts. Little is known of Walga's background. His many admirers affectionately called him Walga Lackwit for his insistence that other jurists were better equipped to pass judgment on his fellow citizens. He is said to have used a tinsmith's hammer for a gavel to remind him that his decisions affected the common folk."
>loresing O hammer that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O hammer that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


As you begin your song you feel a momentary disorientation and close your eyes. Voices cry out in your ear, shouts of triumph and moans of defeat. When you open your eyes, you find yourself in a lowly waterfront tavern, surrounded by villainous-looking men and women who shout and curse and laugh as they watch a pair of stevedores tossing darts at a bristleboard. A great deal of wagering takes place between turns at the toe line.

The noise dies down as one of the stevedores steps up to the line. It becomes nearly silent after he tosses his first dart. After the second dart, the tavern is as hushed as a temple. You can hear the pot girl whisper to the barman, "A treble seven and it be all over." The third dart smacks into the bristleboard and the tavern erupts in a cataclysm of noise.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O hammer that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
...wait 1 seconds.
>loresing O hammer that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O hammer that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


The uproar is deafening as you continue your song. Half of the tavern is enraged. The other half is convulsed with hilarity. Gathered around the two stevedores in front of the dartboard is a mob, shouting and threatening each other. "It's a treble seven!" "Is not! It's a single seven!" "It's on the line! Do it again!" One of the stevedores shouts, "Any fool can see it's a single seven!" A tinsmith stands on a chair and shouts, "Then let a fool decide!"

In the quiet that follows the remark all the heads turn toward the back of the tavern, where a slouch-shouldered simpleton idly pushes a broom. The tinsmith calls out, "Walga Lackwit, come look at the board. Is this a single seven or a treble?" The laughter of the tavern patrons makes Walga wince, but he steps forward as requested. He examines the bristleboard with care, peering at the dart from several angles. Finally he steps back and says, "Why, it be both."

Laughter, shouts of disgust and cries of anger fill the tavern. "It can't be both," laughs the tinsmith. "But it is," says Walga. "If you look at it from below it's a treble seven and if you look at it from above it's a single seven. It be both!" The tinsmith holds up his hands to quell the laughter. "Our Walga is right!" he shouts. "So everybody line up! If the dart is above the eye level of the majority of the drunks in here, it's a treble seven. If not, it's a single!"

Even the stevedores laugh as the bar patrons line up and check their eye level against the dart. The number of halflings in the bar decide the matter. It's a treble seven. The tinsmith presents Walga with the small hammer hanging from his belt. "All hail Walga the Wise, magistrate of river rats!" he cries out, and the tavern rings with laughter and applause.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O hammer in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O hammer in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


The melody of your song takes on the rhythms of a merchant's street. Colors and moving shapes obscure your vision for a moment, then the colors and shapes gradually arrange themselves into the image of townsfolk moving along a busy street. Shuffling disconsolately among the townsfolk is Walga, carrying his tinsmith's hammer. Everywhere he goes he is greeted by cheerful passers-by. They call out "Greetings, Judge Walga!" "Walga the Wise!" "Make way for the magistrate!"

With a heavy-hearted expression Walga makes his way to a small shelter on the river. He superstitiously touches the head of a statue of a dancing turtle, then sits dejectedly on a bench. "They shouldn't ought to have made me a judge," he says to himself. "They should have picked somebody smarter. I'm sure to make a muck of things."

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O hammer held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing:

"O hammer held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


As you continue to sing, your nose is assaulted by the brown smell of spilt ale. Noise strikes you almost like a physical presence. Once again you find yourself in the lowly waterfront tavern. Once again there are shouts of anger and defiance. As your vision clears you become aware that this is not the excitement of competition, but true hostility and enmity.

The tavern patrons are divided into two groups separated from each other by a few feet of open space. Each group glares at the other and in both groups men hold their hands near the daggers on their belts. More men rush into the tavern, drawn by the noise. One trips over a small dog and nearly falls. The dog stands and moves away from the door, curling up beneath a window. A man leaning against the wall by the window kicks at the dog, who turns and snaps viciously at the man. The man dances back out of the way.

Two men step forward into the clear space between the two groups. One says to the other, "Ye moved contraband tea and coffee into River's Rest, I hear. Yer a-poaching on my turf. Tea and coffee, they be ours to smuggle, by right and tradition." The other man replies, "We din't know they were your'n. We's just tryin' to earn a silver best we can. And had ye come to me, man to man, we coulda worked sumpin' out. But ye weasel 'round, bad-mouthin' me an mine like whiny girls. Now I'm thinkin' tea and coffee suits us jes fine!"

The two men threaten and insult each other, backed up by their respective supporters. The tension in the tavern is palpable. The barman begins to hide his bottles and glasses.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>loresing O hammer that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O hammer that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


The furious noise grows louder still as you continue to sing to the hammer. You can almost feel the heat of the crowded tavern and smell the stink of angry, sweating men crowding toward each other. Into the thick of the crowd walks Walga, carrying a brass spittoon and banging on it with his tinsmith's hammer!

The two groups of smugglers are shocked into silence at Walga's suicidal boldness. As the tavern goes quiet, Walga speaks. "It were you lot what made a judge o' me. I ain't smart 'nough to be no judge, but I ain't so stupid I'd make water on me own boots. And that's what you be doing." He speaks to one man and points to the other. "You all riled and red-faced on account of he smuggled tea he didn't know he weren't to be smuggling." He speaks to the other man and points to the first. "And you angry at him cause he angry at you."

Walga points to the dog beneath the window. "That dog, he's smarter than the both of ye. He knows the difference 'tween being kicked and being tripped over. You two, ye been tripped over and yer acting like ye been kicked." Walga looks around at the tavern full of men, staring at him. "I don't want to be judge no more. It's too hard. Kin I stop now?" He hands the hammer back to the tinsmith and, taking his old broom, begins to sweep up.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O hammer that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O hammer that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


There is nothing further to learn from the tinsmith's hammer.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>

************************************************** ***************8

>get thumb
You remove a mummified thumb from on a sturdy exhibit table.
>look thumb
This small scrap of flesh and bone is clearly a human thumb. The severed edge is neat and tidy, indicating it was cut with a very sharp blade. The color of the thumb...a dark grey...suggests it was mummified through some natural process.
>loresing O thumb that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O thumb that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"

As you begin your song you feel the heat of the summer sun beating down. You see a young monk, dressed in a bright, saffron-colored robe, confidently approaching a small beehive-shaped stone hut. Beside the hut, under the scant shade of a small tree, sits a small, wizened old man. The young monk kneels and says, "Master, I am told you are wise. I pray you will share your wisdom with this unworthy monk. Tell me, Master, what is the secret of Life?" The monk bows respectfully.

The old man fixes the young monk with a long stare. He stretches out his arm and slowly raises his thumb. As the young monk stares, astonished, the old man waggles his thumb.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O thumb that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O thumb that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"

The cool breezes of autumn seem to caress your brow as you sing. The old man sits beneath the small tree, eating pickles from a stone crock. Fallen leaves surround him. The young monk, his head bowed in weariness, approaches the old man. The old man ignores him, concentrating on his pickle. "Master, every day for months I have come to you, asking the same question. You have yet to speak a word to me. Please, I beg of you, tell this unworthy monk the meaning of Life." He bows deeply.

The old man sucks the pickle juice off his fingers. He stretches out his hand...and waggles his thumb.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O thumb in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O thumb in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

You shiver as you continue your song, feeling the chill wind of winter tickling the back of your neck. The young monk, his saffron gown faded and patched, approaches the beehive-shaped hut. He calls out, saying "Master, I've come again." The old man crawls out the low doorway of the hut and takes his place beneath the tree, now barren of leaves. The young monk kneels. His face is haggard, his chin unshaven, his hair wild and knotted.

The old man sits quietly, as if unaware of the presence of the young monk. After a long moment the young monk opens his mouth as if to speak...to wearily ask the same question one more time. Suddenly, his weary eyes brighten. His mouth forms an OH of sudden enlightenment. He slowly extends his hand and, without a word, waggles his thumb.

The old man raises one eyebrow, then without a word he returns to his hut.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O thumb held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing:

"O thumb held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

As you inhale a breath to resume your song, you can almost smell the resurgence of new life that comes in the spring. You see the stone hut beside the small tree, its branches bedecked with new blossoms. The young monk, his saffron robe patched but freshly laundered, strides up the path to the hut. The old man sits beneath his tree, using a sharp knife to carve a willow whistle. The young monk bows, kneels before the old man, and promptly stretches out his hand, waggling his thumb.

Quick as a frog, the old man whips out his knife and slices off the young monk's thumb! The young monk leaps to his feet, clutching his bleeding hand. He stares at the old man in horror, then turns and begins to run down the path.

The old man calls out "Wait...." The young monk, shocked at hearing the old man speak for the first time in a year, stops and turns. The old man puts down his knife. He extends his hand toward the young monk...and waggles his thumb.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>loresing O thumb that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O thumb that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


There is nothing more to learn from the mummified thumb.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>

************************************************** *************

>get flut
You remove a bamboo flute from on a wide shelf.
>look my flute

The bamboo flute, clearly a very old instrument, is the color of very rich butter. The area around the fingerholes is shiny from use. A crack runs along the body of the flute, rendering it useless.

Attached to the flute is a tag that reads, "This instrument is a classic example of elven flute-making during the era of the Kingdom of Elanith. It is said the owner of this instrument committed suicide when it was inadvertantly broken.
>loresing O flute that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O flute that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


As you sing to the bamboo flute you begin to feel it respond to your voice. It vibrates slightly, as if the pitch of your voice strikes some sympathetic tone in the flute. Involuntarily, your voice takes on the low, dulcet tones of a bamboo flute and creates a melody that is simple but achingly beautiful.

The melody seems to transport you to a winding lane lined with olive trees whose leaves are newly-budded. Scattered among the trees are a few small stucco cottages. The sound of the flute is carried on the spring breeze from the window of one of the cottages. An elven man...virile, in the prime of his life, with a tanned face that's pleasant more than handsome...walks purposefully down the lane. As he approaches the cottage from which the melody comes he slows down, caught up by the enchanting tune. He dawdles a bit, then proceeds slowly on his way with a happy smile on his face.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O flute that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O flute that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


As you continue your song a buoyant, cheerful melody surrounds you. It lifts up your heart and yet, at the same time, inspires a feeling of tranquility. Once again you find yourself on the lane lined with olive trees. The trees are in full bloom. The same elven man walks quickly down the lane of olive trees, hurrying toward the sound of the music.

He stops in front of the cottage and leans against one of trees, clearly enraptured by the music of the flute. His eyes are closed, his right hand waves in rhythm with the tune, a joyful smile plays across his expressive face. When the tune ends he opens his eyes and tries to peer in through the window from which the melody came. He calls out softly, "Once again your music gladdens my heart. Come to the window so that I might see you and thank you properly."

From the window comes a soft, delicate woman's voice. "I thank you for your kind words, sir. And for all the kind, lovely words you've said over these last weeks. But I will not come to the window."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O flute in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O flute in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


A softly romantic melody surrounds you as you sing to the bamboo flute. The song is wistful without being melancholy, yearning without being disconsolate, pensive without being forlorn. The image of the tree-lined lane slowly coalesces and you see the elven man sitting beneath the olive tree, his back against the trunk. Scattered on the ground around him are the first fallen leaves of autumn. A tear trickles down his cheek, but the look on his face makes it clear it's a tear of hope and joy, not of sorrow.

When the song ends the man sits still for a long moment, then slowly rises to his feet. He composes himself before calling out, "Dear, sweet lady, you bend my heart like the sun bends the flowers. You draw at my soul the way the moon draws the tides. Come to the window, I beg of you, that I may see you."

"Your words honor me," says the voice from the window. "But it is the music that moves you, not the musician. I will not come to the window."

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O flute held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing:

"O flute held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


You continue your song and shiver slightly as a chill breeze carries the sweet, harmonius flute melody to your ears. As before, you find yourself on the winding lane. The olive trees are nearly devoid of leaves. The elven man, his heavy caftan wrapped closely around himself and a scarf carelessly looped around his neck, leans against one of the trees. Despite the chill in the air, the cottage window is cracked enough for the music to carry out to the lane.

The song is a familiar elven ballad, a traditional tune usually played solemnly and pretentiously by young bards in the throes of unrequited love. It is now being played in a sprightly, lighthearted way that seems to gently mock the traditional approach while firmly embracing the true spirit of the song. When it is finished, the man smiles broadly. He calls out, "I've heard this song ten times ten thousand times, but today is the first I've truly listened to it and understood it. As always, you delight my soul and make my world a brighter and more genial place. Please, dear one, I beg you...come to the window so that I might more truly express my thanks and regard."

From the narrowly cracked window comes the woman's soft, cheery voice. "You are kind, sir, and I am honored by your regard for my playing. But I will not come to the window."

Instead of leaving, the elven man steps behind the olive tree and draws his caftan tighter around himself. A moment passes before he hears the cottage window being closed. He quickly steps out from behind the tree, a tremendously bright smile on on his face...a smile that quickly fades and turns to revulsion.

Standing in the window the obese, bulbous-nosed elven woman holding the bamboo flute sees the man's expression change. She quickly steps away from the window.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>loresing O flute that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O flute that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


You quietly, tentatively continue your song but the bamboo flute no longer responds. You see again the winding lane lined with olive trees in first bud. You again see the stucco cottages scattered cozily among the trees. But the cottage that once held such music is boarded shut. Dust covers the windowsill. The soft breeze carries only silence.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O flute that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O flute that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


There is nothing further to learn from the bamboo flute.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>

************************************************** ****************

>get shard
You remove a curved brass shard from on a wide shelf.
>look my shard
Even the most cursory examination of the shard reveals it was originally a part of some larger object, now shattered. It is almost the size of a buckler. It's as thick as a triple layer of troll hide and about the length of a halfling's forearm. One side of the curved chunk of brass is smooth, the other is adorned with ornate scroll work.

Attached to the shard is a tag that reads "This is a fragment of Oteska's Bell. Crafted at the direction of the corsair Oteska, the bell was intended to give warning when any vessel of the Imperial Turamzzyrian Navy entered Maelstrom Bay. Legend has it the bell was responsible for Oteska's death."
>loresing O shard that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O shard that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


As you sing to the curved brass shard you are caught up in the vision of a small tavern set off to one side of a public square paved with large stone blocks. A crowd, restless and resentful, has gathered in the square where they are being addressed by a half-elf clad in the attire of a sea captain. "We require your brass," the captain says, "in order to create a warning bell. This bell is for your protection as much as for ours. I know you want to cooperate. My men will come to your homes to secure the brass."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O shard that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O shard that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


You experience a sudden rush of dizziness as you begin your song. When it fades you find yourself in a hovel. A pair of sailors stand in the doorway, grinning at an angry old woman. In her spotted and bony hands she grasps a brass ewer. "This be me grammy's pitcher," she says, her voice quavering. "And she gots it from her grammy, who tooken it off a cart what belonged to some lord. And I means to give it to me own granddaughter."

The sailors laugh as they snatch the ewer from the old woman's hands. "Me curse on you," the crone spits, "and on him what's behind this wickedness! And me curse on your foul bell! Good fortune and wealth to him what rings it 'til it breaks!" At that the old woman grasps her chest and falls dead to the floor.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O shard in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O shard in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


As you sing you hear the low vibration of a bell being rung. The image of the half-elf sea captain sitting at a table in a lamplit tavern room comes into focus. Through a window you can see the moon-splashed silhouette of a low, open-framed belltower. The captain stands suddenly and hurls a flagon across the room, splashing the floor and wall with ale. "By the gods," he shouts, "we have a crew of trained fighters! Can they not stop the people of this hell-hole of an island from ringing that bloody bell?!"

As a servant cleans up the mess a second half-elf, also clad as a sailing officer, speaks up. "They believe the old woman's curse," he says, his hand rubbing his temples. "They believe if they crack the bell they'll come into a fortune. We've chased off many, whipped several, and hung one...but they keep coming back. They just keep coming back."

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O shard held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing:

"O shard held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

Your song is punctuated by the sound of men grunting in unison. As your vision clears you see a group of half-elf sailors gathered around a brass bell hung in a low tower. The men struggle to unhang the bell. At the foot of the open-framed tower stands the sea captain and his officers. The captain is glowering at his men. "Smartly, now," he orders, "heave that blasted bell off its moorings!" He turns to his officers and snarls "I'd rather be caught by the bloody Imperial Navy than listen to that hellish bell again."

With a concentrated effort the sailors manage to dislodge the bell from its mooring. It falls to the floor of the tower, shattering some of the timbers. The tower, suddenly unstable, collapses in a sudden rush. The bell falls to the ground, crushing the sea captain and two of the sailors beneath it. With a sound like the screaming of an old woman, the bell shatters into hundreds of small shards.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>loresing O shard that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O shard that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


There is nothing more to be learned from the curved brass shard.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>

************************************************** ****************

You remove a green tourmaline ring from on an oak table.
>look my ring

This is a simple ring, just a round-cut green tourmaline inset in a modest band of silver. The band is scuffed on one side.

A tag attached to the tourmaline ring states, "According to local lore, this was intended to be the wedding band of the legendary Estamil of the Bridges. Contemporaneous historical records confirm the existence of Estamil, who was undeniably the designer of several bridges in and around River's Rest (two of which still exist). The legends which have grown around her, however, cannot be authenticated.
>loresing O ring that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O ring that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


As you focus your thoughts and song on the small ring, you experience a moment of dizziness. When it passes, you find yourself beside a fast-flowing river leading out into a wide bay. A young human dressed in a recently-patched uniform of the old Turamzzyrian Empire hobbles along the river's side with the aid of a makeshift crutch. He searches the water's edge as he walks.

A look of delight passes over the young man's face as he spots something in the shallow water. He reaches down awkwardly, favoring his injured leg, and plucks a small green stone from the water. Holding the wet stone up to the light, the young man says to himself, "This is the exact color of her eyes."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O ring that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O ring that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


You hear the gentle tapping of metal on metal as you continue your song. As you bring your song and thoughts into focus, you realize you're in a small metalsmith's shop. The morning sun slants through the shop windows. The young soldier with the injured leg is using a pair of tin snips to remove the silver buttons from his Turamzzyrian uniform. With a shy smile, he hands the buttons to the metalsmith, along with two green tourmalines.

Everything seems to blur and suddenly it's the afternoon sun that's blazing through the metalsmith's shop window. The young soldier enters the shop and looks at the smith with unalloyed eagerness. The metalsmith smiles and lays a green velvet cloth on the counter. With a dramatic gesture, he opens the cloth, revealing a pair of silver rings inset with green tourmalines.

"Tandrik, lad, she'll love 'em," the metalsmith says. "They're not fancy, but our Estamil was never one for fancy things You're a lucky lad, you are."

Roundtime: 6 sec.

>loresing O ring in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O ring in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


Darkness enfolds you as you continue your song. Bright spots of color float before your eyes. Slowly those spots of color resolve themselves into paper lanterns hung on poles arranged across a drawbridge. The rhythm of your song conforms to the rhythm of a small group of musicians on the bridge.

A party is being held on the bridge. Couples of all races dance to the music, or gather in small conversational groups. Children peek over the side of the bridge and drop small stones into the river below. Young Tandrik dances slowly and awkwardly on his injured leg. In his arms, a smiling elven woman with bright green eyes lays her head on his shoulder.

Every few minutes the young couple is interrupted by people congratulating the elven woman on the design and construction of the bridge. She leans close to Tandrik and whispers in his ear, "Would you think it terrible of me if I suggested we slip away from the party? This is all wonderful, but it's just a bit too much." Tandrik's eyes light up. "Estamil," he says, "you never fail to delight me. Let's go."

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O ring held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing:

"O ring held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


As you continue to sing to the tourmaline ring, you find yourself on a narrow lane, softly lit by silvery moonlight filtering through the trees. Ahead of you, walking hand in hand slowly along the lane, are young Tandrik and Estamil. A gentle breeze riffles through her hair and carries their conversation to you.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asks. He smiles and nods. "I'm glad we snuck away from the party," she says. "It was wonderful of them to throw it, but that bridge has occupied my mind for so long that it's a relief not to have to think about it. Now I'd like to think about...well, more important things." Tandrik leans forward and kisses her softly. "There's something I'd like you to think about," he says. He reaches into the pocket of his military blouse and pulls out the two tourmaline rings. "I'd like you to think about spending the rest of your life with me," he says.

Estamil's green eyes go wide and, if possible, even brighter. Before she can speak, however, several shadowy figures leap out from behind the trees and seize them, dragging them off into the darkness.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>loresing O ring that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O ring that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


A dark shape rushes overhead as you extend your song. An owl glides rapidly over the moonlit lane in search of its evening meal. The lane is silent. The moonlight reflects off a pair of silver rings lying in the dirt. In the pale light, the green tourmalines look almost black.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O ring that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O ring that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


There is nothing further to learn from the tourmaline ring.

Roundtime: 6 sec.

>

************************************************** **********

You remove an onyx inkwell from on an oak table.
>look inkwell

The bottom of this onyx inkwell is engraved with a seal. Clearly, the inkwell served double duty. Written on the side of the inkwell are the words 'You could do worse.'

A tag attached to it states, "This small inkwell was the property of Kemal Jaffar. Jaffar was originally sent to River's Rest by King Gardiel of Torre in 4241 M.E. as part of the Royal Survey and Census party. His reasons for remaining behind in River's Rest after the others left have long been a mystery. There is no mystery, however, about the service Jaffar provided to the people living in River's Rest.

Kemal Jaffar was the most effective 'wali' the island has ever known. In his time he arranged marriage contracts for well over a thousand 'river rats.' It is said Jaffar never had an unsatisfied client. Birth records dating from 4245 M.E. show the most common name for newborn boys was Jaffar.
>loresing O inkwell that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O inkwell that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


A brief moment of befuddlement overcomes you as you begin your song. Your vision blurs and the sharp smell of pickle brine fills your nose. A pair of bright blue dots appear before your eyes. Gradually those dots coalesce into the deepest blue eyes you've ever seen, set in the ruddy round face of a rather chubby man sitting at an inn table. He holds a pickle in his hand, waving it thoughtfully back and forth as he listens patiently to an irate halfling man sitting across from him. Standing nearby, looking out a window with a vacant bovine stare, is a woman who appears to be more of a dwarf than a halfling.

"You said she was petite, Jaffar," the halfling whispers angrily "She's half again taller than I am and weighs more. You said she was clever, yet she has to actually think about which end of her hat is the front. You said she was beautiful, but she looks like a lopsided duck."

"So she's not perfect," Jaffar says softly. "But she'll make you a good wife. Honest, trustworthy, faithful. You want something pretty in the house, go buy some flowers. Trust me, could do worse." Jaffar takes a bite of his pickle. "You don't have to whisper, by the way," he says to the halfling. "She's also hard of hearing."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O inkwell that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O inkwell that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


The sound of a loud *SNAP* almost causes you to interrupt your song. It is the sound of a pickle being bitten, and you quickly find yourself back at the table in the inn. Jaffar sits across the table from a half-elven woman, who stares at him with a look of horror. "Are you mad?" she asks Jaffar. "You want me to marry HIM? Why, he's nearly blind!" Jaffar takes another bite of his pickle before answering. "A blessing," he says. "He won't see half of what you do. What freedom that gives you!" "But he stutters!" the woman says. "Such luck you have," says Jaffar. "A man who stutters doesn't talk very much, so you'll be left in peace." "He has a limp!" she exclaims. "Only when he walks," Jaffar says.

Jaffar puts his pickle down and leans forward, looking the woman soberly in the face. "He's a good man and he'll make you a fine husband. He won't stray far from the house, he won't bore you by telling you how wonderful he is, and he won't notice if the house isn't perfectly clean. You could do worse."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>
You feel your vision return to normal.
>loresing O ink in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O ink in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"

>

************************************************** *************

You remove a metal ring shirt from on an oak table.
>look shirt

At first glance this appears to be a shirt of very flimsy chain mail. Further examination, however, reveals the garment could never have been intended to protect the wearer. The small metal rings which comprise the shirt are much too thin for that. Nor would it have been possible for the wearer to don the shirt alone. Oddly-shaped metal clamps line the back of the shirt and the backs of both sleeves.

A tag attached to the metal shirt says, "This is Lingba's Shirt. In 4605 M.E., during the First Elven War, a number of local smugglers, elven patriots and elf sympathizers secretly aided the Elven Nations in their war on the Turamzzyrian Empire. One of the sympathizers was said to be the daughter of Lingba the Tailor. She was captured and interrogated under torture by Emperor Krellove's personal Inquisitor. She died on the third day of interrogation.

Late in that year, the Inquisitor was captured by elven sympathizers. Lingba constructed this shirt and, according to legend, forced the the Inquisitor to wear it for nearly thirty days.
>loresing O shirt that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O shirt that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


Your song moves in rhythm with the beating of your heart. Another rhythmic sound joins in...a liquid sound. The sound of oars propelling a boat through the water. As your vision becomes more clear, you become aware of a wide, moonlit river. A smuggler's wherry, its oars muffled, moves almost silently through the river shallows. A half dozen cloaked figures man the oars. In the stern, a short figure stands, one hand on the tiller, his eyes searching the shore.

At a signal from the man in the stern, the oarsmen ship their oars. The sternsman guides the wherry into some reeds, where it disappears from view of anybody who might be traveling on the river. While one man secures the vessel, the other oarsmen gather around a large bundle in the stern. They lift it onto their shoulders and scurry into the night.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O shirt in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O shirt in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


Darkness enfolds you as you sing to the metal ring shirt in your hand. The smell of mold and mildew mixed with the primal stink of a salt marsh fills your nostrils. As darkness shifts to murkiness, you realize you're in a smuggler's boathouse...a dark combination of dock and bunker. The cloaked men all stand around the bundle, which lies on the floor. The short sternsman steps forward and unties the bundle.

The bundle wriggles and jerks until a face is revealed. A terrified face, gagged with a filthy rag. The sternsman pulls the cloth off the man. He is as firmly bound as smugglers are capable of binding. The sternsman reaches down and removes the gag. "Please, please," the bound man pleads in a parched, croaking voice. "I'll pay any ransom you ask. I'm a wealthy man. Just don't harm me."

In a calm, soft voice, the sternsman says, "We want no ransom." "Information, then," the bound man says. "You want information. I can give it to you, I can tell you anything you want to...." "We want no information," the small sternsman says. "I'm an important man," the bound man says, weeping. "The emperor will search for me. If you release me now, no harm will come to you. I've not seen your faces. I don't know your names. I'm no danger to you if you release me."

The small sternsman removes the hood of his cloak. He leans forward so the light shines fully on his grim halflings face. "My name is Lingba," he says quietly.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O shirt held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing:

"O shirt held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


The smell of mildew and salt marsh is now cut with the scent of sweat and terror. The man from the bundle is now clad only in a pair of stained breeches. His arms are outstretched, tied with strips of leather to ringbolts normally used to tie up boats. Once again, his mouth is gagged. His eyes, however, are still able to scream. The halfling Lingba carefully dresses him in the metal ring shirt and begins to fasten the clamps in the back.

"I made this shirt for you," Lingba says. "For the Imperial Inquisitor. For the man who tortured my daughter to death. She was a good child, my daughter. She cared nothing about the elves or your war with them. She cared only about accompanying the man she was to marry, an honest smuggler trying to earn a living. For three days you tortured her. Three days."

The inquisitor pleads with his eyes and tries desperately to speak around the filthy rag in his mouth. Lingba watches him coldly, then tightens the clamps on the back of the shirt. "You notice how your bare flesh bulges through the small metal rings," Lingba says quietly. "It's important to tighten the shirt just enough...not too tight or too much flesh protrudes, not too loose or there's not enough flesh." Lingba looks up at the inquisitor's face. "Not enough flesh for what, you wonder? For this...."

Lingba takes a small fishing knife from his belt. He begins to slowly scrape off the flesh that bulges through the metal rings.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>
You've gained 1 physical training point.
(To use these new points, click on the "skill goals" link in the quick link bar.)
>loresing O shirt that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O shirt that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


The smell of mildew, the stink of the salt march, the scent of fear have all been washed away by the cloyingly sweet smell of blood. The inquisitor is still strung up between the boat rings. He appears to be wearing a fuzzy red shirt. The small metal rings of Lingba's device are hidden in bloody tissue.

Lingba, standing on a small crate, pours runny gruel into the inquisitor's mouth. The halfling's face is drawn and grim, his eyes bloodshot and nearly lifeless, his cheeks grizzled with a new beard. He puts down the gruel bowl and leans in close to whisper in the ear of the inquisitor.

"Three days you tortured my daughter," he says, and his voice bears little resemblance to the soft voice heard earlier. "Today is your eighteenth day. You must eat your gruel because we have twelve more days to go. Ten days for every day you hurt her."

He slowly gets down from the crate, walks behind the inquisitor, and carefully tightens the clamps on the shirt. Raw flesh bulges through the small rings. Blood oozes slowly down the inquisitor's breeches.

Lingba stares long and hard at the fishing knife on the counter. Almost against his will, his hand reaches out for it.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O shirt that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O shirt that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


The only sound you hear as you resume your song is an annoying buzzing. Green-headed flies swarm the smuggler's boathouse. Most of them churn around the bloody hulk of a figure strung between two boat rings. The others are clustered around the body of a small halfling man hanging from the boathouse rafters.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O shirt in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O shirt in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


There is nothing further to learn from the metal ring shirt.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>

************************************************** **************

You remove a silver chalice from on an oak table.
>look chal
>

The silver chalice is designed to be a trophy rather than for use as a chalice. Inscribed on the cup are the words 'First Prize - Archery' followed by the date 4001 M.E. The space between the words and the date, where the winner's name would normally be inscribed, is blank.

Attached to the chalice is a tag which reads, "Donated by the Ammat family. This chalice belonged to Anka Ammat, who came to River's Rest in an hour of great need and rose to prominence during the era of the Last Commander of the Citadel. Circumstances have forced the Ammat family to leave River's Rest many times, and each time they have returned."
>loresing O chalice that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O chalice that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


Holding the chalice in your hands, a vision comes to you of a scrawny auburn-haired girl holding a bow much too big for her. An older man watches her attempts to draw the bow with an obvious mixture of pride and amusement. "Even I couldn't draw that bow when I was your age," the man says. "Let me get you a smaller bow, Anka."

The girl looks up at the man and, in a serious and sober voice at odds with her age, says, "I would practice with this bow a bit longer, father. That way when I get a smaller bow, it will seem easy. And then I can enter the county test and win a trophy just like you."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O chalice that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O chalice that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


Your song transports you to an open field on a bright, sunny afternoon. Three youngsters stand at a line, facing a trio of archery butts in the middle of the field. One of the three is young Anka, still scrawny but with the same sober determination. The three hold their bows at the ready...arrows nocked, but not drawn. Behind them is a crowd of other youngsters, some holding bows of their own and looking dejected. Adults watch as well, trying to disguise their feelings of pride or disappointment or pity.

At the command from a uniformed marshall, the three youngsters draw their bows, take aim at the butts, and loose their arrows! One boy's arrow narrowly misses the target. But the arrows of the other two strike near the bullseye!

Anka, confident her arrow is nearer the center than that of her opponent, risks a look over her shoulder at her father. She appears surprised by the look on his face...a look of resignation rather than pride.

The marshall strides to the archery butts, closely examines the two arrows in the target, then strides back. He clears his throat and announces, "The winner by a narrow margin is his Lordship, Wilf of the House Weirlund. Three cheers for his Lordship!"

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O chalice in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O chalice in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


You grip the silver chalice tighter as you feel yourself pulled back to that same sunny field. Only two archery butts are arranged in the center of the field, and only Anka and Wilf stand at the line. They're older now and Anka is no longer scrawny. She's a strong young woman, plain of face, with her auburn hair drawn back severely. The same look of sober determination marks her face. Wilf, a handsome lad in fine, tailored apparel, glances at her out of the corner of his eye. It's difficult to tell if the glance contains dread or fascination. Anka's father, among the audience, notes the glance without emotion.

At the marshall's command, Anka and Wilf draw their bows and release their arrows. The motion is smooth and effortless, as simple and as elegant as the moment an apple falls from the tree. Both arrows strike at virtually the same moment, a single *thump* like the pulsing of a doe's heart.

Anka turns away and begins to unstrap her wrist guard as the marshall strides out to examine the results. Wilf looks at her and a blush of shame crosses his face. He appears about to speak when the marshall cries out, "The winner by a narrow margin is his Lordship, Wilf of the House Weirlund. Three cheers for his Lordship!"

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O chalice held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing:

"O chalice held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"

The chalice seems to vibrate in your hand as, once again, you're drawn back to the very same archery butts. The sun shines as brightly as before, the grass is as green as before and the audience around the two archers is as thick as before. The two archers, however, have changed again. Both are now young adults. Anka is as strong and supple as a green willow wand. Her plain features have matured into a fine-boned face that is more handsome than beautiful, but very striking. Wilf's face is marked now by pride and petulance.

At the command of the marshall the two archers nock their arrows and draw their bows. But this time only Wilf releases his arrow! Anka slowly puts her arrow back in her quiver and begins to unstring her bow.

The crowd is absolutely silent. The marshall stands still, uncertain whether to repeat the command or go examine the only arrow to find the target. Wilf's face has gone bloodless as he turns to look at Anka. "Why did you not shoot?" he asks.

Anka winds up her bowstring and slips it into her pocket. "I shot last year," she says. "And the year before that, and the year before that, and all the years before that. There is no need for me to shoot. Your arrow will always be closer than mine."

Wilf draws himself up straight and stiff. "You dare to suggest that the outcome is rigged?!" he demands. Anka removes her wrist strap. "I dare only to suggest that your arrow will always be closer than mine," she says. "I am the better archer," says Wilf with wounded pride. Anka stares at him for a long moment. "And that, I'm sure, is why your arrow is always closer than mine."

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>loresing O chalice that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O chalice that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


As you resume your song to the chalice you once again feel drawn away. This time, however, you find yourself in a small cart being driven by Anka's father. Anka sits quietly beside him.

Her father gives her a long look and begins to speak. Anka interrupts, saying "You don't have to tell me, father. It was a foolish stunt. I know that archery is about making the shot, not winning trophies. I know that the shot is its own reward. I know that the purpose...."

"Hush," her father says. "I was about to tell you how very proud I am of you. You didn't have to loose that arrow, Anka. You'd already *made* the shot. The arrow itself would have been irrelevent. And like every other arrow you've ever shot against Wilf, it was closer to the mark than his."

Anka looks at her father, tears forming in her eyes. "I'm thinking of going south, father," she says. "South to River's Rest. I know it's dangerous, but I feel I have something to contribute. There is a new leader there who fights against the trolls and orcs with such boldness and creativity. I want to...."

"I know," her father says. "I've been expecting this for weeks. You want to test your skills where it really counts. I won't lie to you and tell you I think you should go. But neither will I lie to you and tell you that you shouldn't. But if you go, you should go soon. And you should take this with you."

Her father reaches beneath the seat of the cart and pulls out the silver chalice. "In all the uproar, I figured nobody would notice if the trophy went missing. And you've earned it many times over. Think of me whenever you look on it."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O chalice that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O chalice that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


There is nothing further to learn from the silver chalice.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>

************************************************** *******************

You remove a sand timer from on a delicate maoral stand.
>look timer

This is a simple sand timer. It's small enough to fit into a belt pouch and sturdy enough to be carried around without fear of breaking. Yet the glass is cracked and there is no sand left inside.

Attached to the timer is a small tag stating, "During the last years of 4200 M.E. and the first years of 4300 a style of improvisational poetry competition known as 'mosha-ereh' (being in company of poetry) became popular among the educated classes along the southern coastal communities of Elanthia. A poet was given a topic, the timer turned and the poet was expected to extemporize on that topic before the sand ran out."

"This sand timer belonged to the poet Hakim Kharadh, who gained a wide reputation before his mysterious murder in 4292 M.E. Depending on the grain of sand used, Hakim's timer is thought to have been a two minute model."
>loresing O timer that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O timer that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


With the first word of your song you find yourself strangely surrounded by the strong smell of freshly-brewed coffee. The smell transports you to a courtyard enclosed within stucco walls painted the color of burnt oranges. A few small fig trees in clay pots are scattered among a couple dozen low tables. Men and women sit on fat cushions placed on the thick carpets that cover much of the courtyard's flagstone floor. The sky is darkening, it's that moment of twilight when no lamp is yet needed but the stars are visible in the azure sky.

While pots of thick, dark, sugary coffee are being refilled, a small man with lazy-looking, half-lidded eyes takes his place on a low dais. He raises his sand timer above his head and waits. A voice from a table in the back calls out, "Possessive love!" The small man *slams* down his timer and almost immediately begins to speak.

"Go nowhere without me. Let nothing happen in the sky or on the ground apart from me."
"See nothing I cannot see, hear nothing I cannot hear."
"I will be the cool water you drink and the warm water in which you bathe. I will be the cotton you wear in the morning and the linen in which you sleep at night."
"You will be no perfumed rose unless I am the thorn."

The coffee drinkers sit quietly for a moment, then begin to applaud...politely at first, then more enthusiastically. The darkening night makes it impossible to see the poet's expression.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O timer that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O timer that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


As you resume your song you find yourself surrounded by the sour smell of stale beer and spilt ale. The smell draws you in and you find yourself outside the entrance to a lowly harborside tavern. The gibbous moons provide enough silvery light to show a small man with lazy-looking, half-lidded eyes approach the dimly-lit tavern. He hesitates momentarily before entering and checks the long poniard in his belt. Taking a deep breath, he enters.

Inside, the tavern is smoky and dark. A dung and turf fire burns in the fireplace, giving the room a faint barnyard smell that seems almost to complement the odor of ale and beer. The patrons, mostly men, are a quiet, suspicious lot. There is little conversation, and the few conversations taking place are not meant to be heard by others.

The small man makes his way to a table near the fireplace, where a fat man with a walrus mustache sits noisily eating an eel pie. The small man removes a large pink pearl from a pocket in his belt and slides it across the table. The fat man wipes his mouth on his sleeve, examines the pearl closely, then nods. He removes a leather pouch from a pocket, drops it on the table and resumes his supper. The small man looks inside the pouch, counts the coins, and leaves without a word of farewell.

Two men follow him out the door. "That's DeGaspard, no mistake," says one to the other. "The rumors are true, then...he's still alive." The other snorts in derision and says, "The great pirate DeGaspard, living under another name...and in River's Rest, of all places. Ketain will pay us well for this information." The one looks at the other and asks, "Why does Ketain hate DeGaspard so?" The other replies, "A poem, if you can believe it. DeGaspard was drunk and somebody asked him to make a poem about Ketain of the Scars and his wife. DeGaspard said Ketain's wife had a face like a pound of wax candles on a hot day. Which she does, and that's a fact. But the person asking for the poem was Ketain his very own self. DeGaspard had never met him, you see. And if we want to sell him to Ketain, we'd best hurry after him."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O timer in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O timer in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


The smell of fresh-baked pastries infiltrates every pore of your nose, drawing you away from your present surroundings to a large hall filled with comfortable chairs and small tables. Clusters of men and women are gathered throughout the hall, quietly talking amongst themselves. Courteous servants wander through the hall, offering pastries and refreshments.

A tall elven woman stands and raps a silver fork on her goblet. When she has everybody's attention, she says, "Welcome to our little 'mosha-ereh.' This is a friendly competition, and the only reward for the winner is good company and fine food. We're honored to have with us tonight the poet Hakim Kharadh. Hakim has only recently arrived on our little isle, but has already greatly influenced our understanding of 'mosha-ereh.' As a demonstration, he will begin the contest.

The small man with lazy-looking, half-lidded eyes rises and smiles politely. He removes the timer from his belt pouch and holds it high above his head. The elven hostess calls out, "Permanence! No, impermanence!" Hakim *slams* his timer down and within seconds begins to recite.

"We are the reflection of the moon on the water."
"We are the space between the moon and the fish, between the moon and the fisherman."
"So long as the moon shines and the water reflects, we will be here."
"And yet we can touch neither fish nor fisherman. Neither fisherman nor fish can touch us."
"Here but not here, eternal but fleeting, we exist as long as we need to. When we leave, we leave nothing behind."

The small man with lazy-looking, half-lidded eyes picks up his timer and walks away.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O timer held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing:

"O timer held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


You grip the sand timer a little tighter and find yourself surrounded by the smell of saltwater and tar. The smell propels you to a small, unsteady room filled with cordage and sailcloth. Through a tiny window you observe the horizon rocking back and forth, and you realize you're aboard a ship.

A large, bearded man sits and smiles malignantly. Across from him, bound to a chair, is the small man with the lazy-looking, half-lidded eyes. The bearded man asks, "Should I call you DeGaspard the pirate, or Hakim the poet?" The small man shrugs as best he can, given his restraints. "It's all one to me, Ketain. Call me what you wish."

"You know why you're here, of course," Ketain says. Hakim frowns and says, "I'm not entirely certain. Is it because I said your wife has a face like a pound of wax candles on a hot day? Or is because she actually *does* have a face like a pound of...."

Ketain interrupts him with a blow to his face! He opens Hakim's belt pouch and pours the meager contents on the floor. He picks up the small timer. "If you'd insulted me personally, I'd have merely ripped out your tongue," Ketain says. "But I will not abide a man insulting my wife. If you make a public apology, a profuse public apology, I will be lenient...and merely rip out your tongue. Otherwise..." Ketain *slams* down the timer. "Otherwise, your time has run out, Hakim."

Hakim sighs deeply. "The time doesn't really run out, you know," he says. "The sand only runs from one end of the glass the other. Turn it over, and time continues."

Ketain picks up the sand timer and *slams* it down again. The glass cracks. The sand dribbles out onto the floor. Ketain looks at Hakim and, raising one eyebrow, smiles.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>
You feel at full magical power again.
>loresing O timer that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O timer that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


There is nothing further to learn from the sand timer.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>

************************************************** **********

You remove some braided green cord from on a wide oak shelf.
>look cord

This is just an old section of braided green cord. The color has faded over time and it's easy to see the old cord has been through rough wear.

Attached to the braided green cord is a tag that reads, "This cord is thought to have belonged to Millah Pradapt, the leader of the famed Falcon company, who fought under the Last Commander of the Citadel (4002 to 4011 M.E.). The cord was used as a symbol of rank."
>loresing O cord that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O cord that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


As you grasp the braided green cord and begin your song, you seem to hear the sound of distant drumming. You feel your spirit being drawn away from the present, and the drumming becomes louder. A vision comes to you...troops standing at parade, arranged in orderly lines while being inspected by a tall, wiry, jug-eared man. The man's uniform, like the uniforms of the troops, is clean but much-patched.

He finishes his inspection, then addresses the troops. "We are not here to mourn the loss of Tivin Welqen!" he states in a loud, commanding voice. "Tivin led Falcon company well and he died well. We will all mourn him in our own way, quietly, as he'd have wanted. Today we gather to honor the new leader of Falcon company. All hail Millah Pradapt!"

The troops erupt in cheers and applause. The commander steps up to a wide-shouldered woman with short-cropped, blonde hair and a pink scar reaching from her broken nose to her jawline. He pins a length of braided gold cord across her shoulder, then leans in close and whispers in her ear. "Tivin was a brave man, but stupid," he says. "He died bravely, but stupidly...and so did many of his men. Learn from his mistakes."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O cord that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O cord that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


The sound of drumming continues as you resume singing to the cord, but the sound is chaotic rather than disciplined. You find yourself huddled beneath a large canvas tarp along with dozens of warriors. Rain drums furiously on the tarp and the warriors squat around small fires, drinking mugs of sweet tea. Their cloaks are secured by pins made of onyx and bearing the stylized image of a falcon's head. Moving through the crowd is Millah Pradapt, wearing her new gold cord on the shoulder of her battle-worn uniform. She approaches a skinny young half-elven man whose cheek has never known a razor.

Millah taps him on the shoulder and says, "Listen, Peach, I'm making some changes in the company. I want you to...." "My name's not Peach," the young man interrupts. Millah fixes him with a cold stare. "Three things," she says. "First, never interrupt me unless it's important. Second, until you start to shave your name is Peach. Third, I want you to take over Falcon's scouts." She holds out a braided green cord, dangles it in front of the young man's hand, and raises an eyebrow.

The young man stares at the cord for a moment, then looks up at Millah and says, "Just call me Peach."

Roundtime: 6 sec.

>loresing O cord in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O cord in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


A burst of staccato drumming startles you as you continue your song to the braided green cord. A voice calls out, "Not yet...wait for it!" It takes a moment for the vision to become clear, and you find yourself with a small troop of warriors huddled beneath raised shields. Kneeling nearby is Peach. He calls out, "Get ready! After the next volley!"

Almost immediately you hear a flight of arrows thrilling through the air, then striking the upraised shields with a sound like a badly-played, cheap drum. Peach shouts, "Now! Go!" The warriors rise as one and run away from the enemy, reaching a grove of thick pine trees before the next volley of arrows can fall.

Peach leads the scouts quickly through the woods. The only sound is the ragged breathing of the weary troops and the occasional clatter of equipment. Peach makes a hand signal and the warriors scatter into the woods and take up ambush positions. They wait quietly, remaining nearly motionless, for a long while. When it becomes clear they're not being followed, Peach stands up and signals his troops. "Let's go home," he says.

As they walk quietly through the woods, Peach is approached by a large, muscular warrior who is several inches taller and several years older. "I don't like running from the enemy," the man says. Peach nods without bothering to look at him. "It stinks of cowardice," the tall warrior says. Peach raises his arm and sniffs at his armpit. He makes a face and says, "It *is* pretty foul." The tall warrior looks down at Peach and sneers. "You are a coward, then?" Peach nods. "Given the chance, yes." He finally looks up at the tall warrior. "What do scouts do?" he asks. The warrior considers the question for a moment. "Find the enemy so that we may do battle with them," he responds. Peach sighs and says, "Find the enemy and report back so that we can do battle with them. Report *back*! There's no point in finding the enemy if you get killed before you can report back. How many archers did we encounter? How many spearmen? Were they green warriors or battle-hardened? Were they well-fed or hungry? Were they fresh or tired?"

The tall warrior is unable to answer Peach's questions. Peach says, "I'm not afraid of the enemy. I'm afraid of being asked those questions by Millah Pradapt and not having the answers. Learn to pay attention, because after our next scouting mission, *you* will be the one reporting to Millah."

The tall warrior goes pale.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O cord held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing:

"O cord held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


The sound of drumming returns as you resume your song. This time the sound is rhythmic, in perfect cadence, although monotonous. As your vision becomes more clear, you find yourself looking over the shoulder of Peach as he peers down from a low, tree-lined ridge. In the valley below is a huge force of trolls and orcs, marching in formation. The drumming of their iron-soled boots echoes up the ridge.

The tall warrior is at Peach's side. "Gods help us," he says. "I've never seen so many orcs and trolls in one place." In a calm voice Peach asks "How many do you see?" The warrior says, "More than there are fleas on a rolton." Peach nods. "A very charming image," he says. "I'm sure Millah will find it useful."

Anxiety floods the tall warrior's eyes. "How can anybody count so many enemy?" he asks. "You can't," Peach says. "Imagine a line dividing them in half and look only at the left half. Now imagine another line dividing that group in half. Can you estimate that number?" The warrior nods. "Then multiply it by four," Peach says, "and you'll have something to report to Millah when we get back to...."

A thrown axe whirs between Peach and the tall warrior, imbedding itself in the neck of the next man! A band of orcs suddenly leaps among the scouts, hacking and grunting and cursing! The scouts fight back with grim, quiet efficiency. The orcs raise an alarm, calling loudly for support!

The tall warrior is fighting with astonishing ferocity. He feels a tug at his leg and spins around quickly, his broadsword raise to attack! But it's just Peach, lying on the turf. An arrow is thrust through his left arm, and another is imbedded in his shoulder. A deep gash in his side oozes thick, dark red blood. Peach tears the cord off his shoulder and holds it out to the tall warrior.

"Take this," Peach yells. "Run! Get away! Report to Millah!" The tall warrior hesitates. "Run!" Peach shouts.

The tall warrior grabs the cord and flees, knowing his comrades remain behind to protect his escape.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

>loresing O cord that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O cord that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


There is nothing further to learn from the braided green cord.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>

************************************************** *********

On the wide oak shelf you see some braided green cord and a cloak pin.
>get pin
You remove a falcon-headed cloak pin from on a wide oak shelf.
>look pin

This cloak pin is a disk of carved onyx. Inset in silver is a stylized image of a falcon's head. On the obverse side is the inscription 'Falcon Company...First to Fight.' A deep nick mars the beauty of the pin.

Attached to the cloak pin is a tag, which reads "This artifact was discovered in the ruins of the Citadel Infirmary. It is thought to to have belonged to a member of the legendary Falcon company, which fought so ably and valiantly from the time of the fall of the Kannalan Empire to the ultimate collapse of the River's Rest Citadel. The cloak pin was donated by members of the Beacon Hall Archives."
>loresing O cloak pin that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O cloak pin that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


You become dizzy and disoriented as you begin to sing. Time becomes fluid, distance becomes an illusion. As your senses recover you see a gathering of young, uniformed men and women of all races...elves, humans, halflings, giantkin, dwarves. They stand in formation in a large, marble-floored chamber. In the background are six pennants, three in blue and three buff-colored. On the buff pennants are the images of a boar, a ram and a thrak. On the blue pennants are a falcon, a hawk and an eagle.

In the center of the room is a marble stairway. Standing on the bottom step is a tall warrior in battle armor. A large blade hangs naked at his side. One by one, the young cadets step proudly forward and are embraced by the tall warrior, who then presents them with a cloak pin.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O cloak pin that I hold,;Let your purpose now be told!
You sing:

"O cloak pin that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"


As you continue your song the world becomes grey and misty. Out of the mist comes a patrol of young warriors wearing blue-grey cloaks, all bearing the falcon head cloak pin. They are led by a grizzled, human sergeant. His face bears the scars and marks of many battles and brawls...one ear has been almost completely chewed off. He glares at a young, half-elven woman hobbling slowly near the rear of the patrol.

The sergeant raises a hand to his mouth and makes a soft clucking sound like a nesting grouse. The patrol halts. Four warriors take perimeter stations while the rest of the troops relax. The sergeant gestures for the young half-elven woman to remove her new boots. Her feet are covered with bleeding and oozing blisters. The sergeant mutters to himself and reaches into his pack for a jar of salve.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

>loresing O cloak pin in my hand,;Sing to me now your magic in this land!
You sing:

"O cloak pin in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"


You continue your song and find yourself suddenly surrounded by noise. Shouts of desperation, the barking of orders, the clash of weapons, the screaming of the wounded. Warriors wearing blue-grey cloaks are in a running skirmish, pursued by a large band of trolls and krolvin pirates. The half-elven woman, older now and bearing a fresh wound in her arm, tugs at her broadsword, which is firmly wedged in the ribs of a dying krolvin.

The grizzled sergeant, herding his squad toward the tall spires of a citadel, hesitates long enough to shout a warning to her. He kicks a krolvin boarding axe in her direction. She abandons her weapon and snatches up the boarding axe, grinning fiercely. They run to catch up with the others, pursued by howling trolls and barking krolvin.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

>loresing O cloak pin held so dear,;Sing to me now your special ability so clear!
You sing:

"O cloak pin held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"


As you sing to the pin the scene shifts again. Now you are haunted by a deathly quiet. You see the one-eared sergeant pull shut the door of a whitewashed building. Inside are hallways leading north, east and west. Furniture has been piled in each of the hallways, forming crude barricades.

The sergeant clambers over one barricade to where a small band of warriors rests, sharpening their weapons and repairing the straps of their armor. The half-elven woman has her back to the wall, half asleep, the krolvin boarding axe still in her fist. The sergeant walks among the soldiers offering words of advice and words of encouragement, though no words of hope. The warriors accept the advice, smile wearily at the encouragement, and do not ask for hope. They know their job is to hold the barriers long enough to allow others to escape.

The insistent pounding of krolvin war drums echoes through the building. The warriors pointedly ignore the noise. Suddenly a krolvin pirate leaps over the barricade, thrusting a spear deep into the chest of the one-eared sergeant! As he collapses, still more krolvin leap over the makeshift barrier and attack. The half-elven woman kills the first krolvin and stands over her fallen sergeant, dealing death to any foe who comes within the reach of her blade. A thrown dagger strikes her cloak pin and ricochets into her throat. She falls to one knee, puts a hand to her bloody throat, looks up into the battle-crazed face of a krolvin, and sees an axe blade arcing toward her head....

Roundtime: 10 sec.

>loresing O cloak pin that I see,;Let your value be revealed to me!
You sing:

"O cloak pin that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"


There is nothing further to learn from the cloak pin.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

[tiggereye]

A surgical steel eyeball scoop


Ruabadra sings:

"Weird spoon of Laeli's tell us the scoop
What's your story, let us into the loop."

The steel eyeball scoop seems to respond to the magic of Ruabadra's song.
As Ruabadra sings, her melody winds down to the barest whisper, and her expression softens before becoming resolute. Suddenly she flinches and clutches at her ears, bringing the sharp edge of the tool dangerously close to her face. You are not sure, but you think you catch a fleeting whiff of hot sulfurous smoke.


The melody of your song fades into the background of your consciousness as a hazy image takes shape before your eyes. A pair of dark elves stand close together; her crystal green eyes catch his blue ones and linger lovingly for a moment. They turn back toward their work, arms raised and sparks of magic crackling across their fingertips. Without warning a deep and resounding CRACK jolts you out of your trance, the sound of mingled screams and the sharp scent of ozone and sulfur fading from your senses.


Ruabadra sings:

"Scoop you told me a tale of magic and screams
What happened next? Please say ice cream."

The steel eyeball scoop seems to respond to the magic of Ruabadra's song.
Ruabadra begins to sing, eyeing the scoop warily and gripping it tightly. Her melody is tentative at first, then swings down into doleful minor key. Then, the key of the song changes again, notes tumbling over each other in wonderment. The eyeball scoop twitches in her hand, almost like an orchestra master's baton.


Steeling yourself and firmly holding the eyeball scoop, you craft a careful melody, and the hazy tableau reappears. The dark elf woman tearfully leans over her lover's motionless form, her expression twisted in maddened grief. She lays her head upon his chest, sobbing. Slowly her sobs trail off and an expression of wonder overtakes her countenance as she turns her ears toward his ruined face, beginning to sway to some unheard music. A glint of light catches her eye from beneath an overturned table.


Ruabadra sings:

"Sharp little scoop, where do you come in?
After the booms and the bursts and the din?"

The steel eyeball scoop seems to respond to the magic of Ruabadra's song.
Ruabadra resumes her song tentatively, with an inquisitive series of keys, before settling into an excruciatingly slow but somehow soothing melody. Her gaze focuses on the floor several feet ahead of her, and an expression of sickened fascination overtakes her features. Gripping the eyeball scoop jauntily in one hand, she reaches out with it and gives it a lightning quick rotational flick.


Sickly curious, you resume your singing. The workroom unfolds before you, centered on the eyeball scoop. It is in the hand of the woman, who is kneeling calmly beside the body. Though her eyes are reddened and her face still wet from tears, she gazes serenely into his eyes, swaying. In her other hand, fluid in a jar swishes to and fro. She hums a disjointed tune, leans over his still form and presses the bowl of the scoop to his right eye, which comes free with a flick of the wrist and a grisly sound.


Ruabadra sings:

"Scoop, what happened to the eye after the boom?
Is it here now? In this very room?"

The steel eyeball scoop seems to respond to the magic of Ruabadra's song.
Ruabadra closes her eyes and cocks her head as she begins the final verse of her song. Almost immediately a visible shiver runs up her spine and her hand reflexively tightens around the eyeball scoop. The color drains slowly from her face as the song continues, though she does not seem to notice as her melancholy melody flows across the area.


You close your eyes as you begin the final verse of your song. The scoop turns icy cold as the scene fades into view. A door hangs askew on its hinge, and a new dark elf stalks through it, carrying the woman. Despite her dark skin, it is clear from her pallor that she has fainted, her hands still clutching a small jar. He glances ruefully back through the door before a more resolute expression overtakes him. Gently tucking a lock of hair behind the woman's ear, he bears her out of the darkened hall.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a sigil-etched dragonmist necklace - Each platinum link is finely crafted and easily interlocked with the one adjacent to itself. A tiny platinum loop is attached to the end of one string of platinum links while the other string has a miniature clasp formed from pure gold. The opposite end of the silver links disappears into the vaalin base metal, which is carefully resting on top of a circular band. The dragonmist crystal fills the center of the circular ring perfectly.

As you sing, you sense resonant vibrations coming from the necklace, matching pitch with yours. Soon a harmony is achieved, and a brilliant display begins to materialize before you...

A tinker gnome sits hunched over a workbench with the sharp pinging of metal on metal echoing around the workshop. Suddenly, a soft melody drifts in:

"Wonders so fine,
wonders all mine,
I wonder what my hubby has for me this time."

Upon hearing the tune, the gnome male sighs softly and turns away from his work and waits for the door to his workshop to open. It appears as if time has worn the tinker gnome down, but his eyes seem to reveal a much younger age.


Once again you harmonize with the necklace and beckon it to continue with the display...

The door to the workshop swings open and a female gnome saunters in. "Geodd, what fancies did you purchase for me this morn while at the market?" questions the lady gnome. "I have a splendid diamond ring for thee," Geodd replies while handing the ring to his wife. The gnome lady beams with delight, takes the ring, and scurries out of the workshop. Upon his wife's departure, Geodd spins back around on his stool and goes back to work. While Goedd continues to work, the sun in the window slowly sinks into the horizon.


You continue your melody with the necklace and the image returns...

The familiar pinging echoes throughout the shop as Geodd contines his work. A cheerful whistling begins to contrast with the pinging metal and soon Geodd stops working. Geodd sighs knowingly and once again turns around on his stool waiting for the door to swing open. The door swings open again and there stands Geodd's wife again with the diamond ring in her hand. "The ring is dull, it has served its use, what do ye have for me now?" asks the wife. "I have this lovely silver rope necklace for you my dear. Its beauty almost comparable to thee." The gnome lady beams with delight, snatches the necklace and skips out of the shop. Geodd shakes his head and returns to his work.


As you continue your song, the image flickers back into your mind...

Geodd still appears to be working on his project when a whistling melody once again interrupts him. Soon, the doorway is once again occupied by his wife with the silver necklace in hand. "Geodd, the necklace is tarnished, what else do ye have for me?" sighs the wife questioningly. "This gold ruby-inlaid tiara should be the perfect compliment to such a lovely head," replies Geodd. The wife beams a smile, takes the tiara and scurries out the door.

Geodd springs from his stool and rushes over to the door, latching it shut. Geodd then pulls a rolled up parchment from out of his cloak and mutters to himself, "Day after day, week and week, this will obviously never end. . . time to put my plan into action."


As you continue singing, the scene shifts...

Geodd's wife strolls up to the door and fiddles with the handle, but it does not open. "Geodd!" screeches the wife, "why is the door latched, let me in!" The gnome lady proceeds to beat and beat and beat on the door with her tiny fists. This carries on for quite some time until finally the door swings open. Without uttering a word, Geodd holds out his hand and the wife promptly puts the tiara in it. Geodd then hands his wife a gem set onto a metal backing. Geodd's wife blinks at the trinket in amazement and asks, "What is this?" "Tap it and you shall never be bored with your jewelry ever again," Geodd replies.


Your breath becomes labored as you try to coax yet more out of the necklace...

Geodd's wife taps the trinket in her hand once and much to her surprise and delight the trinket shifts into a piece of jewelry. Fascinated by this new wonderment, Geodd's wife begins to tap the trinket at a frantic pace and watches as it continues to shift into new pieces. Geodd cries out, "No, no, hon wait! No so fast! It will break . . ." However, his wife continues to tap the trinket faster and faster until finally . . . *SNAP* the trinket shatters into tiny fragments. Geodd lets out a long, soft sigh as his wife begins to berate him for something new...


>tap my neck
Tiny slits open along the base metal and the unclasped fine platinum links start feeding themselves back into the base. The dragonmist crystal then flips itself back over the rim of the circular band and firmly attaches itself in place. The two segmented metal strips unlink, then begin to twine themselves very carefully around one another. As it does so, small squeaking noises are emitted from it.
>glance
You glance down to see a delicate dragonmist earring in your right hand and nothing in your left hand.
>look my earring
The two strips of segmented metal entwine one another with perfect symmetry. A small linking clasp secures the dragonmist crystal to the base of the delicate metal. A tiny hook of pure gold protrudes out from the tip of one of the twined metal strips serving as the fastener between the earlobe and earring.
>tap my earring
The twisted metal strips untwine themselves and completely recede into the base metal. The dragonmist crystal spins as the thin metal backbone slides back under it, forming an octangular shape with each of the eight points capped in silver. As it does so, small squeaking noises are emitted from it.
>glance
You glance down to see a dainty dragonmist brooch in your right hand and nothing in your left hand.
>look my brooch
The dragonmist crystal is held in place by an ornately carved web of twisting metal extending from the base. The vaalin baseplate is cut into an octangular shape with each of the eight points capped in silver. A thin metal backbone spans the width of the brooch allowing it to be easily fastened.
>tap my brooch
The dragonmist crystal slides inward along with the extended metal plate while the twisting metal prongs slowly recede back into the baseplate. Once the metal backbone has receded completly into the main plate, two small, segmented metal strips begin to extend outward from the base, looping toward one another. Finally, the two pieces of segmented metal link up forming a perfectly symmetrical and circular ring. As it does so, small squeaking noises are emitted from it.
>glance
You glance down to see an intricate dragonmist ring in your right hand and nothing in your left hand.
>look my ring
The vaalin-backed dragonmist crystal is expertly inset onto the rim of the ring. The metallic bands extending from the base vaalin are broken up into tiny segments, decreasing slightly in width as they loop out and link up together. The segmentation enables each link to recede back into another.
>tap my ring
The four small prongs spring up from the base plate elevating the ring an inch off of your palm. The dragonmist crystal carefully moves from the rim of the ring to the center of the circular metal strips sealing off the hole where your finger used to go. Tiny slits open along the base metal and platinum links begin to slide slowly out forming the rope of the necklace. As it does so, small squeaking noises are emitted from it.
>glance
You glance down to see a sigil-etched dragonmist necklace in your right hand and nothing in your left hand.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a gold-trimmed jewelled eye - The eye is carefully set inside a beautiful golden setting encrusted with sparkling diamonds which glow with a strange ethereal light. At the moment, the eye is closed tight.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the jewelled eye in your hand, and you learn something about it...

This is a small item, under a pound. In your best estimation, it's worth about 21,000 silvers. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the jewelled eye.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the jewelled eye in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a faint aura of magic around the jewelled eye. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the eye is to cast a spell or perform some magical purpose.

Though you cannot quite fathom the nature of the eye's spell, you feel a slow drawing sensation about its surface which leads you to believe the eye recharges itself over time.

The jewelled eye suddenly blinks at you! For just a moment, you get the feeling you are somewhere else... but a quick blink of your own eyes shows you that it was just a vision.

[shad0ws0ngs]

an elemental bow of fire

As you sing, you sense resonant vibrations coming from the bow, matching pitch with yours. Soon a harmony is achieved, and a brilliant display begins to materialize before you...

The scene unfolds in a deep, shadowy forest, with an aged sylvan craftsman gazing upward, almost sadly, to a giant white monir tree.
He gestures to a group of younger lads and walks away. The gathered youth watch him leave with a visible degree of respect before advancing on the great trunk. They begin to chop methodically, their voices rising and falling with rich texture and resonance. Their song seems to calm you, as if their singing was designed to aid the great tree itself in accepting its fate.

Roundtime: 7 sec.


As you continue singing, the scene shifts...

The aged sylvan craftsman now sits alone in a wooded glade, his eyes closed, and his mouth working in some silent chant.

Arrayed neatly around him are several thick, straight pieces of white monir wood, each shining faintly in the light that filters through the overhanging tree limbs. The craftsman runs his hand along each in turn, and as he does so they seem to glimmer with varying hues. He settles his hands in his lap once again, and continues his quiet chant...

Roundtime: 6 sec.


Once again you harmonize with the bow and beckon it to continue with the display...

The scene shifts to reveal the sylvan craftsman once again. His features appear the same however he looks much older, as if his work has drained him. He stands next to a work table with an oiled rag in his hand, gazing down at several polished bows of white monir, each easily identifiable by the runic patterns etched upon them. He nods quietly to himself and beckons an apprentice standing in the shadows forward to take the weapons off the table. The youth glances at her master with concern before gathering the bundle and walking out of the workshop.

Roundtime: 8 sec.


Your breath becomes labored as you try to coax yet more out of thebow...

Another shift in the scene reveals the craftsman, his face hollow and shrunken, his eyes not moving, and no breath escaping his lips. He lies on a carved linden platform, and is surrounded by a score of other sylphs. Apart from these are five archers, standing at the foot of the platform facing away from the others. They slowly raise their bows and let loose into the air. As their missiles arch away from the scene, you examine them closely. One appears as if it is on fire, another leaves a faint trail of frost in the air, the third seems to shimmer slightly, and the fourth seems to boil as it flies.

The fifth arrow arcs slightly above the others, streaking across the sky in a dazzling display of electrical energy. The archer who fired that arrow turns and seems to look directly at you.

He nods slightly and says something in sylvan you don't quite catch.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Magical Seed Pouch:
a woven jute and cotton pouch
In the jute and cotton pouch you see a magic seed, a magic seed, a magic seed, a magic seed and a magic seed.



The pouch seems to give no emanations of anything out of the ordinary.


Roundtime: 7 sec.



The pouch lays still in your hands, its drab exterior doing nothing to betray any unusual qualities.


Roundtime: 7 sec.



The pouch just lays there.

It's a boring little pouch. And as such pouches can sometimes do, it simply acts pouchish.

What a waste of your superior talents.

How DARE it just sit there, like a fat toad of a useless pouch. That's tantamount to an insult, considering the exceptional timbre and inspired rhythm of such dulcet melody as that with which you labored to serenade that despicable, rude little slug of some idiot tailor's misconception! What nerve! What IMPUDENCE! Especially considering that this worthless piece of garbage can't even manage to hold more weight than that of a niggardly seed!

Oh well...such is the life of a poor, unappreciated bard. You do your darnedest to provide the beacon of art to this back-water of a town, and for what!? No one even understands what spectacular talents are being wasted on the ears and sensibilities of heathens.


Roundtime: 8 sec.



The little pouch gives you a brief glimpse of magical qualities. However, the sensation is gone almost as soon as it is felt, like a fragile flower that withers as it is plucked from the stem.


Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a gold-flecked dark urnon key


As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the dark urnon key in your hand, and you learn something about it...

This is a small item, under a pound. You tremble and can barely hold onto the dark urnon key. You estimate it must be worth over a hundred million silvers! You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the dark urnon key.


As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the dark urnon key in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a faint aura of magic around the dark urnon key. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the key is to open locks.


As you sing, you sense resonant vibrations coming from the key, matching pitch with yours. Soon a harmony is achieved, and a brilliant display begins to materialize before you...

Dark magic swirls in chaotic patterns before your eyes. They begin to coalesce around the key, shifting and pulling at the very material it is made of. For a brief moment, the key turns molten, pliable in your hands, then suddenly flashes bright, as if full of energy!

Roundtime: 8 sec.


You learn nothing new about the key.

[shad0ws0ngs]

some scarlet eahnor full plate - Though somewhat scuffed and battered, the crimson color of the eahnor armor remains true and bright. The joints in the armor have been cared for meticulously, their function still fluid and strong. You also notice a small enchanter's glyph.


The smell of pine fills your senses, and a dense evergreen forest materializes before you. In the forest are two young human children, a boy and a girl, scampering over beds of pine needles and taking daring leaps across a small stream. Their laughter echoes through the sunlit scene, light filtering gently down through the branches of the tall trees.

Roundtime: 8 sec.


A second scene swims into your vision. The same children from the forest, now adults, stand facing each other at a city gate. The girl is taller, and her dark blonde hair is longer. The boy, now every inch a man, wears a serious expression and is dressed in full battle attire. He smiles faintly, touching her shoulder, and in response she wraps her arms around him in an embrace of familial affection. As he walks away, tears spill freely down her cheeks, though her smile remains proud and hopeful.

Roundtime: 7 sec.


The vision is vivid and brutal. Battle cries and screams of pain fill the air, a mob of howling undead attacking a human cavalry with ruthless speed. The tall soldier fights valiantly in front of two younger warriors, their eyes wide with fear, their bodies paralyzed by indecision. As the young men retreat to safety, the older soldier is overwhelmed by the sneering forces of undead. A brutal blow ends his life in an instant. Quickly dismembered by zombies, his scarlet armor is abandoned.

Roundtime: 9 sec.


Blackness swims before your vision for a moment, clearing to reveal a scene dominated by the presence of hundreds of mournbloom blossoms. Sobbing born of deep despair comes from the mouth of the blonde woman. Clad in black, she kneels before a crimson suit of armor that is resting upon a black marble slab. As she reaches to touch the battered plate, her cries grow louder, and the visage of her overwhelming grief is almost too much to bear.

Roundtime: 10 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a folded coraesine short sword inscribed with a swooping hawk

The sword begins to resonate with the tone of your voice, and you find your vision swept away on currents of air...

Only to be replaced by utter darkness. But other things reach you in the blackness of the earth that surrounds you entirely... waves of power wash across you, soothing the very core of your being as threads of essence curl and nestle within you.

Millenia pass by in a heartbeat -- the power only growing further within you -- its mere presence further changing and shaping you as you stand as a silent and ancient receiver of its strength.

The blackness gradually fades away into the vivid colors of reality.

Roundtime: 7 sec.


The heavy darkness returns to you once more as the sword gives way to the power of your song...

As you become used to the gradual waves of power collecting within you, flashes of bright white light accompany the darkness -- as if another awareness were reaching out to you.

As the years continue to pass by, the flashes become more drawn out -- their whiteness resolving into a pale grey that encompasses everything, as if the world itself were a huge swirling vortex of mist-laden air, its eddies and currents stretching for untold miles as it constantly shifts and reforms itself in an ethereal dance of beauty.

Realizing that somehow these visions are connected to the power which even now washes over and fills you completely -- the very power that fuels the awareness you now experience. You surrender yourself to the visions, and you feel the white-hot explosion of the power within you pushing you into transcendence...

And then the vision fades away into nothing but a lingering memory.

Roundtime: 7 sec.


A tingling sensation overcomes you as the darkness settles over your vision once again...

Vaguely aware of your surroundings, you push at the borders of your dark world, your presence manifesting itself by slamming against the surrounding rock to no avail. With little else to do, you take in the power that has forever washed over you for centuries...

Until a chink of light breaks the endless blackness, a tear in the great velvet shroud illuminates your world...and you find yourself falling...

Dimly aware of the world, you sense a strange, alien presence among you, radiating its own sense of power as it retrieves you...

The world becomes a dizzying array of new sensations as you're moved for the first time in you existence. It soon melts away into reality as the vision comes to an end.

Roundtime: 8 sec.


A strange heat ripples along your spine as the sword surrenders to your song...

You feel heat surround you on all sides, and intermittent strikes from above shape your form into something new altogether. You focus your power upwards occasionally striking the alien presence hovering near you -- the vibrations of its startled screams passing over your surface. The being's determination is relentless, however, and you find yourself wrought into a new form...

Soon after, you feel a distinctly different presence -- alien, as the others, but radiating a strange sensation -- a vaguely familiar feeling that touched you in ages past.

The vision's blackness recedes into the warmth of reality.

Roundtime: 9 sec.


Tingling sensations race across the black void as you're plunged into it...

The familiar presence touches you with its power -- and for a moment you feel a white-hot surge of essence burst through you -- and then the blackness recedes into a hazy image of the world around you...as if you were seeing through the being's eyes.

Dark cavernous walls surround you, and the lithe shadow of the Faendryl wielding you plays across the craggy surface. As you feel yourself whisked through the air and feel your edge slice into the body of another awareness...a strange energy courses through you, further amplifying your power -- allowing you to better understand the familiar presence which now wields you. Focusing your energies, you unleash a burst of essence, shrouding the one who wields you in a cloak of air -- propelling him into a second strike quicker than lightning against the alien presence, which expires.

The washed-out vision gives way to the lush colors of reality.

Roundtime: 7 sec.


You sense the weight of many years as you delve into the memories of the coraesine short sword...

The master fluidly slices through battle, your senses perfectly in tune with his own. Calling up your power, you extend your presence to aid and protect him as he defeats foe after foe -- the number of alien presences surrounding you innumerable.

As the battle rages on, you sense a presence behind the master, poised to strike -- you twist in his grip to block the blow, but it is too late -- you feel the spark of his life fade away like a dying star and you merely drop to the ground.

The alien slayer reaches to pick you up, and you surge forth with your power to sprout spikes that flay off the presence's flesh, causing its rumbling screams to vibrate along your surface.

No longer able to sense the master who bonded with you so long ago nor see through his eyes, your world fades into darkness...
And the vision comes to a close, the darkness gradually fading into reality.

You get a sense that was the sword's last memory.

Roundtime: 7 sec.

[FlayedAngel]

That's a pretty sweet lore-song... neat to see these posted.

[shad0ws0ngs]

That's a pretty sweet lore-song... neat to see these posted.

Trying to make sure all the neat loresonged stuff doesn't get lost/forgotten as well as provide more IG back story for things that people might be able to build on.

[Elvenlady]

Trying to make sure all the neat loresonged stuff doesn't get lost/forgotten as well as provide more IG back story for things that people might be able to build on.

Speaking of which, I've finally worked Roh's ice wings into her backstory. Here's the loresong for posterity:

You tap a pair of icy silver-blue wings, which is in your right hand.
>l wings
Opalescent silver-blue pinions compose these beautiful wings. Each silky feather showcases coruscant hues reminiscent of a frozen tundra beneath a cold winter's sky with its shimmering silvers and iridescent blues, culminating in an amazing array of cool colors. A frosty coating of glimmering ice clings to the magnificent wings, never melting from the dense plumage despite the temperature. With the slightest movement, delicate ice crystals radiate forth from the feathers in a dazzling display.

As you weave your melody around the wings, they suddenly come to life, flapping gently within your grasp. Several of the feathers softly brush against your face, momentarily obscuring your view.

When you can see again, your surroundings have changed to the shadowy base of a towering mountain where a cozy log cabin stands. A man of indeterminate race exits the small wooden abode and takes a careful glance around. He is getting on in years, yet not so old as to be feeble and decrepit. With a quiet sigh, he turns to reenter his home when suddenly, something crashes nearby! He rushes over to investigate the cause of the ruckus with the energy and vigor of a man several years younger. To his surprise, he discovers a large bird, nearly the size of a dog, with silvery blue plumage, crying out in pain from a broken wing. Darkness falls upon the scene as the man carefully considers what to do with the injured creature.

Your voice caresses the wings tenderly, evoking another vivid scene from the mists of the past.

The injured bird perches comfortably upon a branch in a makeshift aviary, its wing splinted and wrapped in bandages. It appears wary as the man approaches cautiously from the side. He carries a basket of fruits, which he rests upon the ground several feet away from the bird. Backing away slowly, he watches with a slight smile on his face as the bird hops down from its perch and greedily eats up the delectable offerings. The man turns and walks away, a shadowy curtain falling upon the image, until all that remains is the here and now.

The wings in your hand pulse with a life of their own, responding to each note in your mellifluous song.

In the blink of an eye, you once again see the man tending to the bird, though this time, the creature seems friendlier towards its caretaker. The man holds an apple up to the bird, and it quickly snatches it up, crunching cheerfully on the fruit. Later on, the magnificent bird preens itself, taking care of its vibrant silvery blue plumage. Several feathers drift softly to the ground, sending off showers of ice crystals. The vivid display catches the eye of the man, who approaches the feathers with caution. After the moment of wonderment passes, he gingerly collects the fallen feathers and brings them to the cabin, all the while staring intently at the feathers with curiosity. As he closes the door, the scene drifts into obscurity.

An errant breeze ruffles the feathers of the wings as you sing, causing an unearthly rippling across the plumage that mesmerizes your gaze.

Soon, you can see the man standing in the shadow of the large mountain, staring at the sky. He watches with tears in his eyes as the bird flies off into the distance, never to be seen again. Clutching the bandages and splint in his hands, he lets out a lonesome sigh, saddened by the departure of his companion for the past few months. Lamenting his loss, he makes his way into his cabin and glances at a basket, filled with silvery blue feathers he had collected over time. With one last glance out the window, he pulls out several feathers and begins to weave them together with a skilled hand. As the sun sets, the scene fades from your vision.

With each modulation of your voice, the wings sends off showers of ice crystals.

You are caught momentarily in the display, and when you look up, the man once again stands alone in the shadow of the mountain. Sprouting from his back is a pair of icy silver-blue wings. With a deep breath, he flaps the wings once, causing a strong breeze to swirl around the clearing. He keeps flapping his wings, attempting to gain the power of flight, but after nearly an hour of trying; his feet still remain planted firmly on the ground. Crying out in pain and through tears of agony, he wrenches the wings from his back. He collapses to the ground and lies there for a while, sobbing quietly. The scene quickly passes to evening. With bandages on his back, man approaches the makeshift aviary he had built and hangs the wings he had crafted upon the perch where the bird once sat. Without a single look back, he hobbles back to his cabin and closes the door one final time. As it finally shuts, you are snapped back to reality, holding the very silver-blue wings in your hands from the vision.

As your song's melody dances around the wings, they rise slowly, only to fall still once again.

*Will try and remember to add the verbs and messaging when she's wearing them again*

[shad0ws0ngs]

a thief helm - The helm is well worn from years of use and combat. Runes have been inscribed upon the helm in a form unrecognizable today. Sinister dark eyes upon the helm look through you almost as if they could peer through your clothing. The feeling is eerie.


Strange vibrations eminate from the helm. You almost feel a lifelike presence within the confines of the metal itself. A shudder runs down your spine as your verse touches upon the secrets of the runes which you are not quite able to make out.


Roundtime: 7 sec.


Your song's music begins to bring words into your mind, limericks to a poem written on the thief helm begin to take shape.
A thief of fame,
did once proclaim,
Stealing for him was a joke.

He wore this hat,
the top he'd pat,
then into their purse he'd poke.


Roundtime: 6 sec.


His wealth did grow,
but hatred did sow,
and soon no one would befriend him.

So he put down,
this magical crown,
you'd think this chance would be slim.

But a friend in hand,
should not slip like sand,
through fingers that lift their gold.


Roundtime: 8 sec.


The limerick continues to form in your mind.
To rid the curse,
and stop stealing their purse,
the helm he had was sold.

While this helm can bring you gold,
friends close to you are hard to hold.
The curse of this helm is plain to see,
your gain comes only from those close to thee. Just then you could swear one of the eyes on the helm winks at you.


Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a pair of silver spectacles - let your read in gnomish


Your vision clouds, a disorienting sensation stealing over you as images rush through your mind's eye. Symbols, runes and glyphs flicker by as your awareness quests back to a time long past.

Candlelight flickers shadows along a stone and mortar wall, inky figures dancing over its rough surface. A tome lies open upon a parchment-strewn desk, a pair of silver spectacles resting atop its yellowing pages. Lines of strange runes span the parchment, the symbols curling about each other like so many ants over a bit of discarded cake.

The lenses of the spectacles shimmer slightly, a prismatic sheen running across their surface as your vision gazes down through them. The glyphs upon the page appear different, and you comprehend the mysteries of the few lines visible to you: "...and would one find it, the nexus of...", "...requiring few reagents, such as wyr...", "...there, and only there, would this terrible purpose come to pass...."

The loud creak of an opening door startles you as you lean closer to the page, hungry for the other secrets the sigils hold from you. As you turn toward the source of the sound, you find your vision fading and familiar surroundings returning to your senses, though the original sensation lingers....

Roundtime: 9 sec.

Your vision clouds, and you find your awareness once again rushing across the vastness of the past.

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Back and forth, the soapy brush drifts across the floor. A frail-looking youth garbed in tattered linen robes kneels by a wooden bucket filled with murky water, his hand guiding the bristles along the darkly lacquered wooden floor.

The shuffling of turning pages fills the room, accompanied by the flicker of a guttering candle. Shuffle. Scrub. Shuffle. Scrub. The sounds play off each other in rhythm, each repetition deepening the frown worn by the youth in the dirty robe.

Stopping to rinse the brush in the brackish water, the lad raises his eyes to look at the source of the shuffling. An ancient husk of a man sits at a parchment-strewn desk, long grey hair flowing down his back from under a tall pointed hat.

Resentment slowly fills the youth's eyes, his gaze locked on the back of the man at the desk. Seeming to notice the cessation of scrubbing sounds, the man turns, saying, "Now, now. Remember your training."

The boy's face is calm once more, untouched by malice as he returns to the drudgery of cleaning. His gaze absently follows the brush in its strokes, but his white-knuckled grip on its handle betrays the anger within.

The vision fades suddenly, familiar surroundings flooding back to your senses....

Roundtime: 10 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a cracked crystal sphere - The outside of the sphere is smooth and perfectly polished, but a dark crack runs through its depths.


>gaze sphere
Concentrating upon the crystal, you expand your awareness outward. A faint tingling on the back of your neck makes you aware that someone concealed from view is present.
Roundtime: 5 sec.

Aurach softly says, "I just know I can see.. people."
>
Aurach softly says, "Hide."
>
Aurach softly says, "And it shows me when I am alone."
>
Aurach softly says, "As well."

" multiple people: Concentrating upon the crystal, you expand your awareness outward. Tingling pinpricks run along the back of your neck, making you aware that three concealed people are present. Images swirl through the crystal, but none coalesce sufficiently to be recognized."
"one person: Concentrating upon the crystal, you expand your awareness outward. A faint tingling on the back of your neck makes you aware that someone concealed from view is present. Within the crystal, you briefly glimpse the image of a shadowy figure with a completely bald head."
"sometimes I see 'everything' but thier name"



As the sphere responds to the vibrations of your voice, you sense magic dwelling within it. The nature of the magic is linked in some ways to your own bardsong -- a magic of the mind, though not one shaped in the same ways as yours. Colors play softly across the sphere's surface.


As your voice delves into the crystal sphere, you determine that this sphere was once part of a greater artifact, but a catastrophic incident shattered the structure and destroyed that greater magic. You sense a power within the sphere that is ancient beyond mere years, a length of time measured better by elves than humans, and better by the stars than by either race.


Searching further for information about the sphere, you sense that the greater magic was a magic of scrying and location, with abilities to predict both the future and the past. You sense that the hands of many master craftsmen were involved in creating the greater artifact. Now, the sphere still cradles scrying magic, but it is a frail shadow of its former existence, stretching only through aspects of the present and only in a small ring around its possessor.


The magic of your loresong calls an image forth from the sphere. You see a delicately formed glass sculpture depicting an erithian woman with twenty or more squid tentacles fanning from her body in place of arms. She is far taller than any true erithian, standing twenty or twenty-five feet tall, and each of her glimmering tentacles cradles a sparkling crystal sphere much akin to the sphere that you hold now. Scribes stand around the sculpture, scribbling intently across pieces of parchment as they gaze into the various spheres. A serene smile graces the sculpture's face as she watches her watchers.

The image fades away.


Your magic reaches into the sphere and recalls images that dwelt within it in the past. As visions swirl before your eyes, you sense that these images first shone in the crystal when the crystal was part of the greater artifact and lay cradled in one of those glimmering tentacles. You see a dwarven man covered with pustules and bent with heavy coughing, a crowned Faendryl woman lying motionless upon a funeral bier, a tall giantman woman with a cobalt blue mask tattooed across her face, an auburn-haired human man holding an orchid and a dagger, an elven woman praying to the starry darkness beyond a prison window, a veniom airship gliding through the sky, a gilded scarlet drake dying as a sylvan woman weeps, a group of translucent children running through a pair of black gates that rend the earth and sky as they open.... the images flash and fade, coming faster and faster, until they melt into a blur.

With a sharp jolt, the flow of images ends, leaving you as dazed as if you had just awakened from a sound sleep.


As you summon the lore of the sphere with your music, you are plunged back into a vision. You see a terrible battle in the chamber surrounding the erithian sculpture. It is impossible to tell the identities or even the races of the attackers, although they are as tall as the erithians they fight, for their forms are completely swathed in white silk. Most of the scribes flee, but some try to protect the great statue, and their bodies are spilled on the ground for their trouble.

Then, a new presence enters the room -- a woman garbed in turquoise blue silk who bears a gleaming katana in her hand. She fights with greater skill than anyone else, whirling and slashing in a dance of unerring death that lays waste to the attackers. Soon, only one attacker stands, and she pivots precisely before bringing the katana sweeping upward through his body.

The katana passes cleanly through the attacker's body, splitting it into two halves, and connects with the sculpture. Both katana and sculpture shatter. Fragments of glass and steel rain across the ground like petals in a windstorm, and the crystals strike the ground with the heaviness of apples shaken from an orchard. The crystals do not break, although, from the horror on the warrior's face, it makes little difference that they do not.

She is the only one standing. She drops the hilt of the katana, turns, and flees. The vision fades out on her departing shadow.



Another vision comes from the sphere. Instead of touching you gently, this one closes about you with the cold strength of a skeletal fist, forcing you to observe what follows.

The chamber stands deserted, heavy with the dust of passing decades. Skeletons litter the floor where scribes and attackers fell. Debris from the sculpture and the katana litter the ground.

A cold wind sweeps through the chamber, stirring the debris gently. White mist coalesces beside the door and becomes the shape of the former katana-wielder, now translucent and ethereal with the touch of death gone by.

One by one, the ghost picks up the spheres and cradles them gently in her spectral arms. As she touches each sphere, a faint shock runs through you, and you intuit that she is transforming the nature of the spheres' magic as she touches them. The ghost whispers in erithian, but you understand the words as if she had whispered them in your native tongue. "Some things should never have been. Some things should never be again."

Then she dissolves, taking the spheres with her, and the chamber is left empty. The vision fades away.


A cold tingle runs across your fingertips and palm where your skin touches the sphere. The presence of the ghost's touch still contaminates the crystal, preventing it forever from being reassembled as part of the artifact that once contained it. The world around you seems darker, colder, infused only with shadow, bereft of any hopeful future... and then your verse ends, and the brief impression fades.


You can discern nothing more of the sphere's nature.


(also, Dergoatean's chipped spherical crystal)

[shad0ws0ngs]

a jeweled black ora morning star - You glance at your star. The handle of the morning star has been carefully inlaid with a gleaming spiral of jade that winds elegantly up the haft. At the end of the haft is a mounted chain with a wickedly spiked black ora ball attached to it. Wispy crimson silk is delicately wrapped around the handle ending right above a small jade wisp with something written beneath it. The ora morning star is shrouded in swirling shadows from top to bottom and no amount of light seems to be able to penetrate the gloom.

In the Common language, it reads:
Desire


(OOC) Vishra's player whispers, "Desire is 5x true black ora. Standard +3 WIS, -1 Spirit Gen, +1 Mana Regen. Also has rotflares and unbalance flares."


Your vision clouds over and a scene unfolds before you. The image of a scarred dwarf in leathers laboring deep in a dark, dank mine, grunting as he extracts precious black ora ore. Orcs goblins, and other slaves load the precious ore and push the cart towards a towering smelter. An oversized troll cracks a weighted scourge as the miners pass, tearing skin, leather and fur with equal ease. Most of the miners are criss-crossed with scars and most have fresh, bloody weals.


You can see the dwarf laboring over a hot iron forge. He mops his brow continually as he pumps the bellows then returns to the anvil, coaxing a weapon from the white-hot black Soon, the ora takes the form of the business part of the ora morning star. He plunges it into a barrel of softly smoking oil, then another of a strange glowing substance, and then finally into a barrel of congealed blood. He cackles madly as a shadow slowly takes form around it which soon twines around his hand.


Your inner vision once again focuses on the scarred dwarf, carefully polishing the black ora star before handing it to an emaciated mage with hollowed white eye sockets. He incants over the ora morning star and looks pleased. He raises it to the sky and shadows swirl around and a bolt of greenish-black lightning cracks over it causing the mist to scatter and then reform. The dwarf and the mage both laugh maniacally.


The scene shifts as the emaciated mage incants powerful charms over the the ora morning star. He cackles incessently as he waves the star, but suddenly shadows detach themselves from the wall and surround the mage, as the mist assaults him, shadowy fangs plunge repeatedly into his body, his mouth open in silent scream. The mists slowly fade away and with them, the ora morning star vanishes.


Your song draws to a close and you feel the story has ended.
You learn nothing new about the star.


The first thing that strikes you about the star is the weight, which is about 8 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 1,000,000 silvers. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the ora morning star.

[shad0ws0ngs]

From the officials:



A ribbon-tied parchment


The strange parchment was discovered on the floor of the Thirsty Penguin on Restday, the 8th of Fashanos. It could not be read nor written on, and seemed fussy about being in the hands of anyone who had previously touched it. However, upon having a bard sing to it, it revealed this story:

Mist enshrouds your vision for several seconds, and when it clears you find yourself gazing into a shadow-riddled orchard. Long spindled branches dip into the lane and are laden with plump apples that shine in the silvery moonlight. Strolling with purpose, a wrinkled old man glides across the dusty trail that winds through the gnarled trees, his beady eyes glittering with purpose. Slowly, the vision fades away.

Chilling mist clings to your skin, and you find yourself gazing a high tower. A commotion in the front yard draws your eyes to a wrought iron gate, and within seconds you find yourself standing before it. Men with torches form a ring around an elven man that is bound by the feet and ankles. Nearly falling from his horse, an injured man, dressed in the finery of a lord, issues several orders, and the crowded courtyard bustles with activity. On the edges of the slowly emptying yard, a wrinkled old man with beady eyes watches, his face drawn downward into a frown. Slowly, the vision fades away.

Slowly obscuring your vision, a fine mist rises all around you. Images flow through the mist, and in each of them is an old man gifting various people with trinkets, charms, bowls, or other small items. Each of these gifts is received with genuine delight and quickly stored away or placed on display within a home or shop. Slowly, the vision fades, and with it all traces of the aged man.

The parchment vibrates in your hand, but you learn nothing more from its cold presence.

The parchment was left where it was found, but has since vanished.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Got PM'd this one today!

It's "a deep purple pendant"...apparently it's a 2x/day familiar pendant from parts unknown...


As you sing, your vision clouds over and a scene unfolds for you. A pair of hands, weathered and wrinkled with age tirelessly polishing a perfect purple.

As you continue to sing, your field of view widens. An ancient man of elven features works on the purple, chanting in a lilting language while polishing it. As he continues his chant the purple begins to shine with an inner light, as if it were absorbing power.

As you continue to sing, you see the elven magician place the purple aside long enough to pick up a finely wrought chisel of adamantine. Carefully, he begins to carve a strange swirling symbol into it. as he completes the work the purple flares with a brilliant light which fades to a faint glow.

You sense that the pendant is of a time long past. The power contained within sings to you of ancient magic and hidden knowledge. The nature of the power hidden within is such that you are unable to learn the manner in which it will manifest itself. It would appear the only way to find out more would be to call forth the power within.

[shad0ws0ngs]

This is up for sale currently, elsewhere:

Elemental bow of lightning 5x/5x short bow version

As you sing, you sense resonant vibrations coming from the bow, matching pitch with yours. Soon a harmony is achieved, and a brilliant display begins to materialize before you...

The scene unfolds in a deep, shadowy forest, with an aged sylvan craftsman gazing upward, almost sadly, to a giant white monir tree.
He gestures to a group of younger lads and walks away. The gathered youth watch him leave with a visible degree of respect before advancing on the great trunk. They begin to chop methodically, their voices rising and falling with rich texture and resonance. Their song seems to calm you, as if their singing was designed to aid the great tree itself in accepting its fate.

The aged sylvan craftsman now sits alone in a wooded glade, his eyes closed, and his mouth working in some silent chant.

Arrayed neatly around him are several thick, straight pieces of white monir wood, each shining faintly in the light that filters through the overhanging tree limbs. The craftsman runs his hand along each in turn, and as he does so they seem to glimmer with varying hues. He settles his hands in his lap once again, and continues his quiet chant...

Once again you harmonize with the bow and beckon it to continue with the display...

The scene shifts to reveal the sylvan craftsman once again. His features appear the same however he looks much older, as if his work has drained him. He stands next to a work table with an oiled rag in his hand, gazing down at several polished bows of white monir, each easily identifiable by the runic patterns etched upon them. He nods quietly to himself and beckons an apprentice standing in the shadows forward to take the weapons off the table. The youth glances at her master with concern before gathering the bundle and walking out of the workshop.

Your breath becomes labored as you try to coax yet more out of the bow...

Another shift in the scene reveals the craftsman, his face hollow and shrunken, his eyes not moving, and no breath escaping his lips. He lies on a carved linden platform, and is surrounded by a score of other sylphs. Apart from these are five archers, standing at the foot of the platform facing away from the others. They slowly raise their bows and let loose into the air. As their missiles arch away from the scene, you examine them closely. One appears as if it is on fire, another leaves a faint trail of frost in the air, the third seems to shimmer slightly, and the fourth seems to boil as it flies.

The fifth arrow arcs slightly above the others, streaking across the sky in a dazzling display of electrical energy. The archer who fired that arrow turns and seems to look directly at you.

[Wrathbringer]

Got PM'd this one today!

It's "a deep purple pendant"...apparently it's a 2x/day familiar pendant from parts unknown...

Ask methais. That's where he's from.

[Ardwen]

The purple pendant is from Uthex, as in the lunatic that lived on the moon and did all those evil things there, and he loved him some purple apparently

[shad0ws0ngs]

Copied from the appraisals:

You remove a jewel-edged golden steel helm with a plume of blood red eagle feathers from in your climbing pack.

The harmonic vibrations that your song evokes in the golden steel helm convey a sense of great age. At a rough estimate, the helm is worth 1 silver, but a collector of antiquities might be willing to offer a significantly greater sum.

As the golden steel helm responds to your song, you sense echoes of ancient enchantment drifting softly through the resonances. It is difficult to say whether or not the helm is innately magical, but, if not, then it has certainly been exposed to a great deal of magical energy over an extended period of time.

The resonances of your music caress the ancient weave of enchantment within the golden steel helm. You recognize both spiritual and elemental components, twisted together and permanently altered into a new form -- the unmistakable taint of sorcery.

As you sing to the golden steel helm, you evoke the image of a short man with silver-streaked hair. He holds the golden steel helm in his hands, studying it intently. As he turns it over, its brilliant gems glitter brightly as they catch the light, and he nods his approval. He signals to a liveried servant nearby, and the servant quickly comes to take the helm away. The vision drifts away from you as your verse ends.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Copied from a thread on the high end items folder:


Spell prep ring; morphs into a tattoo when you wear it (does not take up a ring slot); displays as "a blue ring tattoo on her finger"; changes how your spell prep is displayed based upon three different settings: cursed, neutral, blessed. Only works for profession circles. See below for more details.

>TAP TATTOO
You tap a blue ring tattoo that you are wearing.

(cursed w/715)
You slide a blue-black sapphire ring onto your finger and it flickers out of existence briefly, reappearing as a hazy blue mist. The blue mist collapses onto your finger, absorbing into your skin.
>prep 701
You murmur under your breath, uttering only harsh, guttural sounds in an invocation of Blood Burst...
Your spell is ready.

(uncursed/ neutral)
You slide a silver-blue sapphire ring onto your finger and it flickers out of existence briefly, reappearing as a hazy blue mist. The blue mist collapses onto your finger, absorbing into your skin.
>prep 705
You make a quick, circular gesture, preparing Disintegrate...
Your spell is ready.

(blessed w/304)
>wear ring
You slide a cerulean sapphire ring onto your finger and it flickers out of existence briefly, reappearing as a hazy blue mist. The blue mist collapses onto your finger, absorbing into your skin.
>prep 705
You make a long, circular gesture, leaving a blue trail through the air as you prepare Disintegrate...
Your spell is ready.

>REMOVE TATTOO
You begin carving relentlessly into your own flesh to remove your ring tattoo!
As the pain increases, you cry out and fall to the ground with the accursed ring tattoo removed!
[Stunned for 20 rounds!]
You clench your injured hand in pain, squeezing small pieces of flesh that you cut away from your finger and causing blood to stream out between your fingers. The warm scraps of flesh in your hand grow suddenly cold, and you can feel something firm in your grasp. Feeling suddenly exhausted, you let your hand fall open, revealing a blue-black sapphire ring sitting in your palm.

LORESONG
A great hall opens before you, overseen by a regal-looking elf sitting on a raised throne. Before the elf stand what must be his three sons, if physical traits are any indication, each wearing a stately turquoise tunic with a dagger or sword strapped firmly to his slender form.

An elf kneeling before the three presents each with a ring of sapphire, as crowds of elves assembled in the hall politely applaud. Each of the three sons receives his ring in turn, and then a herald pronounces, "May these symbols serve and exhibit the good status and rank of the heir to the throne and his brothers during their campaign against the undead hordes, despite what Blessings or Curses fortune may bestow." The hall bursts into cheering and applause, which lingers in the back of your mind moments after the vision has ended.

Screams fill your ears as mobs of undead throw themselves into combat against the primarily elven force that surrounds you. A sapphire banner bearing the embroidered image of a peacock is held above a portion of the elven fighting force. Dozens of zombies, skeletons, and ghouls engage the elves at this, the front line of overwhelming forces on either side.

Suddenly a great deal of elven yelling can be heard over the din of battle, and the battle standard seen earlier jerks violently before being knocked to the ground. A sudden surge of defenders push back the throng of undead, revealing the three elven princes. The youngest brother lies wounded, tended by one of his siblings who quickly issues orders to the nearby infantry to bolster the line while the fallen is carried from the field of battle. The vision slowly fades.

A tomb of white stone sits in a small glade, surrounded by gravemarkers and similar vaults. A cool breeze passes through the shaded clearing, bringing with it fresh spring air. All is still except for the slight twitching and swaying of tree branches and a small cluster of daisies at the edge of the clearing. The soft light shining down on the glade dims, as the sky slowly rusts before yielding to the quiet of night.

The rustling of leaves announces two figures as they emerge at the edge of the clearing. They quickly amble over to the tomb, and in ambling through the midst of the glade, the moonlight reveals an elf and his giantman companion. The large fellow stands a few feet away from the vault, surveying the graveyard. His gaze moves across you without pause. Meanwhile, his partner makes a violent racket, shaking the chain that blocks entrance to the tomb. After what seems like several minutes, a rusted lock falls to the ground, and the chain clatters to the ground. The elf lights a lantern and slides quickly past the entrance of the tomb. A shriek emanates from the vault, sending the elf's sentry running for the cover of the nearby forest. The elf emerges from the tomb, grabbing and shaking his hand in a panic. The light of the lantern shows what appears to be a sapphire ring on his hand. A second shriek emits from the tomb, causing the elf to abandon his lantern and flee in the direction of his companion.

A blue sapphire ring sits on a large block, separating a tired looking auctioneer from a rowdy crowd of rough adventurer-types. A voice from the back of the crowd yells, "What does it do!?" and another exclaims, "Auction off somethin' good!" followed by snickering from across the room. Despite the insufferable crowd, the auctioneer continues his service, and the ring is sold to a respectable looking sylvan man.
Sensing the end of the ring's story, you bring your song to an abrupt close.

[shad0ws0ngs]

The old turtle/snail shell armor, copied from a necro'd post.

some striated conch shell armor - Inpenetrable shell of protection. Can survive meteor swarms, open implosions.. No hands needed and no roundtime to enter/exit shell..
4x further enchantable and capable of premie points padding..
Great for healing down during battle.

Loresong:
Your surroundings blur outward in a rolling wave from your center. Darkness settles around you and the smell of dampness pervades your senses as you become aware of your new surroundings. Water drips in runnels down the sides of bare stone walls and the smell of charcoal and sulphur floats on the air. Flickering torches lie ensconced in braziers that stand sentry before a heavy oak door. Penetrating the door is a small square window bisected by solid steel bars. Stretching up, you are able to peer through the window at the scene in the room beyond. At odds with the exterior hall, the room beyond is neat and dry, boxes and crates stacked to one side, magic paraphenalia and workbenches on the other. Working in a steady and precise manner are a number of dwarfs, each totally focused on the shell-like objects that lie before them on the benches. The scene fades and momentarily you get the impression of the same room but dark and disordered. Finally exhausted from your effort, you blink your eyes and return to the present.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1st person:
>turn knob
As you twist the small knob, you hear a loud "CLANG!" and feel your shell armor expand and surround you.

>look
[Striated Conch Shell, Inside]
You barely make out in the dim light filtering through several holes in the rough, hexagonally patterned walls and floor of your prison.
Obvious exits: none

>peer hole

Sticking your eye against the hole, you are just able to make out what lies outside.

[Ta'Illistim, Hanging Gardens]

>turn knob
A loud clicking noise starts and suddenly the shell splits and spits you out.

[Ta'Illistim, Hanging Gardens]

3rd person:
"CLANG!" You notice a large striated conch shell where moments before, Tsin had been.

A clicking noise begins to come from a large striated conch shell, a sudden, loud "CRACK!" and Tsin is there and the shell isn't.

[Seizer]

Hey I saw Alisaire last night in Solhaven. I expect with the big things happening there this evening at the Broken Tower, she will probably be there. You could chat to her about loresinging at those items, that kill you once you finish the loresong. So bring a cleric in tow, and share the loresong please! I would have done so, but I never save logs.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a tapered white ora lance tipped with crimson enamel - iasha lance

As you begin to sing, your vision clouds over and a scene unfolds before you. The image of a scarred dwarf in white leathers, laboring deep in a dark, dank mine, grunting as he extracts precious white ora ore, fills your vision.

As you continue to sing, you can see the dwarf laboring over a hot iron forge. He mops his brow continually as he pumps the bellows, then returns to the anvil, coaxing a weapon from the white-hot metal. As he hammers again and again with a perfect eonake forging-hammer, he looks more and more pleased with his work. He now and again sticks it into a trough filled with a shimmering oil. After a few more minutes of hammering, he begins to look unsatisfied with his results and then suddenly tosses it back into the fire. "I can do better than that, for Eonak's glory!"

As you continue to sing, your inner vision once again focuses on the scarred dwarf who is now carefully polishing the white ora lance before handing it to an imposing priest. His raiment is of the finest quality, from the magnificent cloth-of-silver cope to his bejeweled miter to the gleaming amethyst on his hand marking him as one of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. He sets the weapon on the altar and cries, "In the name of Jastev, I consecrate this weapon."

As your song comes to an end, you see the lance being used in combat training in the monastary. A burly dwarven acolyte rains down blow after blow versus an obviously overmatched elven clark. Finally, the white ora lance bursts into flames and sets the elf's shield alight! He cries out, "The day is yours M'laird Dwarf. I prostrate myself to your superior skills and must atone for my lack." He glances at the knotted scourge on the training wall and grimaces.

Your song draws to a close, and you feel the story has ended.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Ardwen item - old ass unnavable gold ring that's not a gold ring
a dark green ring


As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the green ring in your hand, and you learn something about it...

This is a small item, under a pound. In your best estimation, it's worth about 5,000 silvers.


As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the green ring in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a faint aura of magic around the green ring. You also feel a faint drawing sensation from it, as though when its charge is depleted, it may be refilled. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the ring is to cast a spell or perform some magical purpose.


This is an item belonging to the Chronomages.


The ring is attuned to where you are now. (I sang to it on the porch)



loresung in a different room gets this:
The ring is attuned to somewhere around Wehnimer's Landing.

The last verse is different from your average gold ring in that it tells you where it is set.. I sung to a regular gold ring and it merely said it was persistant

[shad0ws0ngs]

a dark grey vultite drinking mug with a pearl handle

Your melody surrounds the drinking mug, seeking to draw out its secrets. You don't sense much unusual about it, though it feels to be about 1 pounds. It would seem that the mug is nothing other than a drinking mug


The drinking mug responds to your melody by exhibiting very little, other than the fact it has obviously been hefted quite a few times. This is fairly obvious by its visual aappearance though, and needs little authentification from your song. The only other thing you get from it is the fact that it feels to be about 1 pounds.


You seem to be hitting a blank wall again with the drinking mug, despite the eloquence of your song's words and melody. You're just on the verge of concluding that the stained mug is nothing more, simply a drinking mug which weighs about 1 pounds.

Then, your mind begins to fill with a jumble of images...a drab bar in the south of Solhaven, an airy pub in the settlement known as River's Rest, a loud cafe and bar in the backstreets of Wehnimer's Landing, a smokey Quaavy's Bar and Grill, an inn crowded with jostling dwarves and other less attractive dens of crime and iniquity. The visions flash by almost quicker than you can follow, but one factor is consistent. Every scene you see is unquestionably a bar!


As you sing to the drinking mug, you get the sense that it weighs about 1 pounds. Stifling a snide comment or two which pops unbidden to mind, you continue, finally drawing out a jumble of images similar to what you discovered earlier. However, tiring of the panorma of dingy drinking establishements and feeling a nagging inclination that something more is here, you delve past the stream of impressions that diverted your attention before.

After fighting your way through absolutely nothing for awhile, you emerge upon more of the same. The mug lays there in your hands as imperturbably as a fly sitting on a dead kobold. With a shrug of pure impatience, you mutter and conclude that surely there must be something more. All of a sudden a whiny, nasal little voice floats up out of the mug saying, "Don't call me Shirley!"


As you yodel a particularly boisterous stanza, your voice suddenly cracks, causing you to blurt out a note much like the call of a romantic rolton. You find it difficult to question why your performance doesn't illicit much of anything from the drinking mug.
You learn nothing new about the mug.


>drink my mug
As you take a long, refreshing drink from your drinking mug, it suddenly begins to emit a wheedling, nasal and very penetrating voice, singing, "Druuuuuuuuuunk, drunk drunk drunk, druuuuuunk..."
>drink my mug
As you take a long swig from your drinking mug, you suddenly feel your legs double-up beneath you and next you know, the floor is shaking hands with your face. You hear a derisive snort from your mug as it croons, "See! Japhrimel is drunk! Can't stand up! Naw naw na naw naw! Drunkard here! Constable!!!"
>drink my mug
As you lift your drinking mug to take a drink, the mug lets out a resounding *SNORT*! Quite a good impression of a hog for a mug.
>drink my mug
You take a nice long drink from your drinking mug.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a silver black seed pearl anklet - Coiled lengths of silver are bound in a sinuous mesh that forms the loop of this anklet, flexible and smooth yet amazingly sturdy. The only apparent adornment is a tiny black seed pearl set into the weave opposite the clasp, which is a complex series of hoops and fingers that lock together tightly in a ring. The pearl seems incongruent to the piece, though quite lovely, and appears to have originated from another article of jewelry.

As your song enfolds the anklet in your palm you begin to feel it stir in response. Your eyelids slide shut and a vision of immaculate clarity unfolds.

Peering into a large oak-trimmed mirror, a beautiful woman sits fitting a net of black seed pearls onto her auburn hair. Over her shoulder the door suddenly bursts into a cloud of debris, and the frame darkens with a massive cloaked figure stepping through. Behind the figure two large armored forms lie motionless in the hall, her hired bodyguards. Faster than memories can record, the woman is clamped inside a muscular arm and the man and his prize launch through an eruption of shattered glass, out the window and down to the waiting beast with a long neck and two great humps on its back.

Sight twists and narrows back to black, and you slowly open your eyes and blink at the light.


As your song issues forth the anklet starts to resonate strongly, and suddenly your vision clouds and reshapes into broad visual illusion.

With days already passed, the woman's clothing showing the wear of travel but her hair still cleanly held within the pearl netting, she seems to understand now at least why she is here. He is a bounty hunter of Phannus, a great desert warrior hardened by the seas of boiling sand. Now that they were away from the eastern city where she once thought herself safe, he explained quietly, precisely with bare words, what her future would hold. Two weeks of hard travel, being presented alive and unharmed to the jeweler in Tamzyrr, the hunter collecting her bounty, and then her being tortured slowly to death in the privacy of the jeweler's basement for robbing him.

As the vibrations from your song fade into imperceptibility the vision ends and your eyes reopen.


Focusing your magic into the anklet you are rewarded with a pulse of power, and your sight clouds into a vision.

Trekking along the southeastern edges of the DragonSpine, the past week of the journey has left the woman threadbare and despondent. Continuous pleading, bargaining, and demanding avails her nothing from the stony male, who keeps her leashed closely on the animal behind him. When she struggles, he is not rough, but shifts so her efforts avail little result. He ignores or tolerates her rambling, remaining silent except for an occasional calm command or simple answer. A creature of honor, he would follow his contract to the very letter. He would deliver her, alive and unharmed.

Sight twists and narrows back to black, and you slowly open your eyes and blink at the light.


As your song unfolds the anklet starts to resonate strongly, and suddenly your vision clouds and reshapes into broad visual illusion.

Bumping more frequently against him as they began the first days of travel through the mountains, her tired muscles not accounting completely for her desire to lean against his solid back, the woman has given up her struggles and now is studying her captor. A bark-colored viper swings down at her from a tree limb, and without shifting his weight he cleanly severs it in two with his dagger. With waning reluctance, she gazes on him more truly, seeing this man of enviable virtue and power among a world of the weak and despicable.

As the vibrations from your song fade into imperceptibility the vision ends and your eyes reopen.


Focusing your magic into the anklet you are rewarded with a pulse of power, and your sight clouds into a vision.

A few short days travel out of the mountains, still with miles of plain and hill ahead, and her life's end, the hunter and captive's path winds slowly beneath a beating white sun. She was unbound now, physically and perhaps more, for they both seemed to know she would not run from him. She even elicited a chuckle or nod from him occasionally as she spoke about her life, and when her spoken hardships caused his own eyes to tighten in remembrance, she sees his spirit is kindred. Within her tales there is a question, unnoticed or ignored by the man. An offer of freedom, together.

Sight twists and narrows back to black, and you slowly open your eyes and blink at the light.


As your song unfolds the anklet starts to resonate, even stronger than before, and your sight falls to pitch black instantly. Black resolves to dark grey, and then to the interior of a modest city building.

Stepping down into the cool recessed room below the jeweler's shop, the journey of the two strangers comes to an end. She looks into his eyes a final time, knowing that to plead would diminish her and be pointless, and sees that feelings also dwell behind his gaze. The jeweler giggles mercilessly, and speaks that she is turned into his custody, handing the payment to the hunter.

The definitions of the agreement met, that she be delivered alive and unharmed into the jeweler's hands, the bounty hunter takes her by the head and snaps her neck with one quick jerk. As she falls to the floor, the jeweler's wailing cry of lost revenge splitting the musty air, her hairnet of black seed pearls breaks and scatters.

As the vibrations from your song fade into imperceptibility the vision ends and your eyes reopen.


You attempt to withdraw more hidden secrets from the anklet, but meet with heartsick failure.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Coped from the appraisal folder:

Looks like it's one of the old Voln weapons. Cycles 2x-7x vs undead, sancted, not blessable, flares vs undead in hands of cleric/pally, anyone can use to sense undead.

http://forum.gsplayers.com/archive/index.php/t-84899.html

a white ora balta

First loresong:

The first thing that strikes you about the balta is the weight, which is about 6 pounds. You also feel that it is invaluable.

You sense the aura of magic about the balta. It obviously has more than one use, and it is a weapon of great power.

The balta responds softly in long, peaceful descending tones. You learn that tapping or waving the balta can activate the magic woven within.

So, I tap the balta (non cleric) and get this:

You tap the balta and it starts to hum softly...

Suddenly the balta begins to spew out a cloud of pale blue smoke! The world around you suddenly looks different. Solid things around you suddenly look misty and insubstantial.
You do not sense any more undead nearby.

The next loresing reveals:

The balta's tones become stronger and the world dissolves away. As your sight clears, you appear to be kneeling before an altar. Before you stands an imposing grim-faced man dressed in battle-worn black chainmail topped with a white surcoat. Slung over his shoulder is a shield of the purest white metal you have ever seen. The man turns to you and nods slowly as he reaches for something atop the altar. He pulls the balta from the top of the altar and balances it carefully in his hands. He gestures and utters an ancient phrase and the balta begins to glow with an inner blue light. Drained from his effort he pauses a moment, then he turns and hands the balta to you. As your hands reach out for the balta the vision fades and slowly the world as you know it returns to solidity around you.

[shad0ws0ngs]

From the spot where the first root came out, before the root invasion tonight:


a bloodstained dark steel helm

Your vision blurs and you see a burly Hendoran soldier moving dutifully through the forest, when suddenly the ground breaks open around him and a tangled mass of glistening black roots lurch upward, coiling around his body and dragging him into the ground as he screams!



a tattered and bloodstained silver tabard embroidered with a blue rising phoenix

Your vision blurs and you see the image of a Hendoran knight almost completely entombed in a twisting mass of black roots, skin flayed from bones and blood seeping from a hundred open wounds as he is dragged through a tunnel, finally disappearing into darkness.

Your vision blurs...dirt and rock have been almost entirely engulfed by a vast network of twisting black roots, coiling and stretching about to cover nearly every inch of wall and ground. Periodically, the roots heave and stretch, reminiscent of giant veins pumping with blood.

[shad0ws0ngs]

totally repeated myself, pah.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a forked hazel divining rod - Beginning as a sturdy stick, this divining rod soon divides into nine separate branches, each one tapered to a fine point. The bark has been peeled off, leaving the rod smooth and splinter-free.

As you gaze at the hazel divining rod in your hands, the image of a cozy cottage takes shape before your eyes. A young girl sits by the hearth, listening with rapt attention as her grandmother describes the mysteries of divination. The old woman taps one finger to the side of her nose and winks at the girl, binding her to secrecy. The fire crackles and you can almost smell the sap burning off the wood.

The cottage reappears, but this time the two women are just outside it, standing in a small herb garden. The old woman holds out her divining rod, letting her granddaughter touch the smooth wood. After pointing out the different branching ends, the woman places the young girl's small hands over her own time-worn fingers, and together they grip the rod, feeling its vibration.

This time, you see mostly blackness. As you adjust to the change, you begin to make out a small figure. Holding a knife in one hand, the girl walks cautiously around a field at night, jumping sideways with every sudden sound in the darkness. Little more than a sliver in the sky, Liabo casts barely enough light for her to find the hazel hedge at the far end. Upon locating it, she searches carefully through the dense structure to find the perfect twig, which she cuts off with her knife.

The familiar scene inside the cottage reappears, its warmth welcoming after that stark and lonely night. Back by the fire, the girl sits next to her grandmother and carves the rod under her watchful gaze. The old woman says something, and the two of them laugh in unison, identical sparks dancing in the depths of their ageless eyes. The vision fades slowly, leaving you with a sense of connection to these two unknown women.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Aralyte's soulstone - apparently she is alive.


a brilliant red soulstone suspended by a frayed leather cord

Your vision blurs and your surroundings shift to reveal a blanket of suffocating darkness. In the distance, ribbons of blood red light seep across the sky, bathing the horizon in an eerie copper glow. Nearby, you hear a chorus of low, guttural moaning.

Your vision blurs and your surroundings shift to reveal a vast landscape of battered grey rock, with veins of shadowy liquid stretched across it like black webbing. The blasted dirt begins to move, peeling apart to reveal itself not as stone, but as gnarled demonic beings, each one stretching out their membranous wings and taking flight.

Your vision blurs and your surroundings shift, just as the last segments of the wasteland break apart. A lone figure stands upon the back of a slowly rousing demon, her long grey gossamer cloak flowing about her like light from the moon. She screams as a demon appears behind her, clawing at her face as she falls back into the darkness. As she disappears into the depths, the now frayed cord around her neck slips off and a brilliant red soulstone is left behind.

Your vision blurs and your surroundings shift to reveal a glistening sea of murky black blood. The bloodshot sky casts a crimson sheen along the expanse of shadowy liquid, and all along its surface floats the bloated corpses of deformed creatures. Slowly drifting into view is the body of a dark elven woman, wounds and sigils covering her face as she glides by, halfway submerged in the blood. Suddenly, her feystone-hued eyes snap open, and your vision ends.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a yellowed bone wand capped with a blackened skull


Images of long ago swirl before your eyes: a palace, a King, and a jester. The jester is faithful to his King and is loved by the court. The images slowly fade leaving you hungry to learn more.

You are surrounded by images of war. The palace is on fire! You can almost feel the heat. The jester looks crushed by the death of his King. An evil conqueror and his magician plot against those faithful to the old King. The images slowly fade away.

You are entranced by misty visions swirling about you like lost souls. You find yourself in a dungeon. You can hear the screams of the tortured. The magician looks confused at the jester, unsure of what to do with him.

Then with a maniacal laugh the magician takes the jester's wand and gestures. The jester screams and disolves into a mist which is absorbed into the wand. The magician does not seem pleased with the result, though, and tosses the wand aside and never returns for it. The images slowly disolve, awakening you from your trance-like state

[shad0ws0ngs]

some matte black vaalorn armor inlaid with pearl and emerald runes

The harmonic vibrations that your song evokes in the black vaalorn armor convey a sense of great age. At a rough estimate, the armor is worth 3 silver, but a collector of antiquities might be willing to offer a significantly greater sum.


As the black vaalorn armor responds to your song, you sense echoes of ancient enchantment drifting softly through the resonances. It is difficult to say whether or not the armor is innately magical, but, if not, then it has certainly been exposed to a great deal of magical energy over an extended period of time.


The resonances of your music caress the ancient weave of enchantment within the black vaalorn armor. You recognize both spiritual and elemental components, twisted together and permanently altered into a new form -- the unmistakable taint of sorcery.


As you sing to the black vaalorn armor, you evoke the image of a short man with silver-streaked hair. He holds the black vaalorn armor in his hands, studying it intently. As he turns it over, its brilliant gems glitter brightly as they catch the light, and he nods his approval. He signals to a liveried servant nearby, and the servant quickly comes to take the armor away. The vision drifts away from you as your verse ends.


Another vision comes -- a fleeting image of a ship's aging gangplank. Muscular human stevedores load the vessel under the wary, watchful eye of a liveried servant. The image of a silver hunting hound cradled in a white lily has been embroidered on the sleeve of his tunic. With sharp words, he orders the stevedores to take care with his master's cargo, and, as your senses narrow upon one particular coffer, you sense this black vaalorn armor lying inside, so many centuries ago.

The vision flickers away, vanishing from your mind.


The vibrations of the black vaalorn armor craft the image of a vast treasure room in your mind. This vision is much stronger than the image of the ship had been, for the black vaalorn armor lay there for a much greater period of time. Guttering torches shed orange light across shimmering piles of gold and gems, all carefully fenced about by a web of sorceric enchantment. You sense human figures in the room, but their presences are frail and fleeting -- they come, they gaze, they touch, but they only rarely take anything away. Only the treasure remains through the years.

The vision draws to an end.


The image of the treasure room coalesces once more in your mind's eye, captured by the vibrations of your song.

The torches gutter and die, and people no longer come, but the treasure endures still. There are bejeweled dishes, gilded musical instruments, ceremonial pieces of armor and weaponry, exquisite jewels with a sparkling fire sufficient to make gnomes faint, and more beyond that, but it has all left to gather dust in an age when people no longer come to admire it. In the shadowy darkness, the treasure remains, and the web of sorcery remains, for years... decades... centuries.

Your verse winds to an end, and the image fades away.


The harmonics from the black vaalorn armor draw you back to the treasure room, but something has changed -- the sorceric web has been damaged, and its enchantments wend over the trove in a different fashion. You sense the uneasy power of the earth, and your music brings you to comprehend that an earthquake that wrought this change, shifting the arcane balance in a small but subtle fashion.

Time passes... you sense the years marching silently past as the vision slips away.


In the last fleeting, faint resonances from the black vaalorn armor, you see the treasure chamber a fourth time, and you sense presences in the chamber once more. They have conquered the web of sorcery and come to take the spoils, and dust billows up with every step. Somewhere in the chamber, there lies some matte black vaalorn armor inlaid with pearl and emerald runes, awaiting the touch of a new owner. A new owner comes, and you feel the hands touching the armor's surface as if that surface were your skin. A wave of dizziness washes over you as the new person picks up the armor, and, in that dizziness, your verse ends.

The vision wavers away into nothingness.


The sense of great age returns in the resonances of the black vaalorn armor, but you can detect nothing new from the armor.

[shad0ws0ngs]

From Duskruin - http://forum.gsplayers.com/showthread.php?94957-Bloodriven-Village-Shops&p=1794413#post1794413

The realm weapons have nifty loresongs, or the Eonake morning star I bought does at least

The first thing that strikes you about the star is the sturdy craftmanship, the uncanny balance, and the elegant design. The metal from which the star is crafted feels strangely heavy in your hand. You sense rare, wild magics in the weapon, magics that are tied in some elemental fashion to time and place.

Your voice strains to overcome the protective properties of a spiked eonake morning star. An image, faint at first, forms slowly in your mind. An ancient forge lit by a small, white hot fire. A leather-aproned dwarf, hammer in hand, squinting against the bright fire, intently examining the still hot weapon. A gentle tap here, a feathery touch there, each made with quiet confidence, each touch of hammer to weapon almost a prayer.

The scene shifts as you continue your song. A stone croft on some remote, barren mountainside. Beside the croft, a stone structure resembling a well, but filled with what appears to be peculiar orange sand. The edge of the star is immersed to the hilt in this odd sand. The dwarven smithy stands well to one side as the sand begins to roil and shift. Waves of power emanate from the sand, enveloping the weapon. Lightning flashes, flames dance around the rim of the structure, the ground rattles, wisps of icy blue fire encircle the weapon, the harsh stink of acid envelopes the area.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Ardwen says, "That is the very first forehead gem."

a perfectly cut emerald blazestar


Your song coaxes the gem in your hand to open up a whole new world for you. Suddenly, you see yourself within the corridors of a magnificent palace. Everyone else in the castle seems to be either unaware of you or is ignoring you. Beautifully embroidered crimson tapestries adorn the walls of the great halls within. Centered upon each tapestry is the regal crest of House Faendryl. You reach your destination, a door at the end of the hall, right before the vision fades from your sight.


The emerald blazestar gives up its secrets willingly to your voice. Your eyes are filled with the scene of a plush bedroom occupied by a beautiful dark elven lass and her handmaidens. A silver tiara sits upon a mirrored armoire in one corner of the room. Your eyes scan the mirror quickly, which reveals the reflection of a wizened dark elf entering the room. Slowly, the vision removes itself from your sight.


You continue to bathe your emerald blazestar in gentle melody. Soon, your nostrils are assaulted by the scent of rose petals. Your eyes cloud over and you're back in the dark elven lass' bedchamber, a room fit for a princess. The old man is there too, but you catch him as he is embracing the young girl affectionately, but not passionately. A small pin bearing the Sorcerer's Guild insignia adorns his black robes. As he retreats from the embrace, he opens his hand, revealing a number of sparkling gems within. He says to the girl, "For you and your handmaidens, my dear, on the occasion of your wedding. It is only a small token of my fondness for you and your father. May the beauty of these gems always pale in comparison to your own." A smile lights up the girl's face as she gets up to hug the old mage. Just as you begin to understand what you're seeing, the vision spins away in a haze.


Your song gets the emerald blazestar to reveal its long-held story. Images begin pouring into your mind at a frantic pace. You see a majestic ship getting ready to set sail. A beautiful elven princess, wearing a faintly glowing gem on her forehead, is surrounded by a number of handmaidens all wearing similar gems. They wave from the deck of the ship at a large crowd assembled at the dock. At the front of the crowd is the old sorcerer from the previous visions standing next to an aged Faendryl wearing a golden crown. The scene fades and is replaced by another, of the crown-wearing Faendryl and the sorcerer standing in a torch-lit chamber. A single tear sweeps down the face of the monarch. The sorcerer pauses for a moment and speaks, "Sire, they will pay with a thousand deaths for what they did to our beloved princess or I will die trying to make it so."

That vision too spins away, and is replaced by another of a large island filled with what were once magnificent buildings that are now wrecked and ruined. Smoldering heaps mark the landscape of the island. A scant number of ships dot the harbor of the isle. Your view soars towards one of the ships, upon which stands the aged sorcerer, anger and hate filling totally black eyes. You snap out of the vision a bit startled.


Your singing allows you to pull a vision from the grasp of the emerald blazestar. It starts slowly at first, part of your field of view still being filled with your actual surroundings. Soon, though, your attention is focused on a cache of gems falling through ocean-green water, causing ripples as they do. Finally, after what seems like a very long time they hit the bottom. The vision fades as this happens and is replaced with image-after-image of storm and wave crashing across the surface and floor of the ocean you were just staring at.

Large and small things alike from the ocean's depth are thrust here and there, and spread across the vastness of the ocean. The tides leave some strangely untouched, and others are spread to the four corners of Elanthia.


You barely begin to carry a tune as the gem unravels its mysteries for you. Two halflings are diving to the ocean surface, equipped with raggedy equipment, and fishing nets, their lines coming from a large ship sailing with a pirate flag on its mast. They catch various forms of tropical fish and other ocean habitations, placing them in small jars they've brought with them. Once the jar is filled they tie it to a line and the jar is quickly snatched back up towards the ship. After some time, some shiny objects on the ocean floor catch their attention and they dive for them. After examining the faintly glowing gems they retrieve, they smile brightly, and return to the ship.

[Ardwen]

Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The emerald blazestar seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel begins to sing to his emerald blazestar. As he does so, his eyes begin darting about quickly, as if trying to take a racing image in.
>
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The emerald blazestar seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel sings to his emerald blazestar for only a short while before his eyes glaze over.
>
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The emerald blazestar seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel sings gently to his emerald blazestar. Oddly, his nostrils twitch slightly as if they were exposed to a strong scent. his eyes cloud over soon as the twitching subsides but he snaps out of it.
>
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The emerald blazestar seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel sings gently to his emerald blazestar. his eyes dart to-and-fro, not able to stay in one place. After a few moments, he snaps out of his trance a bit startled.
>
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The emerald blazestar seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel sings gently to his emerald blazestar. he begins to stare out into the distance wistfully. After a few moments he regains his former composure.
>
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The emerald blazestar seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel sings gently to his emerald blazestar. he begins to stare into the palm of his hand for a few moments before shaking it off. You can swear that the emerald blazestar began sparkling brighter for a few moments.



Japhrimel positions a perfectly cut emerald blazestar between his eyes so that it casts a sparkling ocean green sheen across his face.
>
Speaking in Guildspeak, Japhrimel exclaims something you don't understand.
>
Japhrimel exclaims, "I'm a pretty pretty princess!"
>
(Japhrimel twirls.)

[shad0ws0ngs]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
- from a battle near ta'vaalor in the elven nations - looks like the undead war - didn't save plaque

a venerable crimson eahnor shield

Flashes of a battle begin to appear in your mind. Stronger and more detailed the flashes come faster and faster until you can see no more of the world around you. Two forces stand arrayed on a field of battle. On one side you see elves, banners and colors representing every house of the Elven Nations flutter in the wind. Scattered amongst the elves you can make out other races, giantkin, dwarves, halflings, even sylvans and humans. On the other is massed a horde of undead beasts. Zombies, spectres, wailing banshees in chariots drawn by nightmares, and skeletons of every beastly shape imaginable. As the undead advance upon the field, your vision returns and the battle vanishes from your mind.


The battle returns to your mind full force, just as the first blows are struck. Hundreds fall in the first clash, but neither side seems to gain an upper hand as the battle progresses. Empaths move up and down the line, dragging the wounded and dead off the field. Those they can save, are and they return to battle. Those who cannot be saved are left for dead. The clerics move up and down the line supporting the army with their magic, too busy to tend the dead. Slowly you see a slight shift in the battle, and it seems the living are advancing ever so slowly. Falling back the undead all but vanish, and the living armies stop pursuing and return to their camps. Slowly your vision comes back and the images disperse from your mind like wisps of fog.


Slowly blurred images form in your mind again. Row upon row of bodies lie as far as you can see. Soldiers left alive move up the rows removing armor and weapons from the bodies and placing them in a pile. Behind them clerics kneel beside each body murmuring prayers for the fallen. The dead are lowered into a large communal grave and sent on their way with yet more prayers. It seems days pass in this lengthy process, yet the images seem to have come and gone in moments. An enormous pile of armor and weapons stands upon the field. Clerics and wizards stand around it chanting. Responding to the mystical chants great powers of spirits and the elements surround the pile. A radiant white-blue glow surrounds the pile and slowly seeps into each piece.


Striding before the pile a High priest speaks out to the assembled races, "Let each who lost a friend or loved one take a piece to remember them by, so that we may never forget their sacrifice." Slowly people form a line and one by one take a piece from the pile, as they do they speak aloud the name of one who they knew and what they remembered about them. As the crowd disperses there is still quite a pile left, again the priest speaks, "Let those who would take from this pile and remember, so that even if all those who were here today die, always someone will remember." He turns his back and slowly walks away, fading as the visions leave you.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-somehow connected to the creation of the luukosian temple, origin unknown - didn't save plaque info

a tiny emerald sliver - The sliver is a tiny jewel no larger than an arrowhead, its uneven facets imparting a jagged, blade-like look to its edges. Deep within its core, a shadow wavers back and forth, ever shifting when every stray beam of light crosses the surface of the sliver.

As you sing, the facets of the emerald sliver shift to a dull, blood-red hue. As you gaze into it, you find yourself somewhere else entirely...

The creaking of an inn's sign accompanies the dull patter of rain. A salty scent hangs in the air as currents of wind from the distant bay whip around you. A hooded figure approaches the doorway and pushes it open, illuminating the stormy night with the gently flickering flames of amber candlelight.

The figure makes its way toward the only occupied table in the establishment and sits down with a grizzled man, his dirty hair falling around his shoulders in knotted braids.

Looking up from his drink, the man says, "Ye 'ave the money?"
The clink of many heavy coins upon wood echoes around you as a large sack is tossed on the table.

The man nods and says, "And ye want that area sealed off, aye? The Guild was plannin' to use it fer some other business."

The figure makes no sign of moving, but its voice is like a blade's edge as it speaks, "There are to be no interferences there. You will be paid regularly for leaving well enough alone and encouraging others to do the same."

A strange look plays on the man's face, and the vision swirls into blurriness before it completely ends.


You sink into the memories of the sliver, and your vision is replaced by the dark surroundings of the inn once again...

The man raises an eyebrow as he flips one of the coins from the sack and says, "Aye. That brings us to th' next matter. You ain't smugglers, is ya? The Guild ain't takin too kindly to others runnin' 'em outta business -- even if they do pay 'em nicely."
The figure sits motionless for a moment, then says in the same cold, forced voice, "Your currency means nothing to us. We have been here for a long, long time and we wish our privacy. Your acquisitions will not be threatened."

The effects of the vague statement make themselves known on the man's face just before he says, "Oh... aye, aye. The Guild still wants ta take a peek on what ye got goin down there, eh? Ya mind showin me?"

You see the briefest shadow of a smile as faint light shows the slightest image of the figure's mouth, "Certainly," he replies.

The vision comes to a close as the heavy patter of rain echoes ceaselessly about you.


The emerald sliver shivers gently in your fingers, and the familiar luminescence flickers into your vision before you're whisked away into its memories...

The tangly-haired man and the hooded figure stand before a black marble dais surrounded by banners bearing green serpents. The man looks a tad shaken by the surroundings.

"You should know something," The figure says.
"Yeh?"
"Showing consideration for the Order shows consideration for your own well-being. And your organization's prosperity. Observe." The figure moves its hand, concealed by bell-sleeves, toward the back of the hallway.

Two similar hooded figures drag a grubby man of questionable background toward the altar atop the dais. Binding his wrists and ankles, they step back as the taller hooded figure that was speaking to the man steps ascends the dais. With a sweeping gesture of his hand, the candles ensconcing the altar come to life with emerald green flame. The wavering light reveals the form of a massive serpent cast in bronze, its fangs poised to strike the altar beneath it. With another fluid movement, the hooded figure produces a dagger and slices the jugular of the vagrant on the altar, leaving him time only to scream wetly before he dies.

The eyes of the serpent statue pulse a sickly green as a misty white, humanoid form rises toward its maw. As it reaches its gullet, you hear a faint, desperate scream that is the very rawest form of anguish -- and then the soul disappears into the endless blackness of the serpent's mouth. Almost immediately, the man's body crumbles into nothing but a fine ash.

The echoes of the man's scream fades mercifully from your mind as the vision comes to a close.


A faint, flickering crimson aura sparks briefly to life around the sliver before you become wrapped in its memories once again...

The figure turns from the altar and back toward the now considerably more paler man and says, "You have people you wish to disappear, yes? Send them to us and your worries simply become... no more. Mutual benefits."
The man gulps slightly and says, "Aye, aye... I'll tell 'em that."
The figure begins to step down the dais, "I trust you no longer believe us some petty smuggling group?"
"Nae, nae... I'm quite convinced now, aye..." The man manages to murmur nervously.
"Very good," The figure reaches up to remove its hood, revealing a very old human with shoulder-length hair whiter than bone. His unusually large and vibrant green eyes bore into the other man, "You would do well to be adamant in your efforts to keep this place hidden from the main populace. We remain hidden only by choice. You are aware of the Order's power?" He caresses the edge of the blood-stained dagger with a thin smile on his lips.

"Aye... aye. You won't be havin' no troubles, I'll put me word on it."
The priest's smile grows deeper, "Good. For your sake, I hope you were speaking the truth. An oath spoken here has considerable power." He nods sharply to the two robed figures behind the man, "Escort him out."

Your vision comes to a close as the tangly-haired man walks off into the darkness of the halls.


You weave your song precisely around the emerald sliver and coax the final memory from its faceted depths...

The rain comes down in sheets, echoing against the cobblestones and the docks far off in the murk. A man wearing a heavy leather coat stumbles into a nearby inn, its moody light serving only to cast things in half-shadow. He sits down next to a figure clad in a voluminous robe. The only sign of recognition it gives him is a faint nod. A voice comes from the shadows that hides the face of its wearer, "You have reached a decision on our agreement?"

The bedraggled man looks around nervously and leans close to whisper, "Aye, aye... the Guild'll accept it. But they ain't want no paperwork. No way to trace it to them, yeh? Gold, silver and jewels is th' only thing they'll be takin ta keep quiet about ya."

"That is acceptable." The figure reaches into its robe, and the man tenses up briefly before he sees the small pouch, "Consider this a gift in honor of the agreement." He tosses the pouch on the table and the man quickly retrieves it. "We are very..." The figure's voice changes noticeably, as if the one he was speaking with was a forced, changed version of what his true voice actually was, "...glad for your graciousssnesss in thissss matter." A flicker of the amber light in the inn causes it to play across the figure's once-hidden eyes, revealing reptilian slits staring out from under the hood.

The bedraggled wet man lets out a startled shriek and leaps out from his chair, spilling some of the pouch's contents before he nearly bolts out the doorway. A few tiny sliver drop alongside the figure's foot. Retrieving one, he smiles to himself and says, "No paperwork, indeed..." He tosses it idly over his shoulder and walks out of the inn and into the night.

The scene fades away entirely in your mind's eye as your song draws to a close.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Common language, it reads:
This item is also thought to have belonged to a Stone Tending practitioner of Aldora, and was used to inscribe runes into the stones.

an eonake chisel engraved with silvery thorns along its sharp beveled edge

Muted rose-hued colors spiral collectively as your song begins. Your voice conjures images of an arched wooden doorway leading into a simple, well-lit room. An ivory and white clad woman sits studiously at a rosewood table, covered with lapidary tools. Your song lingers for a moment and then fades away.


Your voice rings clearly as the images return and your attention is drawn toward the rosewood table. Upon it, various stones and gems rest in separate piles, each sorted by color and type. The ivory-clad woman scrutinizes each stone as she plucks them up one by one. Your song begins to drift and your vision subsides.


Your song resonates clearly as your mind fills with a recurring scene. The woman eyes each stone meticulously before she takes a thorn-etched chisel and begins to carve tiny markings on the various sides. She carefully brushes off the dust from each carving and then holds it up to the light for examination. The vision drifts into soft blending colors as your song lingers for a moment and then dissipates.


The scene returns as the woman resumes her labor, then pauses briefly to murmur a soft, almost inaudible prayer. As she completes the etching she rubs the stone with a soft cloth. For a moment, peculiar glow emanates from the stone and then fades. She places it carefully in a drawstring rose-colored leather pouch. The vision ends as does your melodic song.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Common language, it reads:
This weapon was wielded against the Horned Cabal in the battle of Tyllan.

an eagle-winged blue vultite longsword

Everything around you falls away with vertiginous speed. Without knowing exactly how, you understand that you are part of a small cadre of soldiers creeping along in the lee of an old stone wall. The night is dark, cold, and silent save for the hooting of a lone owl. Blood is pounding in your ears and your nerves are stretched as taut as bowstrings. You round the corner into a dense grove of oaks, and see Ethauc, your leader, raise his hand, signaling a halt.

With jarring suddenness you are once again yourself, the last notes of your song still hanging in the air.


With no transition at all, you find yourself back in the grove of trees. Ethauc gestures for you and your companions to gather around. There is an odd catch in his voice as he says, "My brothers and sisters, we have fought together, bled together, and survived together. We face a great foe tonight, but if anyone can turn the tide, it is us. But even we could use some help, so on a recent journey to Brantur I had swords made for us all, and each one of them I sharpened on the Whetstone." With great ceremony Ethauc withdraws one sheathed longsword at a time from his pack and hands it to a member of the company. When you receive yours, the cold weight of it is both surprising and familiar. Even in this watery moonlight the sapphire in the sword's pommel sparkles with life.

The illusion slips away, though the longsword is still in your hand.


Eagerly, you allow the song to send you back to that dark forest. Donning the sheaths, you and your brethren resume battle-ready positions. Ethauc whispers, "Drinks in Tyllan are on me tomorrow night!" As a unit you steal out of the woods and over a small hill, surprising a ragged band of undead beasts. You draw your sword and charge into the fray, cutting down your opponents right and left with startling ease. To either side you see your fellow soldiers taking out the few remaining creatures, when a trumpet blast echoes from behind. A man on horseback gallops toward you, shouting, "Blue Eagles, turn back to Elstreth! It is besieged and in need of aid!" He blows the trumpet again and races off.

You look around for your companions but the vision has slipped away.


It seems easier now, stepping back into that other life. Your legs ache from the hurried march back to the city. The walls of Elstreth are in sight, as is the great army of the Horned Cabal. A rush of energy floods your system, and you charge behind Ethauc toward the nightmarish creatures. You fall quickly into the rhythm of the fight, the sword in your hand moving almost of its own accord. You hear a sudden shout, and turn to face it.

The battlefield has gone, leaving you feeling unbalanced and anxious to return.


You are back in the battle, once again turning to face the source of that unexpected shout. The scene that greets your eyes chills you to the very marrow of your bones. Cutting a swath through the regiments behind you is the northern force of the Horned Cabal, the very army you had been sent to destroy in the first place. Caught now between the rotting jaws of these two merciless powers, there is nothing to do but fight. With a deep growl you raise your longsword and dive back into the battle.

The enemies become phantoms, then vanish altogether, although your battlelust remains.


With fierce determination you launch yourself back into the ancient war. Foes are falling away with a grisly sort of grace when three skeletal figures surround you. You hold off two of them but the third is too much. He lunges in to strike at your exposed side, then collapses with alarming suddenness. Ethauc is revealed, ichor-stained longsword in hand. You grin at him, but your smile becomes a gasp of horror at the sight of a spear head sliding out through his chest. Ethauc grins back at you before falling slowly to his knees. You move toward him, but feel something very cold on your left shoulder. Faster than thought, ice suffuses your system. The battlefield is silent, the sun goes out, and only the taste of metal lingers on your tongue.

Silently you stand as sound and sense return. The icy hand holding your heart is slow to release its grip. The blue vultite longsword you hold seems warmer than before, but also heavier, more substantial.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Common language, it reads:
This weapon is thought to have been passed down the generations of a Aldoran family that practiced the art of Stone Tending. It was found outside the city of Elstreth.

an ancient twisted rosewood staff capped with a faceted star sapphire

As your song begins, a kaleidoscope of colorful greens, golds and browns washes a tranquil scene before your eyes. Walking along a blanketed forest path, an elderly woman dressed in ivory bows her head toward the earth as she supports her steps with a twisted wooden staff. Crisp golden leaves trickle down and cascade back and forth in the air as they gently find their rest on the ground below. Bending down slightly, the woman clears a small circle of protective leaves with her staff, and, beneath the soil, she finds amongst the protective leaves a golden-flecked stone.


As your song continues, crisp drafts of cold air penetrate to the bone, revealing a snowy white scene of a mountainside. Tapping his staff in front of his pathway, an aged man carefully makes his way to a narrow recess, which has been partially protected from the harsh conditions. Up the side of the rock, tiny powder blue flowers grow collectively in a huddled bunch, as if trying to keep warm. Slowly, as your song shifts, a faint glow resonates from the twisted staff, and you hear a soft hum drifting into the air. The man glances down to find a tear-shaped sapphire resting upon the silky blue carpet. He plucks up the stone, rolls it gently between his fingers, and the vision fades.


The song shifts into a steady even tempo, as splashes of crystal blue water fill your cloudy vision. A chorus of birds and frogs chirp melodically together in unison, as the image of a riverbank fades into view. A young woman sits along the river's edge, dipping a twisted wooden staff into the surface of the water, sending ripples out like a resounding echo. A white flowering lily pad drifts toward her, oddly against the soft current. Nested upon the round leaves is a tiny green frog holding a round bloodjewel in its mouth. The young woman smiles and the song begins to dissipate.


The sweet melody of spring reflects the image of a freshly budding garden in its prime. Butterflies of assorted colors flitter back and forth from flower to flower, as a youthful man walks casually through the garden, gently aerating the soil with his wooden staff. Without forewarning, a brightly colored songbird swoops from a low tree limb to the ground, dropping a sparkling diamond at the man's feet. As he kneels to pick it up, the song ends.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Common language, it reads:
This ring, displaying the signet of the House of Kestrel, is thought to have been worn by Chaston Kestrel during his reign as Emperor of Tamzyrr.

an enruned gold signet ring set with a brilliant fire pearl


As your voice rises in song, the ring responds by vibrating slightly. The world shifts and when it reforms, you are in a different place.

A human man sits at the head of a table in a chamber lined with marble pillars. With a quill, he scratches his signature onto parchments, making his way through a pile stacked in front of him. As he completes each one, an assistant removes it, blotting the wet ink before rolling it into a tight tube and tying it with a red ribbon. When the last ones are placed into a pile along the length of the table, the man, his circlet of yellow gold shining in the candlelight, leans back in his chair and clasps his hands in front of him. He speaks a single word and a row of darkly garbed men step from behind the pillars, taking their places along the length of the table. Soundlessly, each picks up a number of scrolls from the table, their gold signet rings flashing in the light.

One by one, they turn to leave the room, touching their hands and fading into the background as they go.


As your voice rises in song, the ring responds by vibrating slightly. The world shifts and when it reforms, you are in a different place.

A whipping wind blows outside an inn in a small village. Pedestrians, the cowls of their cloaks pulled low over their faces, struggle through the street, some making their way onto the inn's porch and through the entrance. Your attention is drawn to a space just to the left of the front door and, as you watch, a darkly garbed man appears in the act of moving forward to nail a parchment to the inn's wall. The wind does not seem to disturb him, although his dusky grey robes and cloak flap violently around him. A human approaches, stabbing a finger at the parchment and speaking angrily. The mysterious man turns to him and pulls his sleeve away from his hand, revealing a gold signet ring. He says nothing as he stares coolly at his adversary. The objector's mouth snaps shut and he seems to shrink as he hurriedly makes his way off the porch.

As you strain to get a closer look at the parchment, you can only make out the title, "Regarding Elves and Those of Elven Descent," along with the looping signature along the bottom, "Chaston Kestrel."


As your voice rises in song, the ring responds by vibrating slightly.

A jumbled mass of moving images fills your mind.

A harrowed group of elves, marching toward a dense forest ahead of a darkly garbed man.

A wailing woman, gesturing at her burning home as a mysterious man strides away, disappearing with a light touch to his hand.

A volcano, smoke rising silently from its summit.

An ash-coated city, filled with citizens and visitors racing wildly through the streets.

A river of lava, slowly overtaking and destroying wooden structures in its path.

Darkly-garbed men, appearing out of thin air as they rush toward a collapsed palace as flaming debris rains down around them.


Several darkly garbed men gather in a darkened hall, the whites of their eyes gleaming in the torchlight seeping through a nearby doorway. Just beyond, a young man kneels on a pillow of rich red and gold, a cleric facing him with a golden circlet raised overhead. The anonymous men exchange wary looks as the priest completes his blessing and lays the crown upon the young man's head. One by one, the silent watchers disappear with a light touch to their gold signet rings, as the celebrants in the chamber beyond burst into cheers.


As your voice rises in song, the ring responds by vibrating slightly. The world shifts and when it reforms, you are in a different place.

A young man crowned with a circlet of gold stands on a raised dais, his brow furrowed as he listens to a petitioner before him. The subject, a middle-aged man weathered beyond his years, gestures at a group of darkly garbed men who cluster between two stern statues. The young man passes a hand across his face, shaking his head with a look of disappointment. He takes a dark-stained box from an attendant and steps down from the dais to mingle among the objects of his displeasure. From each man he accepts the reluctant gift of a gold signet ring and places them into the wooden box.

One by one, the men turn to leave the room, touching their throats and fading into the background as they go. A troubled shadow passes over the visage of the emperor, but he masks it with a regal smile as the box of rings is carried from the hall.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Common language, it reads:
This piece of jewelry is a fine example of old Tamzyrrian craftsmanship, and is thought to have belonged to a minor outlying noble lady.

a black seed pearl in silver anklet

As your song enfolds the anklet in your palm you begin to feel it stir in response. Your eyelids slide shut and a vision of immaculate clarity unfolds.

Peering into a large oak-trimmed mirror, a beautiful woman sits fitting a net of black seed pearls onto her auburn hair. Over her shoulder the door suddenly bursts into a cloud of debris, and the frame darkens with a massive cloaked figure stepping through. Behind the figure two large armored forms lie motionless in the hall, her hired bodyguards. Faster than memories can record, the woman is clamped inside a muscular arm and the man and his prize launch through an eruption of shattered glass, out the window and down to the waiting beast with a long neck and two great humps on its back.

Sight twists and narrows back to black, and you slowly open your eyes and blink at the light.


As your song issues forth the anklet starts to resonate strongly, and suddenly your vision clouds and reshapes into broad visual illusion.

With days already passed, the woman's clothing showing the wear of travel but her hair still cleanly held within the pearl netting, she seems to understand now at least why she is here. He is a bounty hunter of Phannus, a great desert warrior hardened by the seas of boiling sand. Now that they were away from the eastern city where she once thought herself safe, he explained quietly, precisely with bare words, what her future would hold. Two weeks of hard travel, being presented alive and unharmed to the jeweler in Tamzyrr, the hunter collecting her bounty, and then her being tortured slowly to death in the privacy of the jeweler's basement for robbing him.

As the vibrations from your song fade into imperceptibility the vision ends and your eyes reopen.


Focusing your magic into the anklet you are rewarded with a pulse of power, and your sight clouds into a vision.

Trekking along the southeastern edges of the DragonSpine, the past week of the journey has left the woman threadbare and despondent. Continuous pleading, bargaining, and demanding avails her nothing from the stony male, who keeps her leashed closely on the animal behind him. When she struggles, he is not rough, but shifts so her efforts avail little result. He ignores or tolerates her rambling, remaining silent except for an occasional calm command or simple answer. A creature of honor, he would follow his contract to the very letter. He would deliver her, alive and unharmed.

Sight twists and narrows back to black, and you slowly open your eyes and blink at the light.


As your song unfolds the anklet starts to resonate strongly, and suddenly your vision clouds and reshapes into broad visual illusion.

Bumping more frequently against him as they began the first days of travel through the mountains, her tired muscles not accounting completely for her desire to lean against his solid back, the woman has given up her struggles and now is studying her captor. A bark-colored viper swings down at her from a tree limb, and without shifting his weight he cleanly severs it in two with his dagger. With waning reluctance, she gazes on him more truly, seeing this man of enviable virtue and power among a world of the weak and despicable.

As the vibrations from your song fade into imperceptibility the vision ends and your eyes reopen.


Focusing your magic into the anklet you are rewarded with a pulse of power, and your sight clouds into a vision.

A few short days travel out of the mountains, still with miles of plain and hill ahead, and her life's end, the hunter and captive's path winds slowly beneath a beating white sun. She was unbound now, physically and perhaps more, for they both seemed to know she would not run from him. She even elicited a chuckle or nod from him occasionally as she spoke about her life, and when her spoken hardships caused his own eyes to tighten in remembrance, she sees his spirit is kindred. Within her tales there is a question, unnoticed or ignored by the man. An offer of freedom, together.

Sight twists and narrows back to black, and you slowly open your eyes and blink at the light.


As your song unfolds the anklet starts to resonate, even stronger than before, and your sight falls to pitch black instantly. Black resolves to dark grey, and then to the interior of a modest city building.

Stepping down into the cool recessed room below the jeweler's shop, the journey of the two strangers comes to an end. She looks into his eyes a final time, knowing that to plead would diminish her and be pointless, and sees that feelings also dwell behind his gaze. The jeweler giggles mercilessly, and speaks that she is turned into his custody, handing the payment to the hunter.

The definitions of the agreement met, that she be delivered alive and unharmed into the jeweler's hands, the bounty hunter takes her by the head and snaps her neck with one quick jerk. As she falls to the floor, the jeweler's wailing cry of lost revenge splitting the musty air, her hairnet of black seed pearls breaks and scatters.

As the vibrations from your song fade into imperceptibility the vision ends and your eyes reopen.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Common language, it reads:
This musical instrument is believed to be an example of the craftsmanship of the rural towns in the Barony of Riverwood.

an amber-inlaid engraved silver flute

You hear the sound of laughter and whispering just behind you. The voice of a young maiden calls out, "How about this dress for the nutting festival?" She is answered by murmurs of approval from her friends. There is more giggling, and the sound of a brush sliding through long hair. The girls sing softly as they ready themselves, overlapping one another in a simple round that grows quieter and quieter before fading out altogether.


You hear a sudden gasp, then cheers erupt from all sides, though no source is visible. A deep voice booms out, "And now, the challenger!" There are more cheers, then the sound of a ball rolling along the ground and clicking against two others before coming to a halt. Triumphant shouts break out on one side, and good-natured grumbling on the other. The deep voice shouts, "Our new champion!" and the cheers grow loud before fading back into silence.


Fiddle music plays from somewhere very nearby, echoing as though inside a long room with a high ceiling. A flute joins in, and a large crowd claps along with the beat. After a short introduction, you hear the sound of many pairs of feet dancing about in time to the music. Snatches of conversation float in through the pauses, and laughter carries through like a minor theme. The tune changes, you hear a few loud hurrahs, then it all fades away.


This time you hear the flute most clearly, though the fiddle is still playing somewhere off to your left. The musician runs through a tricky passage, then pauses for a moment. You hear running feet approach, a soft giggle, then the sound of a daring kiss being delivered to the musician's cheek. The feet run off, the musician chuckles, and the playing resumes. The sound of the festivities grows louder and louder, then disappears, leaving only the sound of the flute. That plays on for a few more beats, then itself fades away into nothing more than memory.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Common language, it reads:
This garment is suspected to have belonged to one of the Maidens of Riverwood, a forest dwelling clan that is thought to have worshiped the spirit Jes'Tamaline.

a vermilion spidersilk greatcloak

Your eyes grow heavy and you allow them to slowly close. Your stomach lurches as you are pulled forward suddenly, rushing air sweeping over your face.

When you open your eyes, you feel no corporeal form. You rush over a stream, so close you dip beneath the water occasionally as you are propelled forward with little effort. The water sparkles like diamonds and you move faster and faster, passing herds of deer drinking from the water, schools of fish swimming over the pebbled bottom, swaying clusters of flowers guarding the bank. It is as if you know the stream's course before it does, turning and rising and falling with every meander it makes, always watching its flow and life as it moves through the trees of a forest.

With no warning, you suddenly rise far above the stream and the forest, so that the water becomes a ribbon of blue peeking from beneath a carpet of verdant foliage. A voice echoes through the air, "Listen to the rush of water through the stream. Listen and you will hear Jes'Tamaline."


Your eyes grow heavy and you allow them to slowly close.

When you feel refreshed, you open your eyes again to find yourself at the edge of a forest, clustered with many young human women wrapped in vermilion greatcloaks, their hair plaited into tight braids that fall down their backs. You look down and see that you are wearing the same deeply hued cloak of spidersilk and, touching your hair, feel a mass of braided hair. In a nearby clearing, the exuberant celebrants of a grand festival sing, dance, and bedeck each other with garlands of fresh flowers. You pull the spidersilk fabric close around you as you search the crowds for a familiar face. A dark-haired woman smiles and waves to you and your fellow maidens, their faces full of cheer yet pulled with worry around their eyes. Heartened, you face the woods and plunge in, ready to face a night alone among the trees and woodland creatures.


Your eyes grow heavy and you allow them to slowly close.

When you feel refreshed, you open your eyes again to find yourself deep within the forest, cloaked in darkness where the moonlight cannot penetrate the dense foliage. You do not sense the nearness of humans, but feel that you are watched all the same.

The forest blurs and you feel time passing quickly. When it returns to normal, you find yourself seated on the bank of a stream, tending a small fire over which a skinned hare is roasting on a spit clumsily made of stripped green branches. The hare looks delectably done, and you remove it from the fire. At the same time, you catch sight of a silver wolf hovering at the edge of the firelight's glow, its eyes reflecting the bright flames as it stares at you.


Your eyes grow heavy and you allow them to slowly close.

When you feel refreshed, you open your eyes again to find yourself face to face with the wolf. It widens its jaws, revealing the sharp points of fangs as it curls its lip at you. Drawing back with fear, you turn your face to the sky, the starlight twinkling through the trees, oblivious to your predicament.

A sudden disorientation overtakes you as you leave the body of the maiden and rise rapidly into the night sky, resuming the rushing feeling of travel you experienced at the opening of your song. You turn your attention toward the stream below, halting as quickly as you once moved. Gathering the air and moonlight to you, you rush downward, the trees drawing closer and developing the detail of individual leaves. Plunging through the branches and into the clearing, you explode as you reach the ground, scattering the light of the stars, the moons and the dancing fire over the fearful young maiden and pained wolf before you.


Your eyes grow heavy and you allow them to slowly close.

When you feel refreshed, you open your eyes again to find yourself blinking into the starlight, momentarily blinded by flashes of light that leap beyond your vision. When you look to the wolf again, you find it has crouched at the edge of the stream, licking at a festering wound on its paw. Your fear forgotten, you reach forward, laying a hand upon the soft fur of the wolf's head and offering it the hare's haunch you are still holding. The wolf casts a grateful look at you before grabbing the meat between its teeth. While it is focused on its meal, you gently take its paw and dip it in the stream, allowing the flowing waters to cleanse the wound as best it can.

[shad0ws0ngs]

The battered headgear displayed here is an example of the type worn by a powerful guild of thieves hailing from Fairport long ago. It was often given as a sign of acceptance into the guild.
>

a scuffed red leather cap - Pliant leather and supple bands of short-haired dark fur bind together through masterful stitching to create this comfortable-looking, rugged, and downright rakish headwear. Black beads threaded onto a length of bleached-out thong dangle from beneath the brow's band, supporting a thin disk of pure gold at the end that is emblazoned with a thorned rose.

Floating above a quickly-moving human shadow as it glides from rooftop to rooftop, the ambient sounds from the surrounding city of Fairport and the ocean beyond only a murmur, but not even a light patter of feet from the thief directly below. In the distance a cry of alarm splits the night, but far away, and moments later the shadow bounds through the open skylight of a large manor.



Melting through the ceiling like a ghost, you can see a large crowd of lords and ladies cheering for the man who has dropped through the skylight. The adventurer garb of the crowd is extravagant and well-tailored, and perhaps just a shade incongruous for such nobility, and they all wear red leather hats. Removing the black mask from his head, exposing shockingly blond hair and a young human male face, the roof-jumper falls to one knee before an older bespectacled man, wearing the only black cap, and presents a huge flawless emerald on his open palm. The older man tosses him a red leather cap and the crowd roars approval.


The vision continues to flood your senses...

Images flash by, visions of the lanky blond thief performing daring acts of larceny. Always he returns to the older man, to make his offerings and share his exploits with the others. More images flicker, the younger thief prowls not alone, he is leading a small band of shadows. The brief moments that their crimes take are amazing glimpses of gymnastic skill and ruthless enjoyment.


The vision continues to flood your senses...

The coffin resting on the catafalque is open and within lays the body of the older man, his spectacles tucked respectfully into his breast pocket. Mourners, nearly all with faces from the secret manor but wearing somber respectable garments, file past the dais and pay their respects. The blond thief, older than before, passes the coffin and smiles so that only you and the corpse witness.


The vision continues to flood your senses...

A scene fades in of a dark alleyway, the blond thief entering below you. Melting out of the darkness, two stout little forms appear and step up to meet the thief. The moonlight breaks through the cover of clouds and you clearly see the trio. The man is extending a leather pouch to the two halflings, who have matching daggers stuck behind their belts, shaking it lightly to a jingle of coins. The halfling assassins accept the payment, and the man tips his black leather cap to them.


The vision continues to flood your senses...

Looking much the same as before, though some faces are more aged and new faces abound, the crowd of oddly-dressed nobles chatter lightly and mill about in the large manor. Reclining on a chair is the blond thief in his black cap, looking older but still spry, listening to the people around him tell of the petty larcenies they had perpetrated for their amusement. Suddenly, through the skylight drops a dark-haired man, who flows to his knees before the elder thief. He offers up on his palm a huge diamond, waiting with hungry eyes for his cap.

[Roblar]

That one is another Academy quest (and before it Hunt for History) item:

Here is where I would cross reference on my runs, alot of cool loresongs and items:

https://gswiki.play.net/mediawiki/index.php/Category:Hunt_for_History

[Androidpk]

Okay, this is by far the coolest loresong I've ever seen.

https://gswiki.play.net/mediawiki/index.php/Urglaes-set_pitted_silver_talisman

Anyone happen to know if this/these medals are still in game? And which GM wrote it?

[WRoss]

Blink loresong




Your sight clouds a little as your song begins, slowly fading into blindness with each passing melody. Four measures in, your vision clears, but what you see is something completely different than reality. You find yourself in the middle of what appears to be a heavily crowded area surrounded by well-armed shan warriors. Despite the fact that you are empty-handed, the creatures are thankfully ignoring you as if you were merely a fly on the wall. Two males, one human and one dwarf, come into view to your right as the shan scatter away from them. The dwarf swings a shimmering silver dhara at one of the creatures, scoring a direct hit! Almost immediately, his dhara lights up with hundreds of tiny blue sparks and then flares with a dull grey beam. The beam snakes out toward the target and kills it! Your song continues and your vision blurs yet again.




As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the silver dhara in your hand, and you learn something about it...


The first thing that strikes you about the dhara is the weight, which is about 4 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 5,000,000 silvers. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the silver dhara.




When your eyes focus, you seem to be effortlessly moving alongside the hunting duo and watching their every move. The human appears to be a wizard, given his natural abilities to both bolster his defenses with a translucent sphere of magic and cause the very earth to become molten underneath the feet of his targets. The dwarf is an able warrior, using his dhara to block, parry, and attack through his targets' defenses and pummel them into submission. At their first chance, the warrior hands his dhara to the wizard. He mutters a few incantations and gestures at the weapon. The weapon glows slightly, but nothing else seems to happen. The wizard mumbles and tries again with the same result. Growing visibly annoyed, the wizard tries again quite a few times until, finally, the weapon suddenly glows with an intensely blue light which seems to be absorbed into the dhara. Your vision blurs as the wizard returns the weapon to his friend.


As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the silver dhara in your hand, and you learn something about it...


You sense a faint aura of magic around the silver dhara. You sense that this is some type of holy item. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the dhara is as some type of weapon.


The next measure of your song clears your vision, bringing into view yet another grisly battle scene. The wizard and warrior seem to be taking their task in stride, using a lethal combination of spellcasting and weapon-wielding to wreak havoc on the field. Without warning, one of the warrior's strikes causes his dhara to again light up with hundreds of tiny blue sparks! This time, a hissing stream of acid flies towards his target causing great injury! Though the warrior's followup strike does not flare, the third does, killing his opponent. The hunting duo then proceed to claim their prizes as your vision begins to blur. As the scene fades to black, an underlying, almost inaudible harmony lingers in your tempanic membrane, drawing you closer to reality and focusing your attention on the dhara in your hands.


As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the silver dhara in your hand...


It has a bonus of +22 from a normal dhara, and the way it vibrates in tune with your voice tells you that it requires skill in blunt weapons to use effectively. It also has some type of special ability, but you can't tell what yet.




As your eyes focus on the dhara, the eyelid inlaid into it suddenly blinks at you! For just a moment, you get the feeling you are somewhere else... but a quick blink of your own eyes shows you that it was merely a vision. Your song concludes, leaving you feeling drained for a few seconds thereafter.


As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the silver dhara in your hand...


The harmonics generated tell you that the dhara inflicts more fearsome wounds when it strikes and has been sanctified for use by a Cleric or Paladin in the fight against the undead.

[shad0ws0ngs]

**An ora-hilted glaes falchion**

Fashioned from pure ora, the pommel has been carved in the form of a jackal's head with two deep-set ruby eyes. The side-guards have been etched, forming streaks of flames curling inward. The long blade has been hammered from fine glaes and etched with mysterious runes. You also notice a small enchanter's glyph.

5 pound +35 heavily crit weighted self-mana ewave falchion with 90/230 forging.

As you raise your falchion, a scintillating yellow aura engulfs you.
A wave of dark ethereal ripples moves outward from you.
A kobold is buffeted by the dark ethereal waves and is knocked to the ground.
You feel the glaes falchion drawing mana from you.
x
Loresong:
As you sing, a collage of images flashes through your mind. Slowly, the images seem to focus, and you can make out the details. You see a well-kept workshop where a wizened elvensmith is in conversation with a younger elf and pointing at the glaes falchion in his hands.

As you continue to sing, the images refocuses once more. You see a young elvensmith laboriously crafting the glaes falchion from the raw materials laid out before him. As he works, he is chanting some arcane verses that you can&#039;t quite make out.

As you continue to sing, the images refocuses once more. The elvensmith is inscribing runes of power upon the glaes falchion. Each rune glows brightly then fades into invisibility.

Your song continues to clarify and focus the images from the past. The ancient elvensmith raises the glaes falchion and chants an arcane phrase. A flash of light consumes the glaes falchion. An irridescent aura envelops the glaes falchion and is absorbed into it. The elvensmith seemingly looks up and gives you a wink and a smile as if he senses your presence

[Fallen]

I didn't know that thing was still around. Very nice weapon.

[shad0ws0ngs]

I don't know that it is, I saw someone had necro'd a ten year old thread and C/P'd the info.

[Ardwen]

Theres like 4 of those things, its been duped several times, odds are at least one is around.

[shad0ws0ngs]

copied from another thread, to ensure it is included. the new BMC forest armor.

Blinding sunlight spears through the forest canopy, and the lone, gnomish hunter stoops as he squints against the brightness. One hand is pressed to his abdomen, and blood runs freely through his fingers, staining his armor and the ground before him. He takes one step, then another, before collapsing and rolling onto his back. As his face is revealed, the ashen quality of his skin and the listlessness in his eyes betray the gravity of his wounds, which are plentiful. Despite the dire situation, his countenance is calm, perhaps resigned, as he gazes up into the treetops.

The notes of your song penetrate the amber-banded armor, and you feel a subtle resonance echo through your hands and upward along your arms. When the vibrations sink into your body, a hollow pain buries itself in your gut.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

Throughout the remainder of the day, the hunter stirs not from the spot upon which he fell; his bed of crimson and auburn autumn leaves and the dirt beneath them stained and muddied with the profusion of his blood loss. Twilight fell some time ago, and the night and the cold grows deeper with every moment, as do the shadows within the trees. Somewhere behind those benign shades are growls that are anything but, and even in his condition, he dimly recognizes the sounds of wolves gathering. Through half-lidded eyes, he stares at the bright fullness of the moons and awaits his fate.

As you sing, a strange chill seeps into the air around you, though your cheeks burn hot as if fevered. Distantly, you hear a faint growl.

Roundtime: 11 sec.

Furred snouts and ears begin to peek from the darkened recesses of the forest as the pack of wolves closes in on their wounded prey, called by the coppery twang of blood that hangs heavy in the chilled air. Seen distantly now, the hunter seems not to care, perhaps more dead now than alive as he tastes the last of his life's breaths. As the first wolf dares close enough to nip at his leg, a rustling in the brush pulls the creature's attention away from its meal. Like a flash of golden radiance, a tawny-hued doe dashes abruptly from the cover of the brush, followed by a pair of large-horned stags. Confusion stirs within the hunter's breast, but he doesn't have the strength to wonder if this is more than a vision of a dimming mind.

As you continue to sing, you feel your limbs growing heavy and your voice getting weaker. You breath hitches as your eyes flutter and grow distant.

Roundtime: 11 sec.

The hollow sound of antlers against teeth and fangs fills the isolated wood, echoing deep into the forested reaches. As one by one, the stags fight off the wolves, the tawny doe stands sentinel over the hunter until at last the fray subsides. With peace restored and the stags on guard, the doe nudges the side of the hunter's face with her nose. There is barely a response, a fluttering of his eyes as they struggle to focus, but little more. The doe shifts her weight, almost as if to walk away, but instead, she begins to paw at the ruddied dirt surrounding the gnome. Digging up clumps of mud and leaves, she deposits the muck on the rend in the hunter's armor, before bowing her head to spread it into his wound with gentle strokes of her nose. She lies down carefully next to the hunter, lending her warmth to him as she rests her head atop his chest. As the doe's eyes drift closed, a faint emerald glow begins to seep from beneath the smattering of mud, though the hunter seems barely to notice.

The continuation of your song finds your vision growing ever more foggy, and you find yourself gazing off into the distance as you are wracked with shivers.

Roundtime: 11 sec.

Loudly calling, the cries of birds rings through the forest trees, and the gnome's eyes flutter weakly. Sparks of light strew pinpoint stars across the blackness held by his closed eyelids, and he tries once again to open them. Sunlight, pale and yellow, greets him as he looks up at the canopy of trees, the golden shafts falling through leaves and limbs to reach the forest floor. His eyes feel heavy and grainy as if he had been sleeping for an age, and his muscles ache with the sort of pain that reminds a body that it yet lived. This thought is mildly surprising to him, and he searches with his hands across his abdomen for the wound that had just the night before threatened to be his end. He finds only caked mud and leaves, and a vague tenderness to the flesh beneath the armor.

All at once, images from the previous night flash through his mind, pieces and parts distorted like the image cast by a shattered mirror. The wolves, the stags, the doe. Had they been real, he wonders. Carefully sitting, then standing, he trudges on weak legs as he examines the ground. Hoof prints, paw prints - it had been real. The hunter heaves a heavy breath and lays a mud-smeared hand across his heart as he grows silent in a brief moment of thanks to the one responsible for his recovery. An emerald glow pulses beneath his hand, accompanied by a warmth that so distracts him that he fails to see the doe at the wood's edge turn and disappear into the depths of the forest.

As you utter the last notes of your song, color returns slowly to your once pallid skin, and you take a deep breath of profound relief.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

[Luxelle]

*** an enruned veniom band traced with gold ***

This is the 12setting teleporting ring that Kalros won with the highest bid of 125,000 bloodscript at today's Bloodscript Auction. Very nice that it has its own song. KUDOS!

Kalros handed it to me this afternoon to sing to. I hope all the auction items have splendid songs, too!

~Loresong~
~verse 1~
As your verses weave their tones around the veniom band, you get an impression that this item is not only magical but very rare as well. It is quite light, less than 1 pound, and you feel that it's quite valuable.

... I looked at it, thinking, what a nice touch for the "value" response, and went on singing, expecting to hear something quite normal after that. Wow, was I wrong.

~verse 2~
Your words and melody surround the veniom band, drawing a soft phosphorescent glow from it. Sigils begin to flicker on its surface, their forms archaic but still recognizable as as numerals. They change in rapid succession, each one overlaying its predecessor, then they quickly fade away.

~verse 3~
You sing to the veniom band, your melody carressing and coaxing it. Slowly you feel the magic lying within the band begin to respond... you knew it was there! It is an old magic, and a complex one.

A tongue of power lashes out from the band and fills your mind with an image. An ancient sylvan bends over a cluttered worktable, his gnarled hands cupping an identical band to the one in your hands. You seem to know they are one and the same.

As he croons his conjuration, the words powerful and mysterious, the band begins to glow. The old necromancer slowly reaches for a terrified young hawk lying trussed on the table. He lifts the bird gently with one hand while holding the brightly glowing band in his other...

Suddenly, a blinding flash of light obliterates the vision of the room. As the glare fades, you see the raptor has disappeared and the band glows more fiercely than before. A single feather drifts down to the surface of the table as the image fades from your consciousness.

~verse 4~
As you croon to the veniom band, you sense its power join your melody in a joyful flight, like a bird sweeping through feathery clouds on powerful wings. The band exudes a sense of exhilaration, reveling in its mastery of flight and command of the heavens.

In the next heartbeat, you feel as if you are plummeting into a darkness so pervasive and suffocating, you fear you have fallen into the worst nightmare imaginable. Darkness surrounds you, fills you, its grasp like the cold touch of oblivion. You find you cannot move, cannot breath. Desolation overlays your horrible fear.

Abruptly, the feelings snap into nothing, retreating back into the memory of the band. You are left feeling unsettled and a little sad.

[Luxelle]

***a wire-wrapped vaalin lockpick***
or
***a twisted-wire vaalin bracelet***

A wearable, self-repairing lockpick that was sold at Duskruin, has it's own loresong!

~verse 1
Peripheral noises fade away and you feel a momentary sense of disorientation. When your stomach settles, your setting has shifted. Looking about, glowing cauldrons of molten steel and other metals send waves of shimmering heat skyward. Among the roaring heat of the massive cauldrons are the forms of halflings moving about in a workman-life fashion. Several have long tongs as tall as they are that they use to hold glowing, fresh cast items. They then use them as they dunk the heated metal in buckets of water in billows of steam.


~verse 2
Your surroundings fade and once more you find yourself among the glowing cauldrons. Peering down between the rows of roiling kettles, several tall workbenches can be seen, a master halfling craftsman seated on tall stools at each. Bent over and studiously working at pieces of still glowing metal, the craftsmen work frantically to shape the pieces even as the objects seem to flow and move without the craftsmen's touch.


~verse 3
The lights and noises fade once again. This time you find yourself in a dark corner of the room alongside a smaller version of the cauldrons of liquid metal. An older halfling glances furtively about and then places a broken lockpick in the grip of the tongs that he is holding. Glancing quickly once more around each side of the cauldron, he lowers the lockpick into the cauldron, flinching from the heat. After several minutes he extracts the now glowing lockpick and clamps it into a vice and begins to slowly stretch and twist it until it resembles nothing more than a band of wrist-sized wires. He continues to pull on it as it flows and moves as if fighting his attempts to change its shape. Hurriedly he removes the now bracelet-shaped object and drops it into a bucket of water which begins to roil and then settles back to its untroubled surface. Hearing a yell, the halfling starts guiltily and reaches into the bucket, grimacing at the still warm object. Stuffing it into his dirty coveralls, he hurries off among the rows of cauldrons.

No 4th verse that I heard.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a veil iron-nocked red longbow

That is an Uska bow per Ardwen

(OOC) Aurach's player whispers, "5x, increases by rangers power, in mine 10x. permablessed, selfproducing pure energy arrows, lightning flares every shot."

The noise and light fades around you. Blinking your eyes you find yourself among an armed and armored group of Sylvankind, many sporting wounds and bandages. All around the sounds of heavy fighting filters in from among the trees. Screams and cries of things only dreamt of in nightmares can be heard coming from the edges of the encircled position the Sylvans hold. The leader of the band, an arrow protruding from the shoulder, gives an unheard command and her retainers begin stripping off the most powerful of their artifacts. Once shorn of the items they wrap them in cloth and place them in a chest. The chest is then lowered into a hole dug beneath a massive oak's roots and covered with loamy earth. The sole remaining cleric in the group blesses the ground to hide the cache from the unholy. The leader of the band gives a curt nod and the group with you among them draw their remaining weapons and charge one last time into the forest. Suddenly feeling a sharp pain, you see a feathered shaft has sprouted from your chest. With a final scream you collapse and everything around you goes black.

The other verses weren't historical, but instead were regular loresong info

[Ardwen]

That is an Uska bow not a Banthis, Banthis lightning bow was a short bow unless I misremember

[neimanz1]

Small dark elf statuette

As you sing, you feel a faint, resonating vibration from the dark elf statuette in your hand, but it is difficult to discern any information from it.

When you finish your verse, however, the dark elf statuette opens its own mouth and sings in reply.

"Not all who speak can share their thoughts
With all who speak as well,
And sometimes language barriers
Give rise to something fell."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

When you finish, there is a pause, and then the dark elf statuette sings in reply.

"Within my heart, I hold the key
To break those barriers down.
A whispered word, I will repeat
To all who know its sound."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

After a pause, the dark elf statuette sings its reply:

"In Dark Elven, I share my speech
For all who would declare
A new age must be wrought anew,
The old is too unfair."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

After a pause, the dark elf statuette sings its reply:

"Do not abuse my voice with lies
Or with obscenities--
Like clay, I will be crumbled then,
Like leaves from falling trees."

Roundtime: 7 sec.

[Seizer]

This came from Exkain's morning star. Caught my eye as he unsheathed it cause it was hissing. Was thankful he allowed me to sing to it. Only information I got about it was that the flares are realm based and such. I bought a realm flaring weapon and basically the same song.


The first thing that strikes you about the star is the sturdy craftmanship, the uncanny balance, and the elegant design. The metal from which the star is crafted feels strangely heavy in your hand. You sense rare, wild magics in the weapon, magics that are tied in some elemental fashion to time and place.


Your voice strains to overcome the protective properties of a spiked eonake morning star. An image, faint at first, forms slowly in your mind. An ancient forge lit by a small, white hot fire. A leather-aproned dwarf, hammer in hand, squinting against the bright fire, intently examining the still hot weapon. A gentle tap here, a feathery touch there, each made with quiet confidence, each touch of hammer to weapon almost a prayer.


The scene shifts as you continue your song. A stone croft on some remote, barren mountainside. Beside the croft, a stone structure resembling a well, but filled with what appears to be peculiar orange sand. The edge of the star is immersed to the hilt in this odd sand. The dwarven smithy stands well to one side as the sand begins to roil and shift. Waves of power emanate from the sand, enveloping the weapon. Lightning flashes, flames dance around the rim of the structure, the ground rattles, wisps of icy blue fire encircle the weapon, the harsh stink of acid envelopes the area.


Voice cracking, you continue to coax images from the star. Images from generations of dwarves flicker by, from the first battle of the dwarven clans wars to the clearing of Wehnimer's Landing. You see the star rising and falling in battle, you hear the sound as it slashes through the air, you feel the solid shock as it strikes bone. Battles fought, prizes won, lives lost. Across the ages the star has retained its solid form, has kept its feral beauty, has remained true to its purpose.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a twisted black branding iron - The black branding iron is about twelve inches long and comprised of a strange dark alloy, the surface of which swims and ripples under ambient light. A number of small perforations surround the circular shaft. Near the bottom of the handle, which is wrapped in heavy leather, the words "Load Here" have been graven into the metal. The tip is rounded and flattened on the end.

The black branding iron seems to be made from some heat-treated metal that you have never seen before. There is some powdered ash around the tip of the black branding iron, indicating it has been used on something that would account for the residue.

Your song gives a vision of Agarnil Kris showing an apprentice dwarf how to use the black branding iron. He presses on the black branding iron while holding some item in his other hand that you can't quite make out and smoothly inserts it in the bottom opening of the black branding iron.

The vision resumes as you see Agarnil point the hot iron at a severely bleeding patient and firmly hold it on the bleeding area until the flesh begins to cauterize, sealing the wound.

[everan]

I don't think I've contributed this one before:

You remove a twisted dull black talisman from in your sack.

You determine that you could wear the talisman anywhere on your body. The talisman appears to serve some purpose.

It looks like this item has been mainly crafted out of gemstone.

The material of the talisman has been gnarled and bent, forming a twisted shape out of smooth crystal, its surface dull and black.

[Script]>tap my talisman
You tap your fingertips against the smooth, dull black crystal within your talisman and wonder what became of the Star of Khar'ta.

Loresong:

The colors of the world around you bleed away, leaving only blackness to rush in to greet your vision. Along the blanket of darkness, tiny emerald fragments begin to twinkle into existence like diminutive viridian stars amid the night sky. Soon, the specks of green light slowly gravitate together, crawling across the darkness to move within but only inches apart.

The emerald shards of light gradually merge like bright celadon puzzle pieces, finally fitting together to form a glowing green sphere against the backdrop of night. Suddenly, a spark of azure energy comes to life within the sphere, churning and twisted about wildly. The green orb flashes with an intense emerald light then descends rapidly, falling through the air as it plummets to the ground.

An elf stands defiant upon the long shore, gusts of wind twirling about him violently, causing his aquamarine robes to flap wildly around his slender form. His eyes glow with a brilliant emerald light, a color to match the flawless green orb he clutches tightly in his hands. The sounds of war erupt in the distance, slightly muffled by the stinging rain and wind. The dark forms of ships appear in the distance, but are soon torn asunder as they come under attack from rival ships or violent waves.

The elven wizard's body is bathed in an emerald glow, originating from the orb he hoists up into the air. Black clouds thicken overhead, their nebulous forms expanding quickly and extending out into the sea. Brilliant, jade lightning arcs across the bottom of the clouds, periodically splitting off to strike at the black ships approaching the shore.

Suddenly, a streak of fire snakes in from the side, striking the elven mage's leg and causing him to lurch forward. Flames lick along the mage's side, while wisps of smoke trail up from his robes. He frantically swats at his clothing, putting out the fire but dropping the green orb in the process. As he turns to face his attacker, he notices the black longship that has somehow made it ashore. Marching purposely toward him are two dark-robed Faendryl. The mage shouts in disbelief as a host of demons fan out like a wave behind their dark elven masters.

The elven mage reaches down for the green orb, but it is too late. Another bolt of flames strikes him in the chest, causing him to fall back, gasping heavily for breath through scorched lungs and blackened ribs. He reaches out desperately, extending his finger to just barely touch the surface of the green orb. His cry is pitiful, a death rattle resonating from his seared throat.

Suddenly, the green orb explodes into a brilliant display of emerald light and a huge wave comes crashing along the shore, engulfing the body of the Ashrim mage.

Roundtime: 6 sec.



The colors of the world around you bleed away, leaving only blackness to rush in to greet your vision. Along the blanket of darkness, tiny emerald fragments begin to twinkle into existence like diminutive viridian stars amid the night sky. Soon, the specks of green light slowly gravitate together, crawling across the darkness to move within but only inches apart.

The emerald shards of light gradually merge like bright celadon puzzle pieces, finally fitting together to form a glowing green sphere against the backdrop of night. Suddenly, a spark of azure energy comes to life within the sphere, churning and twisted about wildly. The green orb flashes with an intense emerald light then descends rapidly, falling through the air as it plummets to the ground.

A human, hunched over to display the bumps along his gnarled back through his ratty and rotten clothes, mumbles incoherently as he rocks back and forth, cradling a green orb in his grimy hands. His eyes twitch, glowing with a faint green hue. The few strands of grey hair that cling to his discolored scalp whip back and forth as he nervously glances between strange sounds echoing off the cavern walls of his small cove.

The waves lap loudly before him, rushing in from the sea, rising almost to his feet before moving back out of the cove. The man continues to babble, awkwardly shifting where he sits as he engages in a muffled dialogue with the orb. He suddenly falls silent, looking up to the entrance of the cove where the form of a ship begins to take shape against the ocean fog. He tightens his hold on the orb and scrambles backward, shrinking against the wall.

From the watery pool of the cove rise four cloaked forms, each clutching a wicked dagger between their teeth. The man's orb begins to glow brightly, its emerald light illuminating the cove. The four men approaching cautiously step up out of the water, their mismatched and ragged clothing soaked. One of the men steps forward, gold teeth grinning beneath his bushy black beard. The other invaders follow his lead, slowly circling around to encroach upon the man.

The man tears up his back against the rocky cavern wall as he tries to inch away without success. He suddenly lifts the green orb before him and bellows loudly, his scratchy voice reverberating off the rock walls. The green orb suddenly expands, burning away the man's hands, and floats out before him. Emerald light ripples throughout the cove, and as the ocean tide comes pouring into the cave, engulfs everyone within.

Roundtime: 6 sec.



The colors of the world around you bleed away, leaving only blackness to rush in to greet your vision. Along the blanket of darkness, tiny emerald fragments begin to twinkle into existence like diminutive viridian stars amid the night sky. Soon, the specks of green light slowly gravitate together, crawling across the darkness to move within but only inches apart.

The emerald shards of light gradually merge like bright celadon puzzle pieces, finally fitting together to form a glowing green sphere against the backdrop of night. Suddenly, a spark of azure energy comes to life within the sphere, churning and twisted about wildly. The green orb flashes with an intense emerald light then descends rapidly, falling through the air as it plummets to the ground.

A huge krolvin steps out onto the quarterdeck of his massive crimson ship, his mismatched red and yellow eyes scanning the onslaught before him. Torrents of wind and rain rush violently over him, tearing at his long azure cape as he lets loose a raucous bark. His ship shifts from side to side, rising and falling with the powerful waves rippling across Darkstone Bay.

He looks on as a host of his krolvin warriors engage a group of adventurers on the main deck, their forces becoming blurred among the rain and chaos of battle. They are but featureless silhouettes, shadowed by the black storm clouds above. The krolvin warlord runs his slender fingers along the green orb, calling forth bolts of emerald lightning to strike out at his enemies, blasting them across the deck or overboard into the waves.

A battle horn suddenly pierces the commotion of the conflict, soon answered by the rally cries of the invading adventurers. The warlord snarls with fury, the white hair along his shoulders bristling despite the downpour. Piles of krolvin warriors clutter the deck, more added by the second. Having vanquished his army, the rush of adventurers turn their eyes to the warlord, swarming across the deck toward his position like an army of ants.

The adventurers soon have him surrounded, many swinging blades and axes of steel, while others hurl bolts of fire and lightning. The krolvin warlord cackles wildly as the wall of air surrounding him reflects each strike harmlessly. Despite his victorious cry, one figure moves in closer, striking forth with a sleek longsword, its black blade effortlessly passing through the wind barrier to strike the krolvin in the gut.

Unexpectedly, the green orb burns away the krolvin's hands, rising up from the corpse to churn among the dark clouds. Huge waves crash into the ship, sending the adventurers into the bay, while gale force winds begin to tear the vessel apart. The emerald orb expands in the sky, shifting and turning before it explodes, a mix of green and azure light rippling across the sky before a massive tide destroys the crimson warship.

Roundtime: 6 sec.



The colors of the world around you bleed away again, once more replaced by a landscape of darkness. Among the blackness, tiny slivers of emerald light blink into existence, before once again pulling themselves together as a whole. The green sphere forms in the sky, small at first, before gradually gaining in size. Azure light sparks within the green orb, dancing about like lightning in a bottle. The orb then flashes with a blinding green light before plunging to the ground.

[Seizer]

Finally caught up with Alisaire an her amulet. Here's what it had to say along with killing me.


As the amulet vibrates in response to your song, the world darkens around you, and even your voice seems distant and unimportant. What matters is the pain, which permeates every joint in your body, and the pressure of the shackles on your wrists. Every lashmark and bruise burns with a deep, dull ache, but the despair and hopelessness run more deeply than the ache. There is no information to cling to, no face in which to spit, no sword to grasp; there is only the dull red glow from the brazier, the choking smells of smoke and blood, the bars of the cell, and the shackles.

As your verse ends, color and light return to the world around you, and the stench of burning flesh fades.
Roundtime: 15 sec.


The vibration of the amulet in response to your voice summons you back into the vision. You see the inside of a white silk tent, and a kneeling elven prisoner, bound and shackled. Two armor-clad skeletons wielding spears stand on either side. Blood courses down the Illistim man's cheek from a cut above his left eye, and a patchwork of welts, as well as burn-marks cover his bare torso.
The man lifts his head and snarls, "Why do you mock me again? I know it is only a dream."
"No," responds a harsh, rasping voice. "Take up the challenge, and I offer you freedom. All you must do is claim this and place it in my hand..."
As your field of view shifts in the vision, you see an alabaster-skinned hand, so heavily scarred that it nearly appears deformed. The hand dips into a gleaming black ora bowl and withdraws a clear, spherical crystal. The rasping voice asks, "Do you accept my challenge, or shall I give you back to Morvule's servants?"
Hope wars with fury upon the elf's face before he finally chooses. "I accept."
The vision fades out with the end of the verse.
Roundtime: 16 sec.


With the first notes of your loresong, the amulet responds almost eagerly by plunging you back into the vision. Beneath a tattered black pavilion, a pair of cringing pages are assisting the elven prisoner in donning heavy steel platemail. They look at him with mingled envy and hatred, and, as one of the pages steps forward to fit the helm to the man's head, the page takes the opportunity to spit in his face. In the next instant, the page doubles and falls, screaming, as a skeletal guard's spear disembowels him.
The prisoner spares only a glance for the messily dying page before staring at a high iron gate. Beyond the gate, a makeshift arena may be seen, and only shadows are visible past the opposite gate. In the center of the arena stands a tall chalice, and a sickly green flame dances above the cup. Black streams of smoke curl from incense burners on each side of the chalice.
The vision fades as your verse dies away.
Roundtime: 15 sec.


Your mind's eye returns to the elven prisoner outside the arena, and you watch as a cloaked figure comes into view beyond the iron gate. Bloodstains mar the front of her tunic, and fresh scarlet flows freely from the razern bracelets about each wrist, which open new gashes with each of the figure's movements. The clear crystal sphere glimmers in her palm before she drops it into the chalice. She retreats again with slow, measured steps.
The prisoner chooses a broadsword and a tower shield from a rack nearby, and the near gate swings open with a shrill cry of tortured metal. The opposite gate swings open as well, and a similarly armored combatant steps through that gate into the arena.
Both prisoners turn their heads as a harsh voice cuts across the battlefield: "Hand me the crystal, and you will go free." As the prisoners move forward, shifting their attention warily between one another and the burning chalice, they do not seem to hear the rasping whisper that follows: "Lord Mularos, Thy Whip consecrates the ending of these lives to Thee."
Roundtime: 14 sec.


As the amulet vibrates again in response to your song , you see the two armored prisoners come together with a great crash of blades and armor in the center of the makeshift arena. Sword crashes against sword, shield slams against shield, ground is lost and regained and lost again. They circle around the chalice, and the green flame flares as they approach, fading away again as they retreat. The tendrils of black incense coil and sway like snakes made of shadow.
Suddenly, one of the combatants growls ferociously and flings himself at the other man. In a clatter of platemail, both go down, but one has the advantage and rises first. Wielding his heavy broadsword like a dagger, he brutally stabs down at his fallen opponent's face. The visor gives way, and the other man jerks horribly, flailing like a skewered cockroach before falling still.
The vision fades from your mind as the man dies.
Roundtime: 27 sec.


The image of the victorious prisoner returns to your mind. A grimace of self-hatred contorts his features as he throws down his sword and helm. He stalks to the burning chalice and shoves his gauntleted hand into its depths, but he comes up without the prize. He fishes around a second time, but, again, finds nothing. With a roar of fury, he turns, but a harsh voice cuts him off --
"The crystal abhors the touch of metal. Only flesh can claim it."
Desperation overrules apprehension. The prisoner casts aside his gauntlet, and, with only a brief moment of hesitation, reaches into the serpentine green flame, and past the flame down into the seething liquid in the chalice. Tears of agony shine in his eyes, and every tendon in his throat stretches tautly as he searches for the crystal. When he withdraws his hand this time, white blisters are rapidly forming all along his skin, but the transparent crystal sphere is nested within his curled fingers.
"Bring the crystal to me. Place it in my hand, and I will let you go," the unseen woman says harshly. As the prisoner begins to walk, the vision fades.
Your own hand is tingling slightly, though you notice nothing strange about it.
Roundtime: 17 sec.


The amulet responds instantly to your voice, and the vibrations bring you the image of the cloaked woman facing the elven prisoner. Her pale grey eyes are narrowed with hunger as she stretches out her scarred alabaster hand. Blood runs from her razern-braceleted wrist down to her palm.
The prisoner reaches out to drop the crystal into her palm -- but he cannot. His muscles bulge and strain, but his fingers only curl more tightly around the crystal. In desperation, he wrenches at the locked fingers of his right hand with his left, but wisps of steam begin to trail from beneath his left gauntlet cuff, and the rising blisters on his right hand pop and bubble like the surface of boiling water. As he screams in agony, matching blisters begin to form on his neck, and then the flesh of his face turns an angry, seared red hue.
The bones of his right hand break through his skin and fuse together, just as the flesh begins to fall from his face in long, dark red strips. The woman does not move a muscle as he dies at her feet His screams fade into gargling, then into bubbling, then into silence, and finally his armored skeleton lies still in a mass of steaming carrion.
As the last notes die in your throat, the fleeting image in your mind shows blood pooling in the woman's scar-ravaged hand, and the way in which her hungry eyes relax with satisfaction.
Roundtime: 17 sec.


The amulet responds to your song with a vision of the scarred woman. She draws a loop of razern wire around the skeleton's fused hand and neatly removes it from the corpse. Through the gaps between the mutilated former fingerbones, the crystal sphere glows with an angry red hue.

"An interesting trophy, Whip." The voice is male, and, as the speaker comes into view, you see that he has slate grey eyes and braided white hair. "What do you plan to do with it?" A crimson vaalin symbol of Sheru hangs around his neck.

"If you wish it, it is yours," she answers immediately.

The Sheruvian priest laughs scornfully. "I have souls enough," he says, waving her back. "Keep this one."

"No -- it will be a present," the woman harshly says, "to one who has pleased me well -- one with whom you may be pleased, also."

The old man reaches out to touch the surface of the bone. With his touch, the angry red glow dies, and a ripple of blackness shivers across the surface of the blood red crystal. "A playmate for him," he says offhandedly, and turns to walk away.

The woman traces the line of one of the scars on her throat, leaving a trail of scarlet stains from her bloody palm. She bows her head, and, though she does not speak, her thoughts ring through your mind, just as harshly formed as her voice: "Lord Mularos, be pleased with this Suffering."

The vision slips away, leaving you with black spots dancing before your eyes and the taste of blood in your mouth.

Roundtime: 15 sec.


The world wavers and fades around you. All forms slowly dissolve into an even, unrelenting haze, and all colors turn to red -- the shades range from the bright crimson of freshly spilled arterial blood to the near-black of old blood drifting on blue water. Your own voice fades away, and you can hear nothing at all but a soft clicking and scraping somewhere in the distance. In the instant you hear the sound, every sense attunes to it, and your heart races with terror. You sense that you are being watched, and you sense the simple, easy malevolence flowing from the being that made those sounds. Whatever it is, it hates you, just as it hates all things, but it lusts for you even as it hates you, for it wants you to be afraid. There is no doubt that it has achieved its goal. Waves of red pulse and flicker around you, and you strain your vision through the crimson void. Somewhere in the distance, you know that there waits a hint of true blackness, a single shadow cast within the sea of blood, and the fear of that shadow consumes your entire existence.

The rapid drumming of your heartbeat in your ears slowly returns you to your senses: light and sound come back, washing away the field of pervasive redness, and you remember who you are and what you are doing. Nevertheless, a deep apprehension remains with you, and you know that it would be unwise to coax further lore from this artifact.

Roundtime: 14 sec.


As you begin to sing, you are plunged instantly back into the world of featureless crimson haze. From the depths of the darkness, a tendril of true blackness coalesces, but it fades again as quickly as it came in the instant that you try to focus upon it. The corner of your left eye catches another wisp of darkness, and you whip around in panic to stare at it, but the red haze consumes that tendril as well. The sounds of scuttling and scraping fill your ears, but you cannot pinpoint a direction -- the noise comes from all sides, and it draws closer by the second. You cannot move, or even sense your own body, though your heartbeat thunders frantically through your temples.

Suddenly, a tendril of blackness materializes out of nowhere and whips across your eyes. The agony is unbelievable, with the heat of drakar and the icy cold of rhimar rolled into one to destroy your vision. In the moment of perfect anguish, the heartbeat pounding in your ears stops.


And that's when I died, funny how no death message was sent out to the lands though.

[time4fun]

Finally caught up with Alisaire an her amulet. Here's what it had to say along with killing me.


As the amulet vibrates in response to your song, the world darkens around you, and even your voice seems distant and unimportant. What matters is the pain, which permeates every joint in your body, and the pressure of the shackles on your wrists. Every lashmark and bruise burns with a deep, dull ache, but the despair and hopelessness run more deeply than the ache. There is no information to cling to, no face in which to spit, no sword to grasp; there is only the dull red glow from the brazier, the choking smells of smoke and blood, the bars of the cell, and the shackles.

As your verse ends, color and light return to the world around you, and the stench of burning flesh fades.
Roundtime: 15 sec.


The vibration of the amulet in response to your voice summons you back into the vision. You see the inside of a white silk tent, and a kneeling elven prisoner, bound and shackled. Two armor-clad skeletons wielding spears stand on either side. Blood courses down the Illistim man's cheek from a cut above his left eye, and a patchwork of welts, as well as burn-marks cover his bare torso.
The man lifts his head and snarls, "Why do you mock me again? I know it is only a dream."
"No," responds a harsh, rasping voice. "Take up the challenge, and I offer you freedom. All you must do is claim this and place it in my hand..."
As your field of view shifts in the vision, you see an alabaster-skinned hand, so heavily scarred that it nearly appears deformed. The hand dips into a gleaming black ora bowl and withdraws a clear, spherical crystal. The rasping voice asks, "Do you accept my challenge, or shall I give you back to Morvule's servants?"
Hope wars with fury upon the elf's face before he finally chooses. "I accept."
The vision fades out with the end of the verse.
Roundtime: 16 sec.


With the first notes of your loresong, the amulet responds almost eagerly by plunging you back into the vision. Beneath a tattered black pavilion, a pair of cringing pages are assisting the elven prisoner in donning heavy steel platemail. They look at him with mingled envy and hatred, and, as one of the pages steps forward to fit the helm to the man's head, the page takes the opportunity to spit in his face. In the next instant, the page doubles and falls, screaming, as a skeletal guard's spear disembowels him.
The prisoner spares only a glance for the messily dying page before staring at a high iron gate. Beyond the gate, a makeshift arena may be seen, and only shadows are visible past the opposite gate. In the center of the arena stands a tall chalice, and a sickly green flame dances above the cup. Black streams of smoke curl from incense burners on each side of the chalice.
The vision fades as your verse dies away.
Roundtime: 15 sec.


Your mind's eye returns to the elven prisoner outside the arena, and you watch as a cloaked figure comes into view beyond the iron gate. Bloodstains mar the front of her tunic, and fresh scarlet flows freely from the razern bracelets about each wrist, which open new gashes with each of the figure's movements. The clear crystal sphere glimmers in her palm before she drops it into the chalice. She retreats again with slow, measured steps.
The prisoner chooses a broadsword and a tower shield from a rack nearby, and the near gate swings open with a shrill cry of tortured metal. The opposite gate swings open as well, and a similarly armored combatant steps through that gate into the arena.
Both prisoners turn their heads as a harsh voice cuts across the battlefield: "Hand me the crystal, and you will go free." As the prisoners move forward, shifting their attention warily between one another and the burning chalice, they do not seem to hear the rasping whisper that follows: "Lord Mularos, Thy Whip consecrates the ending of these lives to Thee."
Roundtime: 14 sec.


As the amulet vibrates again in response to your song , you see the two armored prisoners come together with a great crash of blades and armor in the center of the makeshift arena. Sword crashes against sword, shield slams against shield, ground is lost and regained and lost again. They circle around the chalice, and the green flame flares as they approach, fading away again as they retreat. The tendrils of black incense coil and sway like snakes made of shadow.
Suddenly, one of the combatants growls ferociously and flings himself at the other man. In a clatter of platemail, both go down, but one has the advantage and rises first. Wielding his heavy broadsword like a dagger, he brutally stabs down at his fallen opponent's face. The visor gives way, and the other man jerks horribly, flailing like a skewered cockroach before falling still.
The vision fades from your mind as the man dies.
Roundtime: 27 sec.


The image of the victorious prisoner returns to your mind. A grimace of self-hatred contorts his features as he throws down his sword and helm. He stalks to the burning chalice and shoves his gauntleted hand into its depths, but he comes up without the prize. He fishes around a second time, but, again, finds nothing. With a roar of fury, he turns, but a harsh voice cuts him off --
"The crystal abhors the touch of metal. Only flesh can claim it."
Desperation overrules apprehension. The prisoner casts aside his gauntlet, and, with only a brief moment of hesitation, reaches into the serpentine green flame, and past the flame down into the seething liquid in the chalice. Tears of agony shine in his eyes, and every tendon in his throat stretches tautly as he searches for the crystal. When he withdraws his hand this time, white blisters are rapidly forming all along his skin, but the transparent crystal sphere is nested within his curled fingers.
"Bring the crystal to me. Place it in my hand, and I will let you go," the unseen woman says harshly. As the prisoner begins to walk, the vision fades.
Your own hand is tingling slightly, though you notice nothing strange about it.
Roundtime: 17 sec.


The amulet responds instantly to your voice, and the vibrations bring you the image of the cloaked woman facing the elven prisoner. Her pale grey eyes are narrowed with hunger as she stretches out her scarred alabaster hand. Blood runs from her razern-braceleted wrist down to her palm.
The prisoner reaches out to drop the crystal into her palm -- but he cannot. His muscles bulge and strain, but his fingers only curl more tightly around the crystal. In desperation, he wrenches at the locked fingers of his right hand with his left, but wisps of steam begin to trail from beneath his left gauntlet cuff, and the rising blisters on his right hand pop and bubble like the surface of boiling water. As he screams in agony, matching blisters begin to form on his neck, and then the flesh of his face turns an angry, seared red hue.
The bones of his right hand break through his skin and fuse together, just as the flesh begins to fall from his face in long, dark red strips. The woman does not move a muscle as he dies at her feet His screams fade into gargling, then into bubbling, then into silence, and finally his armored skeleton lies still in a mass of steaming carrion.
As the last notes die in your throat, the fleeting image in your mind shows blood pooling in the woman's scar-ravaged hand, and the way in which her hungry eyes relax with satisfaction.
Roundtime: 17 sec.


The amulet responds to your song with a vision of the scarred woman. She draws a loop of razern wire around the skeleton's fused hand and neatly removes it from the corpse. Through the gaps between the mutilated former fingerbones, the crystal sphere glows with an angry red hue.

"An interesting trophy, Whip." The voice is male, and, as the speaker comes into view, you see that he has slate grey eyes and braided white hair. "What do you plan to do with it?" A crimson vaalin symbol of Sheru hangs around his neck.

"If you wish it, it is yours," she answers immediately.

The Sheruvian priest laughs scornfully. "I have souls enough," he says, waving her back. "Keep this one."

"No -- it will be a present," the woman harshly says, "to one who has pleased me well -- one with whom you may be pleased, also."

The old man reaches out to touch the surface of the bone. With his touch, the angry red glow dies, and a ripple of blackness shivers across the surface of the blood red crystal. "A playmate for him," he says offhandedly, and turns to walk away.

The woman traces the line of one of the scars on her throat, leaving a trail of scarlet stains from her bloody palm. She bows her head, and, though she does not speak, her thoughts ring through your mind, just as harshly formed as her voice: "Lord Mularos, be pleased with this Suffering."

The vision slips away, leaving you with black spots dancing before your eyes and the taste of blood in your mouth.

Roundtime: 15 sec.


The world wavers and fades around you. All forms slowly dissolve into an even, unrelenting haze, and all colors turn to red -- the shades range from the bright crimson of freshly spilled arterial blood to the near-black of old blood drifting on blue water. Your own voice fades away, and you can hear nothing at all but a soft clicking and scraping somewhere in the distance. In the instant you hear the sound, every sense attunes to it, and your heart races with terror. You sense that you are being watched, and you sense the simple, easy malevolence flowing from the being that made those sounds. Whatever it is, it hates you, just as it hates all things, but it lusts for you even as it hates you, for it wants you to be afraid. There is no doubt that it has achieved its goal. Waves of red pulse and flicker around you, and you strain your vision through the crimson void. Somewhere in the distance, you know that there waits a hint of true blackness, a single shadow cast within the sea of blood, and the fear of that shadow consumes your entire existence.

The rapid drumming of your heartbeat in your ears slowly returns you to your senses: light and sound come back, washing away the field of pervasive redness, and you remember who you are and what you are doing. Nevertheless, a deep apprehension remains with you, and you know that it would be unwise to coax further lore from this artifact.

Roundtime: 14 sec.


As you begin to sing, you are plunged instantly back into the world of featureless crimson haze. From the depths of the darkness, a tendril of true blackness coalesces, but it fades again as quickly as it came in the instant that you try to focus upon it. The corner of your left eye catches another wisp of darkness, and you whip around in panic to stare at it, but the red haze consumes that tendril as well. The sounds of scuttling and scraping fill your ears, but you cannot pinpoint a direction -- the noise comes from all sides, and it draws closer by the second. You cannot move, or even sense your own body, though your heartbeat thunders frantically through your temples.

Suddenly, a tendril of blackness materializes out of nowhere and whips across your eyes. The agony is unbelievable, with the heat of drakar and the icy cold of rhimar rolled into one to destroy your vision. In the moment of perfect anguish, the heartbeat pounding in your ears stops.


And that's when I died, funny how no death message was sent out to the lands though.

Wow. What amulet is this?

[Seizer]

Wow. What amulet is this?

You'd have to get with Alisaire to find out, she did mention there were only two made. I had sung to it long ago and never logged it. Thankfully she was willing to let me have another go at it. I'll see if I can find out more when I next see her.

[time4fun]

Someone requested I put this loresong here, so here it is:

A bloodsoul vultite falchion

You begin to sense the awesome power of the blade, it is very ancient with a mysterious power. You feel there is a dark secret held within the runes which is the key to everything.

The small vibrations put out by the blade tell you it has a life all its own. The blade is literally alive and can aid you hunting when it feels so inclined at a slight cost to the user.

An evil demi-god transformed this weapon with fire of darkness and the power of sinister magic. The blade now craves the blood of its victims and drinks it greedily drawing upon this blood to feed its own hunger and lust. You can feel the warmth of the living essence of the bloodsoul falchion as it vibrates ever so softly in your grasp.

With your last verse a all is revealed to you that was hidden. Your soul is the cost of using the special powers of the weapon. As your song continues the bloodsoul falchion vibrates to life, you can see a spark jump from your body to the bloodsoul falchion. You can just make out a low satisfied hum over your own screams as the bloodsoul falchion drinks away your life force.
You feel drained!

[time4fun]

For those wanting to know the loresong for a completed Duskruin Pendant, here it is:

HUGE THANKS to GBB for doing this. It took a while to compile it all, and he was a champ!

Verse 1, 1st Person:

After the first few words of your song leave your mouth, your ears go deaf and your vision falls black. Your lips continue to move, but you hear nothing at all, not even your own voice.

Scenery unfolds around you, and you find yourself standing at the base of the DragonSpine Mountains in front of a thin section of the Locksmehr River. The water has a faint tinge of red, and you notice something protruding from its bank. You kneel down and scoop up an oily stone, gazing curiously at its crimson-laced porous surface. In an unfamiliar gravelly voice, you murmur, "The Gods have answered, and they now share with us this gift from the blood ravine."

Your breathing slows and your muscles tighten to a point of paralysis. Time seems to speed up as if hundreds of years were passing before your eyes while you remain unable to move. The moons rise and fall in the sky, and hundreds of men and women visit the water's edge only to leave with sacks full of the red flint-like substance. With a blink, time slows and you feel your breathing return to normal as your muscles relax.

You glance down to see a dried river bed, and your hand is empty, no longer holding the treasured ur-barath stone.

Verse 1, 3rd Person:

After finishing his song's verse, Galenblackbard drops to his knees, gazing down. He reaches toward the ground and scoops at the air, contemplating his empty hand. He stares intently, a distant look in his eyes.


Verse 2, 1st Person:

You continue to sing, but you remain unable to hear your own words. Your surroundings are unfamiliar.

Three participants clothed in ripped cloth and bloodied armor stand before you, their heads bowed in respect. Hundreds of spectators cheer eagerly as they await your confirmation of the triumphant combatants. You glance down and take note of three silver and kelyn pendants in your hand, each filled with four miniature moons. You silently approach the trio, and in a methodical and practiced production, drape a pendant around each participant's neck. The winners fall to their knees as you recite, "Your physical prowess has proven you worthy of this gift from our Gods. Wear it with pride in remembrance of this day...the day you became a true Champion!" The rest of your words are drowned out by the cheering crowds who follow the victors out of the arena and toward a great temple.

Black clouds of dust obscure your vision, and all sounds cease. You feel incredibly disoriented.

Verse 2, 3rd Person:

Galenblackbard maintains his lifeless gaze. An unfamiliar, gravelly voice escapes his lips as he speaks, "Your physical prowess has proven you worthy of this gift from our Gods. Wear it with pride in remembrance of this day...the day you became a true Champion!" A distant chorus of cheers, origin unknown, drowns out any further speech.



Verse 3, 1st Person:

Words spill across your lips as they've done many times before, but you are still unable to hear your own voice.

A deep ominous rumble echoes in the distance. The ground begins to tremble and shake violently. A heavy downpour soaks the terrain. Suddenly, waves of mud and debris slide across the ground and engulfs the arena. The ground splits open and swallows the surrounding buildings including the sacred temple, suffocating them in a dark ocean of dust and rubble.

Tiny particles in the air force you to blink rapidly, but you are unable to see. You shut your eyes tight and rub them with clenched fists, sandy grit scraping across your cornea. You scream out in pain, but are unable to hear your own cries. Darkness surrounds you.

Verse 3, 3rd Person:

Galenblackbard begins to sweat profusely. His knees tremble and buckle beneath him as he struggles to maintain his balance. He reaches toward his face and claws at his eyes in obvious pain. He opens his mouth as if to scream, but nothing comes out.



Verse 4, 1st Person:

As the sting in your eyes dissipates, you open your eyes to see an area - empty, overgrown, and with little sign of life. You struggle to bring yourself back to the present.

Standing before the devastated lands, time once again hastens and your body becomes immobilized. Bandits flood the area, structures rise from the ground, smoke billows into the sky -- signs that life has returned to the once ruined land at the blood ravine. Laying atop a small dirt mound, a tiny chunk of ur-barath lies in wait. You try to reach toward the stone, but are still unable to move. With your last bit of energy, you open your mouth and speak, in the same unfamiliar and gravelly voice, "Bloodriven..."

With a weak gasp for air, you collapse onto the ground, exhausted.

Verse 4, 3rd person:

Galenblackbard turns his head from side to side, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth as he watches something unfold. In the unfamiliar gravelly voice, he says, "Bloodriven..." before collapsing onto the ground.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Someone requested I put this loresong here, so here it is:

A bloodsoul vultite falchion!

been on here since 2011! take that!

But I don't think this is in here:


Familiar Instrument
This thing has finally moved on to a new home as of 11/23/2010 to the tune of ~50m for those who care to keep track of such things.

A haon-framed tambourine decorated with brightly colored silken ribbons.
Show: The tambourine is framed of smoothly sanded haon, the skin stretched tightly across it. Brightly hued ribbons are tied gaily to the haon frame, their colors blending together as if a rainbow.

This is an instrument that a bard can loresing to that will allow them to summon the specific familiar, a sleek golden eyed lemur. This is basically unlimited self-mana 920 for bards. The sex of the familiar is currently random, but can be permanently set to male, female, or neutral (don't ask me how).

Here is some additional information:

Quote:
>inspect tamb
You carefully inspect your beribboned tambourine.
After a careful inspection you determine that a haon-framed tambourine decorated with brightly colored silken ribbons requires skill in percussion instruments to play effectively.
The beribboned tambourine can be played with one hand.

As you sing, you sense that the instrument weighs about less than 1 pound and is worth about 2000000 silvers

As you continue to sing, you sense that the tambourine is a type of musical instrument, although it has an unusual vibration, almost harmonizing with your melody

As you continue to sing, you sense that there is something quite unusual about the instrument. It is warm beneath your touch, and responds with increasing vibration to your song, almost as if it were alive.

You sense that the tambourine is of a time long past. The power contained within sings to you of ancient magic and friendship, loyal companionship and steadfast honor. The instrument grows still warmer beneath your hands, and suddenly, you sense a friendly presence in your mind.

A sleek golden-eyed lemur scampers into the area and moves to stand next to you, her long tail slightly curling around your leg.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a blood red ruby ring - You see a blood red ruby ring with flecks of glaes. The ruby is glowing brightly.

self recharging heal

Suddenly, waves of images flare up from the ring like unbidden guests, each one more terrible than the last. Your surroundings fade as a great battle unfolds, stretching to the horizons of a bleak panorama. Overhead, the writhing forms of huge drakes desperately battle creatures that defy description, their silhouettes grotesque and contorted. As you watch, horror grows as the screams and shrieks penetrate your core, pulling your very life blood away. Then, the vision dims, and as your eyes clear, you hear the last echo of one of the horrible cries leave its echo in your mind.

As the melody of your song wraps its strains around the ring, you find yourself back in the midst of the raging battle glimpsed before, the shift disconcerting and abrupt. Again, the dragons battle their fiendish foes. You watch as one of the hideous beings is mortally wounded, and stand in horror, unable to move. The colossal form comes barreling down at you from above, flailing and screaming in rage. It passes through you, leaving a frozen waste in your heart as it disappears into the maw of molten glaes seething in the volcano beneath your feet. You watch, mesmerized by its dying frenzy, seeing its visage slowly still and become a part of the magma surrounding it. As its eyes dim, so does the hellish image, fading back into your normal surroundings.

You feel the blood leave your face as, once more, images seep from the ring and grow more insistent and demanding. You find yourself standing in a place dark and dangerous, with steaming fissures and hellish spouts of magma. Standing before the visage of everything evil you've ever imagined, you watch as drops of liquid poison form, changing from horror into beauty as the viscous goo embraces a pile of sparkling rubies. Without explanation, you know that this pairing not only gives life, but takes it as well. As you shudder with such a near proximity to death itself, the vision fades away.

[shad0ws0ngs]

an ornately carved driftwood box inlaid with chips of sea glass

A pale, pearly-grey fog mists your vision, slowly clearing to reveal a view of an unfamiliar city, seen from a great height. A sense of vertigo sweeps over you as you swoop down into the city at impossible speed, flying through the narrow streets and into a tiny window near the foundation of a simple cottage. Your dream-like flight comes to a sudden halt within a cluttered workshop filled with gears, springs, and other contraptions. Seated on a high stool at the workbench in the middle of this mechanical maelstrom is a wizened gnome, busily tinkering with an ornately carved driftwood box inlaid with chips of sea glass.

Even before the last notes of your song have finished, your vision clouds and clears again, returning you to the scene of the cluttered workshop. Some time seems to have passed since you last saw the wizened gnome, for now he is holding the carved box in his hands, turning it this way and that in clear pleasure with his handiwork. As he opens it, you hear a soft mechanical whirring, which increases in volume as the vision fades....

The last notes of your song twist into a mechanical whirr as your vision of the old gnome and his workshop return. The workbench is heaped with various weapons, cloaks, pouches, belts and shoes to the gnome's right, and a random collection of gems, pelts and buckles to his left. The wizened craftsman hums merrily as he selects one thing from each pile, pops them into the carved box perched on the workbench before him, and closes it. From deep within the box, a mechanical whirring starts up, pushing you back into your natural time and place....

Almost before you can begin your song, your vision is swept away to the tiny workshop. A moment or two only seem to have passed, for the gnome has just reached into the carved box set before him. He dances about the room in a merry, disjointed little jig, holding up a spiked mithril mace with a star ruby set in its haft. You reach out towards the box and wake from your revelry with a jolt, as the reality of the cold surface of the box you are holding brings you out of your song.

[Christin65]

Butterfly pouch:
I don't think has been posted yet...

As you sing to the pouch, a soft chill passes over your skin. Strong, unusual spiritual magic dwells within the pouch, but you can determine no more than that over the course of the verse.

Roundtime: 9 sec.

You sing softly in Guildspeak:

Small threads of frost creep over the surface of the pouch as you delve more deeply into its nature with your lore-commmanding music. There is a presence within the pouch -- a presence secured and bound by threads of spiritual magic more powerful than almost any soul keeper could command.

The same harmonies that reveal more of the pouch's nature affect the very air around you. The temperature drops distinctly, and you smell oncoming snow.

Roundtime: 14 seconds

You sing softly in Guildspeak:

Your song awakens the magic of the pouch. Threads of spiritual enchantment coil around your senses, and the world around you fades away as visions melt through you like snowflakes melting on your skin.

Grass and flowers fade in a sudden flurry of feathers. Your body is broken, your wings are torn, and you are consumed....

A candle flame looms nearby, brilliant and beautiful beyond anything else in the world. Blinded, you approach; entranced, you burn....

Clear skies are suddenly blocked away by a silvery web, invisible until this very moment. Caught and bound, you struggle desperately, but every movement wraps you more tightly. The spider's bite flares through you....

Snowflakes tremble down from a grey sky. You have no more strength. You lie looking up at the greyness, thinking nothing at all, nothing at all....

There are more -- hundreds or thousands more, if not hundreds of thousands more -- but you remember yourself again at last, surfacing from visions of death like a swimmer surfacing from icy waters. The pouch lies cold in your hand, wrapped in the silvery gleam of already-melting frost.

Roundtime: 10 second

You sing softly in Guildspeak:

The magic of the gossamer pouch responds again to your song, taking you away from this place and drawing you into the heart of a vision. Instinctively, you understand that this is not a literal recounting of events, but a translation -- the closest that you can understand, limited to mortal senses and mortal understanding.

Beneath a heavy grey sky, a skeleton garbed in a jet black robe stands in a meadow of ebony grass. Runes are engraved along the skeleton's polished white bones, and a blood-red scarab glitters from the center of its breastbone. The pouch lies at the skeleton's feet, and the cupped skeletal hands cradle a living scarlet lily, which the skeleton offers silently to the sky.

Hundreds of tiny, almost invisible forms come fluttering down from the sky, swirling about the lily and the skeleton. You perceive their hunger and their yearning, the desire of each ghostly butterfly, the wistfulness and the wishing for the lost world of mortality.

The conversation that passes between the skeleton and the butterflies is too arcane for you to follow, but you sense the striking of a bargain. With a master's power, the skeleton draws them all together in a net of spiritual magic, creating a single presence and power from the multitude of tiny spirits. Glowing brilliantly, the greater butterfly spirit settles upon the pouch, fusing into it and melding with its essence.

The magic fades away, releasing you from the vision.

Roundtime: 13 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

[Red Forest, Inner Weald]
Very little light penetrates the green canopy overhead, and what few bits of illumination are allowed in only serve to cloud the area in a murky gloom. A small slab of rusted metal juts up from the ground, almost swallowed up completely by dirt and foliage.

Your vision begins to blur as the colors of the world melt away around you. When light returns, the scene of a lush forest rushes in, with huge trees towering all around. Far off, a low demonic growl echoes in the woods as the tops of trees begin to sway.

Your vision begins to blur as the colors of the world melt away around you. Another unnatural bellow pierces the air and some trees bend while others crumble at the approach of an unseen danger. Among some nearby brush, an elven man springs into action, quickly drawing a blade from its sheath and slinging a shield over his shoulder. He turns, just in time, as a shadowy beast erupts from the depths of the forest.

Your vision begins to blur as the colors of the world melt away around you. The body of an elven man lays in two different locations, torn in half, his legs bloodied and mangled and almost reduce to mush. The elf gasps with labored breaths, his eyes growing cold and lifeless as he reaches for his stained shield beside him. Your vision ends.


[Red Forest, Derelict Village]
Small child-sized footprints weave in and out along the dirt around this part of the village. Rising up in the center of the small open square is an old stone well that has crumbled in on one side, where a weathered bucket sits half-filled with black sludge.


Your vision blurs and the colors of the world melt away before your entire surroundings shift. A small group of human and elven women stand around a sturdy well, chattering amongst themselves. Taking turns, the women slowly lower a wooden bucket into the depths of the well, carefully raising it moments later with it now filled with crystal clear water.

Your vision blurs and the colors of the world melt away before your entire surroundings shift. A half-elven woman sighs as she leans with her back up against the stone border of a sturdy well. She holds a small white flower in her hand, casually plucking petals one at a time, tossing each to the ground as she whispers to herself. There is a loud scream nearby, and the woman suddenly looks up, her eyes wide in fright as she turns to run.

Your vision blurs and the colors of the world melt away before your entire surroundings shift. The well stands unused as smoke and fog sweep across the dirt worn streets nearby. The haze of a fire can be seen in the distance and a chorus of demonic growls pierces the air. At the edge of the well, a handful of white flower petals rest in the dirt, their pale surface speckled with blood.

Your vision blurs and the colors of the world melt away before your entire surroundings shift. The area is bathed in the warm glow of sunlight, which helps to illuminate the ground that has darkened from dried blood. Two tiny, elven children stand at the edge of the well, the unnatural sparkle of their eyes matching their vicious, unnatural grin. Slowly they pull on a rope and raise a bucket from the well, which holds the bound and bloated corpse of a small human child. Your vision ends.

[Luxelle]

Dethnyain asked me to sing to his glaes spider charm:

>look charm

The charm is crafted of flawless glaes formed into a circle. Delicate strands of spidersilk wind around the translucent rim, creating a small but spectacular web within the frame. At the center of the web is a tiny opaque spider.

Along the rim, a few words have been engraved.
sR>read charm
Along the edge of the circle, a few words have been engraved...

"Many paths lead home for those of courage."

I'd say it matches this web-move souvenir (https://gswiki.play.net/mediawiki/index.php/Translucent_glaes_spider_charm) that is documented on the wiki.

But, here is the loresong for it:

v.1
As you sing, you sense a minute vibration somewhere within the glaes spider charm and your mind reaches out toward a path of some type.

v.2
As your voice rises and falls, you once more see the edges of a faint path. Looking toward the horizon, you see not sky and trees, but faint glimmers of spidersilk stretching into infinity.

v.3
As you continue to sing, you see the image of some small creature moving out of its dwelling and onto the path, led by a rather large, ferocious-looking spider.

v.4
As you conclude the song, the image of the twisting path gradually fades, replaced by another vision of the small dwelling. Somehow, the spider and the small creature now stand before the tiny home again. The spider turns and skitters away, leaving behind only a small object, glistening in the light of three moons.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a colorful toy woodsman bank

>look bank
The bank is basically a small box topped by a three-dimensional scene, all crafted in metal. The jointed toy woodsman figure seems poised to move.
There's a narrow slot, just the right size for coins, on the side.
It looks as if you could PUSH your bank, to feed some silvers into it.


One smooth side of the bank shimmers as though silvery gauze were laid over it and a scene appears there, faded around the edges but nearly clear in the center.

You see an exceedingly sour-faced tinker gnome hunched over a worktable, small metal gears and tools scattered over the top. She squints through her thick spectacles and mutters fiercely to herself as her fingers assemble pieces of metal into tiny moveable figures. Standing up to stretch, she takes a jar containing a few silvers from a nearby shelf and stares at the slotted lid. She glances at the figures, then back at the jar in her hand. As if inspired by her thoughts, she grabs a scrap of metal and begins to etch a diagram upon it.

The shimmering image fades away.


The silver shimmering answers to your song, bringing the same workshop into view, the tinker gnome hard at work again.

Another gnome knocks at the room's open doorframe and edges in as if uncertain of his welcome. The craftswoman kicks a stool out from under the worktable and roughly motions to him to be seated. "Did ya bring da signed parchmint?" she asks. "Yeps I gots it right heres," says her guest. "Lemme see!" she growls, setting down her tools and the figures. "Does it gots da seals o' all da banks? I kin't do da job unless I'se got all o' dem agreed!"

The visiting gnome nods and pulls a large rolled parchment from inside his vest, pointing out the row of various wax seals along the bottom edge. The tinker grabs it from him. Squinting closely, she reads with one grubby fingertip leading her eyesight along the words. With a look of satisfaction she sits up and pulls a gem from her apron pocket, handing it to the visitor. He takes it, then hesitates. "Final paymint when I makes deliv'ry!" she sneers at him as the image fades.


Your song again coaxes a shimmering scene into view.

The tinker gnome is holding a small metal box in her hands, turning it this way and that, closely inspecting her work. She pushes some silvers into a slot, and little metal figures on top begin to move. She makes some adjustments, then pushes more silvers in. Suddenly the top flips to reveal a different set of little figures.

After adding more silvers to the toy bank, she makes a final adjustment and seals the workings. Nodding to herself, she tilts it and turns something on the bottom, then taps the coins out of the box into her hand.

She looks pleased, or as close to pleased as a tinker gnome gets, before the scene darkens and disappears.


The next vision comes into focus with the tinker gnome approaching a smoky cave, huffing as though she's climbed a great distance.

An old wizard walks out to greet her with pleasure, the unlikely pair obviously old friends. They enter the cave which is cluttered with bubbling cauldrons and glass beakers, all manner of dried roots and animal parts hanging from the ceiling or stored in jars, and sit before the fireplace.

She takes a metal box from her backpack and hands it to him to inspect. After much discussion and sharing some stew and ale, he agrees to add some magic to the box.

Again the image fades away.



The shimmering scene drawn forth with your song shows the tinker gnome in an office where a tall well-dressed elf is inspecting the metal box.

"How does it work?" he asks. "Gimme sum silvers 'n I'll show ya," she replies. He hands her a small sack of coins, and the tinker pushes them in, the figures on top jerking into motion. "I need a bunch more t'make da magic part work." He grudgingly gives her a bigger sack, and watches closely as she puts the figures through their routine over and over. She lets the elf feel the weight of the box, then takes it from him and waves it.

A bank clerk runs in from the outer office a moment later, whispers to the elf and leaves. "It seems to work as you promised," the elf says, "and only for the owner?" "A'course! I nevver promise anyt'ing I kin't make," she proudly states as the vision fades and vanishes.


Notes:
Cycles between woodsman, washerwoman, and gnome smith. Can PUSH to insert coins and get a little automated show, but can also keep PUSHing every 10 seconds to add 50-250 coins each push. Bank fills around 5k and starts to heat, so you WAVE bank and it deposits to the closest bank. Lacking a closest bank, it asks if you want so and so bank and to wave again. 250 coin fee to deposit via this.
*Works in Sanctum of Scales.

[shad0ws0ngs]

an ancient rolaren longblade

Vibrations from the notes of your song cause your vision to waiver, and a battleground of acrid smoke roils before you, dissipating to reveal a scene. Standing dark against a light stone wall, a huge keep towers over an advancing army comprised from the seven Elven houses. In unison, a large gathering of Faendryl raises their hands and summons demons that quickly swarm the massive tower. Then, as they cast one final spell, Maelshyve implodes, disappearing, and leaving a large stygian crater. The keep is no more, and no life stirs from the rubble.


As your song resonates, waning fog swirls initially in your vision, then clears to show what is obviously an intimate moment. Meeting under the canopy of a tall lor tree, a Faendryl ranger gazes at a younger version of himself - father and son. The elder elf's hands hold a longknife and a longblade, which he slowly extends, offering them to the lad. The boy takes both blades without a word, silently watching as the older elf turns and walks away.


Another refrain of your song produces a murky purple cloud charged and winking with tiny sparks. As it clears, you see another close-resembling Faendryl ranger standing inside a wizard's workshop coming into focus. The grandson now watches on as a giantkin man and a half-elven lass stand in the center of a swirling pool of mana, the first holding a pair of twin blades as he quietly chants magical phrases. The essence in the room slowly begins to coalesce and sinks into the weapons.


Attempting once more with your song, you are returned to the scene from your first refrain, obscured again by battleground smoke initially. Fading into view, the young Faendryl ranger from the workshop scene stands in the rubbled courtyard of Shadowguard, toe-to-toe with a Vaalorian commander. They circle each other warily at the start, the Faendryl parrying and blocking each thrust, but never connecting. The elven warrior smirks as she mutters under her breath, her words summoning a host of undead that rush forward. Knowing he cannot win, the Faendryl calls on the power of Voln and disappears.


The longblade vibrates slightly before going still.

[tiggereye]

A wooden hair-braiding tool

As you sing to your hair-braiding tool, your vision flashes silver for a moment. When your sight returns, you find yourself gazing out from a mirror as if it were a window into a dressing room. Before you, a human woman sits, a young half-elven girl resting on her knee. Humming a wandering tune, the woman carefully braids the child's hair into neat plaits, taming the unruly auburn tresses which closely resemble her own. The woman rests her cheek against the child's, hugs her into an embrace, and gazes into the mirror. As her gaze falls to directly match yours, you are startled out of the vision.

The dressing room returns as you sing to your hair-braiding tool, and the young girl appears front and center once more, a little older and garbed in a long black dress. The human woman is gone this time, replaced by an elven man who stands behind the girl, attempting to tug a comb through her unruly, tangled hair. The young girl cries out in protest, and with a defeated sigh the elven man sets the comb down on the dressing room table, beside a portrait of the family of three. The human woman is noticeably older than in your previous vision, her curly hair peppered with grey. The man pulls a black bonnet over the girl's head and tucks her hair into it as the vision fades.

Your song again coaxes the scene of the dressing room from the hair-braiding tool. The elven man stands behind his half-elven daughter once more, guiding her as she sections her auburn hair with the aid of a fork-like tool and pulls it slowly, carefully into a loose braid. She beams at his reflection in the mirror and claps her hands in delight, and a smile crosses his face as the vision dissipates.

With a flash of silver, the dressing room unfolds before you as you sing to the hair-braiding tool. The half-elven girl, now a young woman, sits before the mirror, gazing at her reflection as she weaves her auburn tresses into a series of silky braids decorated with pink lace flowers with the aid of the fork-like tool. Passing a hand over her flawless braids, she sets the tool down beside the portrait of her as a child with her parents and smiles down at the portrait as the image fades.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a horse-carved white ivory flute - Stylized galloping horses have been incised across the bone-white ivory surface of the flute. Age has darkened the ivory along the incisions, resulting in the carved horses standing out starkly, outlined in brown, and yellowed at the edges.

Loresong:

A bright light flashes before your eyes and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself staring at what was not before you previously. The new scenery is that of a lush green field underneath a clear cerulean sky. A harras of ponies can be seen scattered across the field munching on the bounty of the land and colts frolicking with one another.

Far off in the distance at the end of the lush field lies the lake of Khesta 'Dahl. Faintly noticeable at the edge of the lake seems to be a dock and slight movement happening upon it.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


A second bright light flashes before your eyes and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself staring from upon the lakeside dock now. A young halfling lad sits upon an overturned pail with a lengthy fishing pole in his hands.

The lad seems relaxed and content in his fishing, even if you notice he isn’t catching anything at all. Every so oft the lads turns to whistle loudly at the horses, corralling them and calling back any that may have wandered too far.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


Another bright light flashes before your eyes and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself back amongst the ponies in the lush field.

The sky begins to darken quickly, and a strike of lightning illuminates a tall elf atop a hilltop off in the distance. He wears ebon black robes and wields a runestaff crafted of witchwood. Thunder booms loudly as lightning cracks, and the harras of ponies begin to neigh in a terrified manner and corral together in one tight-knit group.

Turning to look off in the distance toward the dock, the faint form of the halfling lad can be seen rushing toward the field as fast as his hairy little feet can take him, waving his arms wildly as he whistles loudly toward the ponies.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The bright light flashes again before your eyes, and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself standing atop the hillside beside the crazy-eyed elf in black robes. His hands are moving in intricate patterns in the air as a growled voice chants archaic phrases.

A sickly green miasma forms in the air around the elf before he thrusts his hands forward sending the jade-hued cloud quickly toward the corral of ponies. The ponies begin to neigh in an even more high-pitched tone before crashing lifelessly, one by one, to the ground.

Right as the halfling lad reaches the dead zone, the cloud dissipates into the air, leaving the lad unharmed. The lad screams out in rage and recites a vow of revenge upon the black-robed Ardenai elf that caused such death and destruction.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The bright light flashes again before your eyes, and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself back in the once-lush field. A circle of death surrounds you, as the only thing left now are the decayed remains of the magnificent ponies. Even the grass below your feet has dared not grow back in the area.

Nearby upon a rock sits the halfling lad, yet not a lad now. He has aged considerably since the event years ago and now mumbles dark curses underneath his breath as he turns a flute over and over in his hands.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The bright light flashes again before your eyes, and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself suddenly in a grand ballroom. All around you, elves dance the night away cheerfully, laughing and sipping fine wine.

At the edge of the room a vast table has been set up and pushed back against one wall. Upon the table sits a finely penned placard that reads, "Wedding gifts for King Aemon and Princess Elsevel." Movement near the far end of the table draws your eye toward a short, hunched-over robed figure, who sets a flute upon the table and then hobbles out of the ballroom as quickly as his old hairy feet will take him.

No one else seems to have noticed the extra gift placed upon the table.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The bright light flashes again before your eyes, and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself suddenly back in the grand ballroom, now empty except a few servant girls cleaning up the place after the wild celebration.

A young elven girl takes a moment to distract herself from the cleaning to gaze over the vast amount of gifts upon the table. She makes her way to the end of the table, and her eyes seem to brighten excitedly as she sets her sights upon the flute.

Quicker than the blink of an eye, the elven servant snatches up the flute and tucks it away in her bodice, then glances about to see if anyone had noticed. A soft murmur can be heard underneath her breath saying, "They obviously don't pay me enough silvers to clean up after them."

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The bright light flashes again before your eyes, and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself outside the city of Ta'Ardenai. The young, elven servant girl stands nearby and is pulling the flute out of her bodice.

She quickly raises it and begin to play, but no noise escapes at first. She tries again and it sounds, loud and horrendous. She pauses, giggling, and then continues to play.

You sense a visceral change in the air as a symphony of spectral instruments fill your mind. The elven maid lowers the flute with a frown.

All of a sudden a gaggle of roltons rush into view and charge straight for the girl. Their eyes are bloodshot and a white foam seeps from their jowls. They leap toward her and land roughly upon her, knocking her to the ground, and then mauling apart her body in fervor. Blood and guts fly in all directions.

The frenzied cacophony fades from your mind, and the gaggle of roltons stop their attack abruptly. One by one, they turn and walk calmly into the distance and out of sight; the white foam disappearing from their mouths and the bloodshot look in their eyes fading quickly.

All that remains of the young girl is a shredded bodice and the flute resting atop it.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The faint sound of frenzied, chaotic music echoes across your mind before fading away.

[Luxelle]

Last night, Mister Crime Royal allowed me to listen to the black ora kris from the auction. It's seriously cursed.

A black ora kris set with a hematite-etched grip

Verse 1
As your song flows into the black ora kris, it is echoed back like a distorted reflection from a warped mirror. The discordant tones twist and writhe across the backdrop of your mind, bringing forth imagines that flash with alarming vibrancy. -- A light haze of smoke slants across the scene, back lit by dozens of ebony candles glowing with a purple-tinged brilliance. Your gaze pans upward, and you find yourself staring into the marble faces of the Lornon pantheon. The smoke dances languidly in your line of sight, creating on the pale visages the illusion of movement - leering smiles, laughter, and contemptuous gazes from cold stone eyes. Your breath quickens, and your sight begins to fail as all plunges into darkness.

Verse 2
The notes of your song shed light once again on your marbled surroundings. Above, the patrons of Lornon gaze downward upon the scene, and you turn your eyes from them, instead taking in your surroundings. Around you rise the walls of a marble chapel, and tucked within the stony niches are windows of dark stained glass. No light filters through their jewel-toned panels, and instead, the light from a myriad of candles caresses their polished surfaces.

Before you, in the center of a floor marked by concentric circles of brass-inlaid conduits, is a raised, ivory marble and obsidian altar. Atop the altar, the prone form of a young man lies, his face turned from you, and his limbs fixed at each corner. You can see that from each of the corners, thin rivers of blood run within brass-inlaid channels, conveying the sanguine liquid to the design underfoot. A glance downward reveals the labyrinthine pattern traced in blood, and the movement of your head causes your vision to swim. With a quick inhalation, your sight is extinguished.

Verse 3
With a frightful abruptness, your song calls forth a vision from the black ora kris. -- You find yourself closer now to the altar at the labyrinth's heart, and a heavy weight calls your attention to your hands. You find there a black ora kris set with a hematite-etched grip, its blade smeared with incarnadine streaks. In your chest, your breath comes and goes in haste, and you feel a certain dizziness as you take the blade into one hand and extend your other to the face of the man atop the altar. Your fingers leave ruby-hued prints on his skin as you tilt his face toward you, and you hear an unidentifiable, though audible noise fall from your lips. All at once, darkness closes your sight.


Verse 4
The notes of your song draw you back into the black ora kris's memories, and you find that the face looking up at you no longer belongs to the prone young man. Instead, your own visage stares back at you: sightless eyes, sallow skin, and lips perched open as if to draw the next breath, which never seems to come. Laughter begins to echo in the empty chapel, and you look up, expecting to see one of the marble statues come to life with morbid merriment. Instead, they are motionless, and you come to realize that the hysterical laughter is none other than your own. As you stumble backwards, your feet slip in the blood that runs in narrow rivers through the marble floor, and you feel yourself falling... falling... falling... until blackness engulfs you.


~ ~ ~

I put it on it's own wiki page, it seems deserving of one. Whether it has a name or not, I was not told. Perhaps Mister Crime will learn of it one day.

https://gswiki.play.net/Black_ora_kris_set_with_a_hematite-etched_grip

[shad0ws0ngs]

a shadowy black ora tanto - You see nothing unusual, except for a small enchanter's glyph.
There appears to be something written on it.
>read my tanto
In the Common language, it reads:
Nocturna

>gaze my tanto
You spin your black ora tanto deftly in your hand, watching as the blade changes to a mix of sanguine and amber.
The sanguine side pulses brightly and the amber side pulses brightly.

>pull tanto
You pull the hilt of your black ora tanto against your chest and breathe deeply, causing the blade to glow amber.
You clutch at your chest in pain!
Roundtime: 3 sec.

>push tanto
You flip your black ora tanto in your hand and push it out from your body. The tanto pulses amber tendrils down your arm; you feel reinvigorated!


>cover my tanto
You press your black ora tanto flat against your hand and gently turn it, causing the blade to glow sanguine.
You feel drained!
Roundtime: 3 sec.


>raise my tanto
You flip your black ora tanto in your hand and hold it parallel to your eyes. The tanto pulses sanguine tendrils down your arm; you feel reinvigorated!


As your loresong begins, you find yourself transported to the halls of a grand palace in the dead of night. All is calm, with the gentle clinking of chainmail the only sound puncturing the silence. An armored guard rounds the corner, slouched with boredom and fatigue. Then something catches his attention: a dark puddle growing at the foot of a gilded cabinet. He moves closer to investigate.

As if in a dream, you find yourself looking through the guard's eyes as he opens the gilded cabinet. His horror overcomes you as he sees inside the dead corpse of one of his fellow palace guard, a sigil of Onar has been traced in blood on his forehead. You run your gauntleted hands across the corpse's armor and behold it has been sliced through as if it were paper. You race to the king's chambers at once.

The king is missing, nowhere to be found. The windows are open, their silken drapes fluttering in a mild breeze. A young girl cowers in the corner, terrified. You do not know her, but you approach nonetheless, seeking to comfort her, question her, anything. Your outstretched hand falls cleanly off your body. You have been disarmed! The girl fixes you with her impassive gaze, a black ora tanto gleaming in her hand.

You can no longer separate yourself from the guard. His terror overcomes you. His heart races within your chest. You feel every cut as the girl's tanto slices through your armor without trouble. Your vision is remarkably clear as you lay prostate, your life ebbing away. Amber tendrils pulse from the tanto, drawn into the girl's arm, reinvigorating her. She kneels and, using your own blood, draws what you realize must be a sigil of Onar on your forehead.

The harmonics generated tell you that the tanto inflicts more fearsome wounds when it strikes.
You feel that you have reached the end of the tanto's song.

[shad0ws0ngs]

1 of 3 - this has been posted before, but a bit more detail this time.

a leather-hung gnarled bone amulet - Except in substance, the piece of gnarled grey bone more closely resembles a twisted briar root than any part of a skeleton. Four parallel ridges run along one side of the amulet, and the bone breaks open at three spaces between the ridges to expose a blood-red crystal imprisoned at the heart of the amulet. A black leather cord loops down through a hole bored beneath a fifth ridge.


As the amulet vibrates in response to your song, the world darkens around you, and even your voice seems distant and unimportant. What matters is the pain, which permeates every joint in your body, and the pressure of the shackles on your wrists. Every lashmark and bruise burns with a deep, dull ache, but the despair and hopelessness run more deeply than the ache. There is no information to cling to, no face in which to spit, no sword to grasp; there is only the dull red glow from the brazier, the choking smells of smoke and blood, the bars of the cell, and the shackles.

As your verse ends, color and light return to the world around you, and the stench of burning flesh fades.


The vibration of the amulet in response to your voice summons you back into the vision. You see the inside of a white silk tent, and a kneeling elven prisoner, bound and shackled. Two armor-clad skeletons wielding spears stand on either side. Blood courses down the Illistim man's cheek from a cut above his left eye, and a patchwork of welts, as well as burn-marks cover his bare torso.

The man lifts his head and snarls, "Why do you mock me again? I know it is only a dream."

"No," responds a harsh, rasping voice. "Take up the challenge, and I offer you freedom. All you must do is claim this and place it in my hand..."

As your field of view shifts in the vision, you see an alabaster-skinned hand, so heavily scarred that it nearly appears deformed. The hand dips into a gleaming black ora bowl and withdraws a clear, spherical crystal. The rasping voice asks, "Do you accept my challenge, or shall I give you back to Morvule's servants?"

Hope wars with fury upon the elf's face before he finally chooses. "I accept."

The vision fades out with the end of the verse.


With the first notes of your loresong, the amulet responds almost eagerly by plunging you back into the vision. Beneath a tattered black pavilion, a pair of cringing pages are assisting the elven prisoner in donning heavy steel platemail. They look at him with mingled envy and hatred, and, as one of the pages steps forward to fit the helm to the man's head, the page takes the opportunity to spit in his face. In the next instant, the page doubles and falls, screaming, as a skeletal guard's spear disembowels him.

The prisoner spares only a glance for the messily dying page before staring at a high iron gate. Beyond the gate, a makeshift arena may be seen, and only shadows are visible past the opposite gate. In the center of the arena stands a tall chalice, and a sickly green flame dances above the cup. Black streams of smoke curl from incense burners on each side of the chalice.

The vision fades as your verse dies away.


Your mind's eye returns to the elven prisoner outside the arena, and you watch as a cloaked figure comes into view beyond the iron gate. Bloodstains mar the front of her tunic, and fresh scarlet flows freely from the razern bracelets about each wrist, which open new gashes with each of the figure's movements. The clear crystal sphere glimmers in her palm before she drops it into the chalice. She retreats again with slow, measured steps.

The prisoner chooses a broadsword and a tower shield from a rack nearby, and the near gate swings open with a shrill cry of tortured metal. The opposite gate swings open as well, and a similarly armored combatant steps through that gate into the arena.

Both prisoners turn their heads as a harsh voice cuts across the battlefield: "Hand me the crystal, and you will go free." As the prisoners move forward, shifting their attention warily between one another and the burning chalice, they do not seem to hear the rasping whisper that follows: "Lord Mularos, Thy Whip consecrates the ending of these lives to Thee."


As the amulet vibrates again in response to your song , you see the two armored prisoners come together with a great crash of blades and armor in the center of the makeshift arena. Sword crashes against sword, shield slams against shield, ground is lost and regained and lost again. They circle around the chalice, and the green flame flares as they approach, fading away again as they retreat. The tendrils of black incense coil and sway like snakes made of shadow.

Suddenly, one of the combatants growls ferociously and flings himself at the other man. In a clatter of platemail, both go down, but one has the advantage and rises first. Wielding his heavy broadsword like a dagger, he brutally stabs down at his fallen opponent's face. The visor gives way, and the other man jerks horribly, flailing like a skewered cockroach before falling still.

The vision fades from your mind as the man dies.


The image of the victorious prisoner returns to your mind. A grimace of self-hatred contorts his features as he throws down his sword and helm. He stalks to the burning chalice and shoves his gauntleted hand into its depths, but he comes up without the prize. He fishes around a second time, but, again, finds nothing. With a roar of fury, he turns, but a harsh voice cuts him off --

"The crystal abhors the touch of metal. Only flesh can claim it."

Desperation overrules apprehension. The prisoner casts aside his gauntlet, and, with only a brief moment of hesitation, reaches into the serpentine green flame, and past the flame down into the seething liquid in the chalice. Tears of agony shine in his eyes, and every tendon in his throat stretches tautly as he searches for the crystal. When he withdraws his hand this time, white blisters are rapidly forming all along his skin, but the transparent crystal sphere is nested within his curled fingers.

"Bring the crystal to me. Place it in my hand, and I will let you go," the unseen woman says harshly. As the prisoner begins to walk, the vision fades.

Your own hand is tingling slightly, though you notice nothing strange about it.


The amulet responds instantly to your voice, and the vibrations bring you the image of the cloaked woman facing the elven prisoner. Her pale grey eyes are narrowed with hunger as she stretches out her scarred alabaster hand. Blood runs from her razern-braceleted wrist down to her palm.

The prisoner reaches out to drop the crystal into her palm -- but he cannot. His muscles bulge and strain, but his fingers only curl more tightly around the crystal. In desperation, he wrenches at the locked fingers of his right hand with his left, but wisps of steam begin to trail from beneath his left gauntlet cuff, and the rising blisters on his right hand pop and bubble like the surface of boiling water. As he screams in agony, matching blisters begin to form on his neck, and then the flesh of his face turns an angry, seared red hue.

The bones of his right hand break through his skin and fuse together, just as the flesh begins to fall from his face in long, dark red strips. The woman does not move a muscle as he dies at her feet His screams fade into gargling, then into bubbling, then into silence, and finally his armored skeleton lies still in a mass of steaming carrion.

As the last notes die in your throat, the fleeting image in your mind shows blood pooling in the woman's scar-ravaged hand, and the way in which her hungry eyes relax with satisfaction.


The amulet responds to your song with a vision of the scarred woman. She draws a loop of razern wire around the skeleton's fused hand and neatly removes it from the corpse. Through the gaps between the mutilated former fingerbones, the crystal sphere glows with an angry red hue.

"An interesting trophy, Whip." The voice is male, and, as the speaker comes into view, you see that he has slate grey eyes and braided white hair. "What do you plan to do with it?" A crimson vaalin symbol of Sheru hangs around his neck.

"If you wish it, it is yours," she answers immediately.

The Sheruvian priest laughs scornfully. "I have souls enough," he says, waving her back. "Keep this one."

"No -- it will be a present," the woman harshly says, "to one who has pleased me well -- one with whom you may be pleased, also."

The old man reaches out to touch the surface of the bone. With his touch, the angry red glow dies, and a ripple of blackness shivers across the surface of the blood red crystal. "A playmate for him," he says offhandedly, and turns to walk away.

The woman traces the line of one of the scars on her throat, leaving a trail of scarlet stains from her bloody palm. She bows her head, and, though she does not speak, her thoughts ring through your mind, just as harshly formed as her voice: "Lord Mularos, be pleased with this Suffering."

The vision slips away, leaving you with black spots dancing before your eyes and the taste of blood in your mouth.


The world wavers and fades around you. All forms slowly dissolve into an even, unrelenting haze, and all colors turn to red -- the shades range from the bright crimson of freshly spilled arterial blood to the near-black of old blood drifting on blue water. Your own voice fades away, and you can hear nothing at all but a soft clicking and scraping somewhere in the distance. In the instant you hear the sound, every sense attunes to it, and your heart races with terror. You sense that you are being watched, and you sense the simple, easy malevolence flowing from the being that made those sounds. Whatever it is, it hates you, just as it hates all things, but it lusts for you even as it hates you, for it wants you to be afraid. There is no doubt that it has achieved its goal. Waves of red pulse and flicker around you, and you strain your vision through the crimson void. Somewhere in the distance, you know that there waits a hint of true blackness, a single shadow cast within the sea of blood, and the fear of that shadow consumes your entire existence.

The rapid drumming of your heartbeat in your ears slowly returns you to your senses: light and sound come back, washing away the field of pervasive redness, and you remember who you are and what you are doing. Nevertheless, a deep apprehension remains with you, and you know that it would be unwise to coax further lore from this artifact.



As you begin to sing, you are plunged instantly back into the world of featureless crimson haze. From the depths of the darkness, a tendril of true blackness coalesces, but it fades again as quickly as it came in the instant that you try to focus upon it. The corner of your left eye catches another wisp of darkness, and you whip around in panic to stare at it, but the red haze consumes that tendril as well. The sounds of scuttling and scraping fill your ears, but you cannot pinpoint a direction -- the noise comes from all sides, and it draws closer by the second. You cannot move, or even sense your own body, though your heartbeat thunders frantically through your temples.

Suddenly, a tendril of blackness materializes out of nowhere and whips across your eyes. The agony is unbelievable, with the heat of drakar and the icy cold of rhimar rolled into one to destroy your vision. In the moment of perfect anguish, the heartbeat pounding in your ears stops.

Your verse is cut off as your dead body collapses sideways. With the cessation of your loresong, your senses are mercifully returned to the real world, though, in your current condition, you won't be sensing much of anything anyway.
The brilliant luminescence fades from around you.
You feel less confident than before.
The tingling sensation and sense of security leaves you.
The deep blue glow leaves you.
The bright luminescence fades from around you.
The silvery luminescence fades from around you.
The light blue glow leaves you.

It seems you have died, my friend. Although you cannot do anything, you are keenly aware of what is going on around you...

You mentally give a sigh of relief as you remember that the Goddess Lorminstra owes you a favor.

...departing in 16 mins...

[ktig]

a leather-hung gnarled bone amulet -

Ah, you took it all the way this time. *chortle*

[ktig]

a barbed white ora whip with a cross-like handle (https://gswiki.play.net/Holy_Scourge)


As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white ora whip in your hand, and you learn something about it...

The first thing that strikes you about the whip is the weight, which is 3 pounds. The whip is priceless in value. You can also tell that the whip is predominantly crafted from white ora.

A vision suddenly takes over your sight in a dense forest...

Inside a hut, an old elven alchemist appears to work on a barbed length of white ora. He attaches a cross-like handle and a small spiked ball to the chain, forming a whip. With a nod, the alchemist turns to a younger man in the hut and hands him the weapon. "Take this to the Order of Voln to be used against the undead blight in the forest. The man exits the hut and begins his journey toward Krestle.

As the man approaches a village outside the Turamzzyrian city, hordes of undead have overrun the villagers. The man rushes inside and seeks out a specific home...his home. The door is open and his wife lies on the ground and surrounded by undead. He uses the whip against the undead, releasing the evil from his home, but it's too late, his wife is fatally injured. She reaches toward her husband, resting a hand on the whip and laments, "Revenge me, Cecil..." Her eyes close and the whip burns with a violet flame. The man, Cecil, exits his home and all that can be heard is a bloodcurdling cry.

Third Person during song:
The white ora whip seems to respond to the magic of Naamit's song.
Naamit takes on a ghastly appearance as she sings to a barbed white ora whip with a cross-like handle.


Verse two
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white ora whip in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a holy aura surrounding the whip.From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the whip is to be used against undead.

The vision continue back inside the hut...

Cecil is now garbed in heavy armor and carrying the whip. He is speaking to the alchemist inside the hut once more. "My wife, when she passed, she empowered the whip. Why is that?" The alchemist nods and responds, "I worked a spell into the whip that would unlock its full potential. I was not able to do anything more, and nor were you by yourself. But your wife's soul activated it and your rage has empowered it in your hands. Meet the Holy Scourge. It is now yours, Cecil Braggiani."

Years have passed, Cecil now an old man. He arms himself with the Holy Scourge and heads into the forest where rumors of a necromancer resided causing the undead blight. The sun sets and the vision fades.

Verse Three
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white ora whip in your hand...

The whip has a bonus of +40 and require skill in blunt weapons to use effectively in combat. It does extra damage when it strikes.

The visions progress in the city of Krestle...

Centuries have passed, a father and son are walking home. The father looks to his son and asks, "Leon, did I ever tell you of Cecil Braggiani, our ancestor that honed the whip called the Holy Scourge?" The boy shakes his head and his father tell him the story of their family heirloom. That night, he shows his son the whip.

Time goes on and Leon joins the Order of Voln, a rite of passage for many Braggiani men. Several members of the Order go missing after investigating rumors of undead in a nearby forest. Leon and a group of Volnites are dispatched to the forest to locate the missing party.

The group encounter an undead necromancer whose strength is immense. They are quickly overpowered, and only Leon survives. The blade of his broadsword is destroyed in the fray and he retreats back to Krestle. He retrieves the Holy Scourge from the family tomb and rushes back into the forest to finish the necromancer off. A long adventure takes place as the visions drift in and out of highlights of Leon fighting off hordes of undead and overcoming obstacles along the way. Leon's adventure ends in some old ruins where he faces the undead necromancer. He is able to deal the death blow, but in doing so, Leon is cursed and collapses.

All goes black and the vision ends.

Verse Four
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white ora whip in your hand...

The harmonics generated tell you that the whip has special abilities against undead and when used by a specific bloodline.

The final visions are revealed and have shifted to a tavern in modern times...

A younger man of average height and bright blue eyes leans against the counter in a crowded barroom. Garbed with a green canvas jacket and a belt wrapped with colorful bandanas, the man is discussing some adventure with the locals gathered. The bartender remarks, "You know..."He points to the younger man, "Rumor has it, the one that haunts the forest near Krestle was a Braggiani like you." The young man pipes up, "You think I'll believe that old wives' tale?" They all laugh and continue on with their conversation.

Later that evening the young man's curiousity gets the best of him and heads to the forest. He is met by a ghoulish figure wearing rusted armor and holding a white ora whip. The young man unsheathes a blessed dagger and sneaks behind the ghoul. Just before he strikes the being, it turns to him and cries, "I've been waiting for you, child. Your name, tell me your name." The young man announces, "Khlat Braggiani, the Treasure Hunter Extraordinaire!" The ghoul smiles and the vision ends abruptly.

[ktig]

You'd have to get with Alisaire to find out, she did mention there were only two made. I had sung to it long ago and never logged it. Thankfully she was willing to let me have another go at it. I'll see if I can find out more when I next see her.


There are four.

[gs4-PauperSid]

You glance down to see a red sylvankind scalp in your right hand and nothing in your left hand.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the sylvankind scalp in your hand, and you learn something about it...

This is a small item, under a pound. In your best estimation, it's worth about 200 silvers.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the sylvankind scalp in your hand, and you learn something about it...

From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the scalp is as a kind of trophy.

--hehe---I was wondering if it'd report whose scalp it was.....seems not.

[Khariz]

a glyph-incised dark veil iron maul - "Bane's Will" - one of the three Prisma Relics (V'tull's Maul)
5x, veil iron, heavily damagae weighted, 1x per hour V'tull's Fury

Thin chains of crimson eahnor glyphs are inlaid in the dark veil iron surface of the maul's head, their sharp-edged angular forms contrasting with the gentle curve of the ebon-striated eahnor scimitar that they surround. A large brick of rough-hewn veil iron forms the head of the massive hammer, its murky exterior interrupted by thousands of tiny sanguine flecks. The carved ironwood haft of the dark veil iron maul is smoothed save for a small discolored band in the center of its length, right beneath an empty eahnor-caged socket.

(The socket is for the Berserker's Bloodjewel, which is another of the Prisma Relics. When combined with a ring called Illusion's Shroud, it makes the user practically invincible and able to inhabit the bodies of others at will)

Loresong:

You direct your voice at the dark veil iron maul, prodding it vocally as you search for any hint of its history...

Just as it looks like the dark veil iron maul is inert, something grabs you and pulls you along as a swirling mass of a story begins to play itself out.

Your vision focuses on a notched bone ring that encircles the dark ironwood haft of the dark veil iron maul. Immediately above the ring of bone rests a dark-cored bloodjewel, sparkling with a crimson inner fire.

The vision begins to draw back, granting a wider field of vision as you see the wielder standing in front of an opposing army. Suddenly its ranks break into chaos and confusion as soldiers turn on their comrades, hacking and hewing with reckless abandon. The bloodjewel set into the dark veil iron maul begins to glow with a baleful, bloody crimson radiance as the slaughter continues. Laughter echoes in your ears though the source is unclear. The few remaining survivors fall on their own swords in a gruesome display.

Undertones of desperation seep into the story, painting it in an acrid sense of fear and anger...

Danger. Panic. They seek to unmake me. Vessel of bloodlust, we must destroy the monks. Completely and utterly. They will unmake me. VESSEL OF BLOODLUST, THEY MUST BE DESTROYED. VESSEL! The elven warrior must die first. Then the monks will fall easily. LET NONE LIVE. DO NOT LET THEM LAY THEIR HANDS UPON ME. WE WILL KILL THEM ALL. Each and every one rendered down until their bones are dust.

The story continues as a drama writ small, your field of vision reduced to the haft of the dark veil iron maul. A weathered pair of forge-scarred hands slowly runs over the weapon, stopping to prod and poke at the dark-cored bloodjewel and the notched bone ring encircling its haft. As the hands vanish and reappear you notice the shadow of a hammer in one hand, but are unable to look up. You hear a short prayer as the hammer's shadow begins to descend upon you and the world dissolves into nothing but pain and rage.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a black ora no-dachi with a blood red sandruby pommel


As your song flows into the black ora no-dachi, it is echoed back like a distorted reflection from a warped mirror. The discordant tones twist and writhe across the backdrop of your mind, bringing forth imagines that flash with alarming vibrancy. -- A light haze of smoke slants across the scene, back lit by dozens of ebony candles glowing with a purple-tinged brilliance. Your gaze pans upward, and you find yourself staring into the marble faces of the Lornon pantheon. The smoke dances languidly in your line of sight, creating on the pale visages the illusion of movement - leering smiles, laughter, and contemptuous gazes from cold stone eyes. Your breath quickens, and your sight begins to fail as all plunges into darkness.


The notes of your song shed light once again on your marbled surroundings. Above, the patrons of Lornon gaze downward upon the scene, and you turn your eyes from them, instead taking in your surroundings. Around you rise the walls of a marble chapel, and tucked within the stony niches are windows of dark stained glass. No light filters through their jewel-toned panels, and instead, the light from a myriad of candles caresses their polished surfaces.

Before you, in the center of a floor marked by concentric circles of brass-inlaid conduits, is a raised, ivory marble and obsidian altar. Atop the altar, the prone form of a young man lies, his face turned from you, and his limbs fixed at each corner. You can see that from each of the corners, thin rivers of blood run within brass-inlaid channels, conveying the sanguine liquid to the design underfoot. A glance downward reveals the labyrinthine pattern traced in blood, and the movement of your head causes your vision to swim. With a quick inhalation, your sight is extinguished.


With a frightful abruptness, your song calls forth a vision from the black ora no-dachi. -- You find yourself closer now to the altar at the labyrinth's heart, and a heavy weight calls your attention to your hands. You find there a black ora no-dachi with a blood red sandruby pommel, its blade smeared with incarnadine streaks. In your chest, your breath comes and goes in haste, and you feel a certain dizziness as you take the blade into one hand and extend your other to the face of the man atop the altar. Your fingers leave ruby-hued prints on his skin as you tilt his face toward you, and you hear an unidentifiable, though audible noise fall from your lips. All at once, darkness closes your sight.


The notes of your song draw you back into the black ora no-dachi's memories, and you find that the face looking up at you no longer belongs to the prone young man. Instead, your own visage stares back at you: sightless eyes, sallow skin, and lips perched open as if to draw the next breath, which never seems to come. Laughter begins to echo in the empty chapel, and you look up, expecting to see one of the marble statues come to life with morbid merriment. Instead, they are motionless, and you come to realize that the hysterical laughter is none other than your own. As you stumble backwards, your feet slip in the blood that runs in narrow rivers through the marble floor, and you feel yourself falling... falling... falling... until blackness engulfs you.


The first thing that strikes you about the no-dachi is the weight, which is about 6 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 12,350,000 silvers. You can also tell that the black ora no-dachi is predominantly crafted of black ora.

[Taernath]

Loresong for those 20th anniversary spiders:

As you sing, you sense a connection with the opaque spider and your mind reaches out toward a path of some type.

As your voice rises and falls, you once more see the edges of a faint path. Looking toward the horizon, you see not sky and trees, but faint glimmers of spidersilk stretching into infinity.

As you continue to sing, you see the image of a spirit moving out of its dwelling and onto the path, led by a rather colossal armored spider.

As you conclude the song, the image of the twisting path gradually fades, replaced by another vision of a meteor. Somehow, the spider and the spirit now stand before Mount Aenatumgana. The spider turns and skitters away, leaving behind only a small object, glistening in the light of three moons.

[Luxelle]

Lexbubba's blade:

a bone-hilted rolaren coustille

Matte black and sleek, the blade of the coustille tapers to a fine point and is bisected by a narrow fuller. Bronze is wedded to bone to form the small circle of the rain-guard, while a narrow crossguard is joined to leather-wrapped grip. A disfigured skull, probably of a small monkey, is fitted into the pommel as a counterweight, the skull's brow marred by a ragged crack. You see nothing unusual, except for a small enchanter's glyph.
There appears to be something written on it.
>read cous
In the Common language, it reads:
~^~ Marinelle ~^~
The Shadow's Promise

The Loresong:

Crimson light slashes across your vision as your voice touches upon the coustille for a brief moment. Slowly, like paint dripping down the side of a fence, the light falls away, and you find yourself standing in a one room cottage, a fire roaring in the background. A high-backed chair sits in one corner and houses a dark-haired young man with his face displaying the growth of a few days' stubble and his eyes ringed in circles.

Cradled in his arms is the bundled form of a sleeping child, the soft face round and new. The young man seems to barely breathe as he gazes down at the small child, and it is as if nothing in this man's world exists but the child in his arms.

Briefly, the infant stirs, and he holds his breath until she settles. The fire's flames flicker high, and your vision is obscured.


Sudden and violent, the coustille responds to your voice and sounds burst into your mind with the harsh sound of glass breaking and furniture being broken. Crimson light skews your vision, and in the blurred moments before it clears, you hear the soft sobs of a small child, the sound ragged and filled with hiccups.

The cottage of before is in shambles around you, and two men dressed in crimson and black lay upon the floor, their throats filled with open wounds that paint the floor sanguine.

Panting as he stands over them, the young man from before interposes his body between the child and the expired assailants. Standing behind him, trying to stifle her cries with her own fist, is a small child of about five or six. The hem of her night dress draws your attention as its brilliant white seams slowly absorb the carnage that spreads across the floor. Gradually, your vision fades.

Suddenly, ebon lines slice across your vision as the coustille responds to your voice and merges its song with your own. Though older now, you recognize both the man and the child as they rush down an alley. Behind them, the shadows of the night give pursuit, and you feel the urgency of their movement in every furtive glance and whispered instruction. The streets twist and turn as they attempt to lead the hunters away from their prey, and the night wears on marked by the passage of Lornon through the sky.

Eventually, the shadows no longer follow, and the man resumes a pace that is more suited for that of a small child. A look of resignation and resolve darkens his own weary features as he spies a door up ahead. Kneeling before the child, he begins to speak, but your vision of the moment seems to fade.

A man's voice rises to meet your song, and you realize that the world is dark, though cast in a strange crimson light.

"You have your bear?" asks the male voice.

"Yes, da'," replies a child's timbre.

"You have your mother's ribbon?" he continues.

"Do I have to go, Da'?"

"Do you have your mother's ribbon?" he asks again, though his voice seems ragged with a barely suppressed emotion.

"Yes, Da'," is the resigned reply.

"And my blade, you have my blade?"

"I have it, Da'," but the last vowels are said through tears. "Please don't make me go, please. I want to stay with you."

"One day, you will understand. One day, you will find me again."The child's sobs are stifled, muffled by something though it is hard to tell what. Three insistent raps upon wood herald the sound of a door opening.

"Take care of her. She's all of Marin I have left."

Silence falls upon you and the coustille.


Bright and red, the glow of the Lornon moon rises out of the coustille as you sing to it and obscures your vision for several moments. Slowly, the sound of steel upon steel fills your ears, and you find yourself turning from the window-framed lunar body to the practice mats, where a pair of young teens move in the age-old dance of sparing. A particularly apt student, lithe of body and raven of hair, catches your eye as she parries a blow and speedily ripostes with the second blade in her off-hand.

Noticing your eye upon the girl, an instructor approaches you.

"This is the one I was telling you about. She shows great promise, but is a bit naive for all that talent," he says to you.

"An orphan?" you find yourself asking.

"Oh, yes," he hastily replies. "Abandoned by her father nearly nine years ago."

Your gaze never leaves the student's face, even as your vision begins to fade.


Harsh and unyielding, the coustille's song falls upon your ears and resolves itself into two distinct voices -- that of a male and a female.

"And why do we fight, little shadow?"

"So that others do not have to, master."

"And who do we fight, little shadow?"

"Those that would take our hearts and steal what is ours, master."

"Do we simply pick our fights, little shadow?"

"No, master, our fights are picked for us by the Hands of Destiny, and we must but hope that we are strong enough to fulfill their contracts."

The litany continues, the words rhetoric that seem to have been repeated over and over through time. More questions are asked, all answered with a blind faith that the student has placed in the master. One last question fills the air, its response an echo that lingers on your ears before falling into silence.

"What is the purpose of this fight, little shadow?"

"It is for the greater good, master."


Crimson and obsidian steal your vision as your voice touches upon the coustille. Twisting and turning, a shadow dances across the rooftops silent as a cat and just as nimble, and it slips inside an open window. Darkness greets the shadow, though faint outlines can be discerned from the coals that are banked in a nearby fire. Something large collides with the dark form, and for a brief moment, the glow of the coals illuminates the raven-haired girl's face. She tumbles and sprawls, but quickly regains her feet. The larger darkness looms over her.

"I must be strong enough to take the mark," she whispers and lunges, but she is not fast enough, and the other tosses her into the windowsill.

Moonlight slants across a man's face, his beard new in growth, as a blade comes slicing down at her. She does not move, her features slack with shock, and a single syllable slips from her lips, "Da?"

The vision fades to sanguine and ebon mists.


As your voice collides with the coustille, your vision blurs, and darkness paints the world in silver and black. Two figures race across the rooftops, one lithe and long, while the other is lean and strong. Like felines prowling in the night, they move silently and unobtrusively through the city with nary a sound, the wind their only companion. They slow before the windows of a warehouse, and the smaller of the pair slips inside.

A terse conversation ensues, but quickly dissolves into a litany of questions and answers, their cadence and rhythm familiar.

The man on the roof tenses and dashes into the window, his movement followed by a resounding scuffle and then silence. Slowly, the wind moves the clouds across the moonlight, and your vision fades.


Darkness spills across your vision, and you feel the weight of night lay upon you. A soft, female voice begins to speak, "Marin was my mother, wasn't she?"

There is a heavy pause, but no one answers.

"And she fought for you against the tide of the greater good."

Again, there is a pause, but no answer follows.

"I have your knife, Da, and Marin's ribbon."

The silence is almost deafening.

"And I will find the Hands of Destiny to teach them about the true greater good."

Movement of some kind, faint but there nonetheless, disturbs the air.

"One day, Da, you'll find me again."

Silence remains the only answer.

[Luxelle]

Tonight, Meureii brought me a pair of boots with quite the story to tell! They came from a Great Auction sometime in the past.

a pair of heavy stone boots

>look my boot
Crafted from various stone, the boots are held together through some magical means. Gornar sigils are emblazoned into the stone heels that give off a radiant glow.
You see nothing unusual, except for a small enchanter's glyph.


The Loresong:

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the stone boots in your hand, and you learn something about it...

The first thing that strikes you about the boots is the weight, which is 5 pounds. The boots are worth an innumerable amount of silver. You can also tell that the boots are predominantly crafted of stone.

A vision suddenly takes over your sight...

A frail and weak cobbler sat trembling in fear as a pair of very large brutes mocked him. They would point and stare, as they laughed at him. The man was always teased; throughout childhood, adolescence and adulthood, the man always stood out for his weakness. The man didn't wish this pain anymore. He wanted it to end, so he prayed one night. He prayed that night for his suffering to end.

As the poor shoe-maker sat there on his knees, his hands folded in prayer, a figure of a giant made of stone appeared. "You wish power? You wish to no longer be weak? Then I shall grant this for you once, and remember it well." The giant recited something unknown to the man at first but the knowledge was instilled. The giant disappeared into the night as the man sat there, a broad grin across his face.


As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the stone boots in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a dark aura of magic surrounding the boots.From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the boots is to be used as unarmed combat equipment.

The vision continues...

Upon the next morning, the cobbler went out to study the titans of the north and the giants of the east. He went south to see the trolls and west to ogres. He found himself traveling for years, studying the ways of the giantkin across Elanith. Slowly, he digested the knowledge the giant gave him. At once, he finally discovered what was to be done.


As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the stone boots in your hand...

The boots have a bonus of +25 and require skill in brawling to use effectively in combat. They do extra damage when they strike.

The vision of the cobbler progresses...

The man collected various stones from around Elanith as he set forth to build a device to stop his pain. Months passed and his stone pile grew. Once his gatherings were complete, he started to build a pair of boots made from only the stone he found. When his craft was complete, he stared in awe at his new treasure. Just then, the figure of a giant appeared before the shoe-maker. "You have done well, now let me complete your work!" The giant gestured toward the boots, emblazoning gornar sigils into the heel. The giant began to sweat heavily as he concentrated upon the boots. And with a final grunt, the giant stopped and nodded to the cobbler.

"It is done." The booming voice of the giant continued. "All that is left is the blood of my stone heart. You must cut it out yourself." Just then, the giant produced an odd-shaped cleaver and handed it to the man. The cobbler was nervous, but he knew it had to be done to have the power. The man's face turned to a face of grim determination and he leapt at the giant and began carving into the stone giant's chest! The giant collapsed as the man pulled the beating stone heart from the creature and pierced the knife into the heart over the boots. At first, nothing... No blood was produced. But then, the heart pulsed and began dripping a blackened liquid that appeared to be like tar. The man nodded and cackled.
sR>


As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the stone boots in your hand...

The harmonics generated tell you that the boots have the ability to sunder an area once an hour, knocking those before you to the ground.

The final vision is revealed...

The man rested that night, because he knew his work was nearly complete. The next morning he wore his new boots, while heavy and hard to move around, the boots gave him a tremendous amount of power. He stepped out into the streets looking for the brutes that mocked him years ago. When he found them in the market, he crossed his arms over his chest and held his head high. The brutes did not laugh. Nor did they point or stare, but they looked uneasy around the cobbler. And just then, to strike his vengeance, he lifted his foot as high as he could and stomped into the ground causing the whole market to shake. The shoe-maker stared out to look at his surrounding; just about everyone there had fallen to the ground. The man looked pleased, for he won this day.

[Luxelle]

Ardwen handed me a veil iron-nocked red longbow


The noise and light fades around you. Blinking your eyes you find yourself among an armed and armored group of Sylvankind, many sporting wounds and bandages. All around the sounds of heavy fighting filters in from among the trees. Screams and cries of things only dreamt of in nightmares can be heard coming from the edges of the encircled position the Sylvans hold. The leader of the band, an arrow protruding from the shoulder, gives an unheard command and her retainers begin stripping off the most powerful of their artifacts. Once shorn of the items they wrap them in cloth and place them in a chest. The chest is then lowered into a hole dug beneath a massive oak's roots and covered with loamy earth. The sole remaining cleric in the group blesses the ground to hide the cache from the unholy. The leader of the band gives a curt nod and the group with you among them draw their remaining weapons and charge one last time into the forest. Suddenly feeling a sharp pain, you see a feathered shaft has sprouted from your chest. With a final scream you collapse and everything around you goes black.


You feel as though you have reached the end of the longbow's song.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the iron-nocked longbow in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a faint aura of magic surrounding the longbow. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the longbow is as some type of weapon.



The noise and light fades around you. Blinking your eyes you find yourself among an armed and armored group of Sylvankind, many sporting wounds and bandages. All around the sounds of heavy fighting filters in from among the trees. Screams and cries of things only dreamt of in nightmares can be heard coming from the edges of the encircled position the Sylvans hold. The leader of the band, an arrow protruding from the shoulder, gives an unheard command and her retainers begin stripping off the most powerful of their artifacts. Once shorn of the items they wrap them in cloth and place them in a chest. The chest is then lowered into a hole dug beneath a massive oak's roots and covered with loamy earth. The sole remaining cleric in the group blesses the ground to hide the cache from the unholy. The leader of the band gives a curt nod and the group with you among them draw their remaining weapons and charge one last time into the forest. Suddenly feeling a sharp pain, you see a feathered shaft has sprouted from your chest. With a final scream you collapse and everything around you goes black.




You feel as though you have reached the end of the longbow's song.

As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the iron-nocked longbow in your hand...

The harmonics generated tell you that the longbow assists its bearer with aiming attacks at range.
You feel that you have reached the end of the longbow's song.

[Rozy]

As you sing, the facets of the sleek crystal sphere begin to shimmer briefly, and you find yourself among snow-capped mountains....

A young elf huddles in the cold of a blizzard, and around him, the mountains of the DragonSpine loom in the background as the storm rages on, the cold whipping through you like a knife's point.

The youth looks up, his heavy clothes covered with a thick blanket of frost, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, as he gazes out over the thick clouds.

A fiery, ruddy red glow washes over the surroundings, and the youth's eyes widen as he gazes up, unblinking, at something hanging in the sky. The warmth of a blazing hearth washes over you, and the snow surrounding the elf begins to trickle as it melts from its frozen state.

The glow builds and builds, until you find yourself enshrouded in the fiery haze, and all you can see is the youth's wide eyes as he stares, bedazzled at whatever the cause of the inferno is.

And then you hear a wooshing sound, and the glow fades, as does everything else, to a deep blackness.

You hear a voice in the darkness, "Quickly, he is here! We must get him back to the caravan!"

Roundtime: 9 sec.


As the facets of the sleek crystal sphere twinkle, you find yourself in a crowded workroom.

The youth from before hunches over a large table spread with uncut jewels, his eyes focused and intense -- the degree to which they study things is nearly maddening in appearance, searching for the key to an obsession.

The door opens, and a regal, older elf steps in.

"You've been neglecting your assignments again."
The young elf looks up, "Not now, father. This is important."
A harsh glare responds, "Our LIVING is important. Do you enjoy this manor, those jewels I gave you to work with? The trade I instilled in you?! Then you'd best give the projects we've commissioned a BIT more thought than what you're doing here."

The youth furrows his brow at the interruption into his own private world, then mutters a, "Fine."

"Good, I thought so. Here's the diagrams for the new cuts." The elf places them on the table, then walks out in a huff.

The youth picks them up and studies them a bit, then sighs, and places what he'd been working on into a glimmering pile -- each of them a brilliant, beautiful wing of flames crafted out of a different gem.

Roundtime: 9 sec.


As the facets of the sleek crystal sphere twinkle, you find yourself passing through time rapidly -- you see the youth grow into an elf, his craft sustaining him and his obsession becoming more and more a part of his life, hours of toiling, hours of reading strange books... and then time slows down once more as the creaking of a door is heard...

"Master?" A young half-elf murmurs as she steps into the room.

"Huh, what, yes? What is it?" A figure says from the shadows, his silhouette dimly outlined by a single amber lamp in the room.

"I, uh, know I'm not supposed to come in here, but uh---", she stops as she looks around, the darkness dotted with miniature glimmering facets of light like a cosmos onto itself. "Um, wow. Is this what you make in here?"

The figure makes a faint, annoyed huff as his work is interrupted, and he mutters, "Yes, yes. Come in, if you're already here. Make yourself useful."

The vision fades away into glimmering sparkles.

Roundtime: 11 sec.


The glimmering sparkles appear within the sleek crystal sphere, and lead you back to the workshop...

The half elf clambers over toward the workspace and gazes at the masterpiece the elven jewelsmith works on, a phoenix crafted of the finest blue sapphire, its numerous facets glinting with inner fire painstakingly sculpted for years upon years.

"Hand me the second book down on the right," The jewelsmith orders, pointing toward a nearby shelf.

The half-elven girl eagerly runs to the other side of the room, but stops to take a closer look at each of the pieces glittering in the faint light -- each appears to be made of a different gem, yet all depict the same thing -- a phoenix frozen in time, carved from the most precious jewels and stones. She remembers what she was doing, and quickly picks up the book and runs over to the table.

The jewelsmith flips through the book, briefly, as the girl studies the piece he's working on. Finally, she makes a pointed observation, "It's blue. They aren't supposed to be blue."

The jewelsmith gives her a fairly withering stare over his spectacles, then sighs as she fails to notice it completely. He sets the book down on his lap and says, "It does not matter what the hue is. This thing, this phoenix, it is a symbol that means different things to many. It is not merely one facet of a jewel, it is a jewel unto itself with uncountable facets. And I have toiled, for so very long to capture each and every one of those facets. From the sorrow of its death to the joy of its rebirth to all the spectacular shades in between..." The light reflects off his spectacles, making them a mirror of the amber fire burning in the lamp as he looks down to regard the girl, "And I am almost complete, child."

The vision fades away into glimmering sparkles.

Roundtime: 10 sec.



The glimmering sparkles appear within the sleek crystal sphere, and lead you back to the workshop...

The girl continues to study the sapphire phoenix, "What's this one?"

As he flips through the book again, he replies off-handedly, "These are my last pieces, the series is called Winter. They are the pinnacle of my work, they capture the facet *I* am most familiar with..."

The jewelsmith gets a strange, nostalgic look in his eyes, and a vague sense of wonder crosses his features, before he finds his page and mutters a brief incantation.

He gestures at the statue, but nothing happens.

"Damn," he mutters, eliciting a puzzled response from the girl.

"I am trying to bring their fire out. Their true fire. All the inspiration I put into them, to make it as close to living as I possibly can..." He sighs, briefly, then continues, "But it appears this shall not happen very soon..."

"Surely, there must be a way, you've been at this so long, haven't you?!" She asks.

The jewelsmith glances down at the child, "There is a way. It is just not something I am yet prepared to do. So I search... for something else."

The vision fades away into glimmering sparkles.

Roundtime: 8 sec.


The glimmering sparkles of the sphere fade into deep shadows as you find yourself in another place...

Fires rage throughout a small village, and the silhouettes of orc raiders race across the flame-ravaged countryside. As you approach one house, you hear a faint scream.

A half-elven woman, her eyes half-mad with fright, pounds on a locked and bolted door, "Master! You must come out! You must, or we'll be killed! They've already gotten past the blockades, they're IN the village! Can't you smell the houses burning?!"

Just then, an axe whooshes through the air, slamming with a reverberating *THUD* on the door and cleanly severing one of the girl's braids. Even as she backs up with a gasp, flames begin to pour in from the roof as the supporting beams crack and splinter with the stress.

"Master, PLEASE!" The woman cries.

From behind the door, you hear a quiet voice murmur, "I... understand now. I think... that I am finally prepared..."

Moments pass as the fire rages -- beams fall across the floor, blazing with flames as the woman cries out, trapped in the inferno as she pounds relentlessly at the door.

The fires fade into darkness as the vision leaves you.

Roundtime: 8 sec.


Fires spring up in your vision, leading you back to the burning house and the woman, who continues to fruitlessly pound on the door of the workshop...

And then, beams of multi-hued light burst out from the door, sweeping across the surroundings and simply *absorbing* the flames, leaving nothing but charred, slightly smoking wood behind. With a bright burst of light, the living flames whoosh outward and into the night.

In but a few moments, the screams of the raiders echo in the dark, and the hellish glow of the blazes throughout the village is snuffed out in a heartbeat.

A bright, resonating glow washes in from one of the broken windows, bathing the burnt house in a warm light that flares like the sun.

And then the night returns, quiet and peaceful as it was prior to the intrusion.

The half-elven woman stands up, and the door to the workshop creeks open quietly, and brilliant scarlet light dances within as she gasps audibly.

Throughout the workshop, flames race and chase one another before finally diving into the hundreds upon hundreds of statues throughout the room, tinting each of them a fiery scarlet as they absorb the flames entirely, the hazy after-images of the fiery birds they represent playing briefly along their outer edges, until, they too, fade into the gems, setting their facets ablaze with brilliant, glimmering sparkles of pure crimson.

Tears fall from the woman's cheeks as she watches the scene unfold, but her eyes are not focused on the wonders before her, but on her Master -- he sits, surrounded by the statues he'd created all his life, his body lifeless and a grimoire clutched to his chest -- his features hold a pure sense of awe, one you saw many years ago on the face of a dying boy...

And then the vision fades away, and you feel both the sense of wonderment and the sense of loss washing outward from the sphere, feelings both beautiful and sad -- that the noble sacrifice of a kind heart instilled the spirit of pure inspiration into the sphere, that such a gesture fuels its magic even now. And then your song ends, leaving you with a vague sense of loss, and a profound sense of awe.

Roundtime: 8 sec.

[Rozy]

You focus your thoughts on the small ring in your hand and suddenly find yourself stepping through a misty haze and into an idyllic green meadow. Overhead the sun is shining amongst fluffy white clouds and a vibrant blue sky. Right next to you is a young elven woman meandering through the field, picking the occasional flower as she softly sings to herself. While she is dressed simply in a forest green dress, she has the elegant air of royalty surrounding her and is wearing an intricate signet ring.

XXXX focuses his attention on the ring in his hand. Suddenly his eyes glass over and his lips curve into a small smile as he begins to sing.

Across the field a rakish tousle-haired ranger strides along the edge of the forest, his bow at the ready and a sword strapped to his belt. Apparently on a hunt, the lad moves silently, his weathered and torn leather boots barely touching the ground. You sense the moment he hears the girl, her gentle song touching his ear from across the meadow. He turns, his raggedly cut brown hair falling in his eyes as he watches her walk through the fields, instantly smitten.

XXXX continues to focus on the ring in his hand. XXXX stares in the distance apparently entranced by something unseen, his song faltering slightly.

The world turns to mist again and as you step out, you find yourself near a stunning waterfall, hidden deep within the forest. "We will have to leave, cross the mountain, start anew. If my family ever found out about us, you know what would happen..." the girl trails off as her fingers intertwine with his. He stares at the waterfall and says, "I know the risk I take, but how can I ask you to give up all that you have to come with me?" Mist swirls around your feet and engulfs you.

XXXX continues to sing softly, his fingers toying with the ring in his hand as he bows his head slightly.

You find yourself in the bedroom of royalty, lavishly decorated with silk and jewels. Sitting at the dressing table is the girl, brushing her midnight silk hair as she daydreams. Outside the sun is setting, a pinkish red smear across the sky. At first, it appears as if the girl were preparing for bed, until you notice the satchel slightly stuck out from under the bed and the neatly folded traveling clothes setting on a nearby chair. As the mist swirls again, you hear the faint sound of her soft song.

XXXX picks up the pace of his song, raising his eyes to the sky. He seems joyful and full of hope.

A flash of red and you find yourself running alongside the ranger, a desperate chase as you duck down alleys and through closed street side shops beneath the full moon. Behind you a pair of royal guards close the gap, so close you can smell their sweat and need. Quickly you dash around a corner and see fear in the eyes of the ranger as finds himself trapped between two pairs of guards with escape. Savagely, the guards tackle the ranger, smashing his face into the dirt as they twist his arm painfully behind his back. Sneering, one of the guards slips a dagger between the boy's ribs and says, "You'll never lay a hand on her again, you half-blood pig."

XXXX suddenly seems startled and out of breath. He glances around nervously, singing quickly as his eyes dart back and forth, searching for something unknown.

The mist clouds your vision and when it clears, you see the girl shivering by the waterfall, her arms wrapped around her knees as she sits next to her satchel, waiting. Every so often she stares up at the moon, tears welling up in her eyes. The mist swirls around you again, slowly blurring your vision. The last thing you see before you are swallowed by the haze is the girl, weeping as she toys with a delicate silver loveknot ring.

XXXX seems nervous, his fingers rapidly turning the ring over and over in the palm of his hand. As the song continues, he takes a melancholy tone before trailing off into a sad silence.