poisonthepeople
06-10-2011, 03:50 AM
I have the following item for sale. Will try to update daily but not usually around on the weekends. Delivery to anywhere but Ta'vaalor and Rivers Rest. Auction will go once, twice, last call, and sold. Thanks! :)
MB: 1m
CB: 1.5m to FibGS4 and sold, will contact you for pickup.
a bead-inlaid silvery mithril chest
You see nothing unusual.
There appears to be something written on it.
>read chest
A small brass plaque on the front of the chest reads, "Halflings."
In the silvery mithril chest you see some white monir prayer beads (Item #1), a dirty brass slug-horn (Item #2), some Mhoragian riding boots (Item #3), and a braided horsehair wristlet (Item #4).
Item #1 some white monir and dark fel prayer beads
As you reach out toward the monir 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."
As you begin a second verse, the monir 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.
As you direct a third verse at the monir 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.
In response to your fourth verse, the monir 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.
Item #2: a dirty brass slug-horn wrapped in leather near the mouthpiece
A hastily erected encampment of small leather tents appears before you. Halflings scurry purposefully between the tents, many carrying short spears or bows. Just outside the camp, a large herd of short horses shift slowly, like water disturbed by a gentle breeze.
Again the Halfling camp appears, this time much closer. Screams of despair echo from off in the distance. One Halfling emerges from the largest tent in the camp, followed by a retinue of well-armed soldiers. You notice he is wearing some bright red fur-trimmed leathers, a heavy fur cloak and a polished brass helm stamped with intricate geometric patterns.
You notice a throng of Halflings, each holding a spear or a bow above his head. They are gathered before the Halfling in the red leathers, who stands easily on the back of a tall pony. The roar of the crowd is deafening, but you manage to make out the word, "Ragalatan."
The sound of a loud horn blow erupts suddenly as a series of images of a mounted Halfling charge flash before your eyes. Cries filled with pain echo all around you as you notice the confused elven lines straight ahead. The tip of an arrow falling straight towards you comes into focus for a moment, and then all is black.
Item #3: some Mhoragian riding boots
As you sing, your mind fills with the image of a broad vista of sun-dappled steppes that stretch to the horizon.
As you continue to sing, the image of the steppes again fills your mind. Far off, a dusty cloud rises above the plain. Moments later a barely discernible tremor can be felt. As the cloud of dust grows, the tremor increases in intensity. Before long, a low rumble becomes audible. The rumble grows in volume, as the cloud rises higher into the blue sky, until it has become thunder on the plain.
As you continue to sing, the image of the steppes again fills your mind. A dark mass can be seen in the dust cloud as it nears. Soon individual forms can be discerned, manifesting the great speed of the mass, until the great herd of black- and brown- and white-coated horses bounds around you, all bobbing heads, flared nostrils and wildly flying manes.
As you finish your song, the image of the steppes again fills your mind. Now the thundering herd has passed, leaving behind a diminishing rumble as the sunlit cloud of its passage slowly dissipates on the wind.
Item #4: a braided horsehair wristlet
As you begin to sing, your surroundings fade to blackness. When your vision clears a vast grassy plain stands before you. A herd of shaggy but sturdy horses grazes amid a cluster of round tents, placidly munching on the grass. Their heads and tails hang low in relaxation as they nose along the ground, seeking the most tender stalks. In front of one of the gers, a young halfling boy stands with a small ivory-colored mare, running his fingers through her creamy mane. The mare nickers softly to the boy and butts him in the shoulder with her nose, clearly pleased to see him.
As you continue to sing, the darkness returns. Within it, a group of slender, robed figures appears. They stand in a circle, arms upraised, chanting in unison and directing their powers at an unseen target. Outside of the circle, a man with pointed ears stands, a diadem atop his head, observing the incantations of those around him. Though you cannot make out the words, the tone is ominous, and a feeling of apprehension passes over you as the figures are once again swallowed by the darkness.
As you sing a new verse, you are suddenly returned to the grassy plain, with a sense that time has shifted. What was once tranquil is now chaos. Your ears are filled with the panicked screams of horses. Those still standing paw anxiously at the dirt, tails and heads upright, as though they would flee at any moment. Others lay dead and dying upon the ground, their beautiful coats matted and dirty. Clusters of halflings, some of them clutching strands of braided horsehair, try to soothe the doomed animals. The ivory-colored mare lays upon the ground, flanks heaving in distress, her head cradled in the lap of the young boy you saw before. His face is gaunt and pale as he weeps over his beloved horse.
The scene shifts again, and the chaos has now gone silent. The cluster of gers has fallen into disarray. The air is filled with ash and the pungent odor of burning horseflesh emanating from large pyres on the plain. Vultures soar overhead, swooping down to snatch bits of carrion with their beaks. The body of the ivory mare lies to one side, where the boy struggles with other halflings to drag the mare's body into a shallow hole. They finally succeed in burying the animal and lay a cairn atop the mound, adding to the number of similar cairns spread across the steppe. Clutching strands from the mare's tail, the young boy falls to his knees with a high, keening wail, mourning the loss of his companion.
MB: 1m
CB: 1.5m to FibGS4 and sold, will contact you for pickup.
a bead-inlaid silvery mithril chest
You see nothing unusual.
There appears to be something written on it.
>read chest
A small brass plaque on the front of the chest reads, "Halflings."
In the silvery mithril chest you see some white monir prayer beads (Item #1), a dirty brass slug-horn (Item #2), some Mhoragian riding boots (Item #3), and a braided horsehair wristlet (Item #4).
Item #1 some white monir and dark fel prayer beads
As you reach out toward the monir 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."
As you begin a second verse, the monir 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.
As you direct a third verse at the monir 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.
In response to your fourth verse, the monir 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.
Item #2: a dirty brass slug-horn wrapped in leather near the mouthpiece
A hastily erected encampment of small leather tents appears before you. Halflings scurry purposefully between the tents, many carrying short spears or bows. Just outside the camp, a large herd of short horses shift slowly, like water disturbed by a gentle breeze.
Again the Halfling camp appears, this time much closer. Screams of despair echo from off in the distance. One Halfling emerges from the largest tent in the camp, followed by a retinue of well-armed soldiers. You notice he is wearing some bright red fur-trimmed leathers, a heavy fur cloak and a polished brass helm stamped with intricate geometric patterns.
You notice a throng of Halflings, each holding a spear or a bow above his head. They are gathered before the Halfling in the red leathers, who stands easily on the back of a tall pony. The roar of the crowd is deafening, but you manage to make out the word, "Ragalatan."
The sound of a loud horn blow erupts suddenly as a series of images of a mounted Halfling charge flash before your eyes. Cries filled with pain echo all around you as you notice the confused elven lines straight ahead. The tip of an arrow falling straight towards you comes into focus for a moment, and then all is black.
Item #3: some Mhoragian riding boots
As you sing, your mind fills with the image of a broad vista of sun-dappled steppes that stretch to the horizon.
As you continue to sing, the image of the steppes again fills your mind. Far off, a dusty cloud rises above the plain. Moments later a barely discernible tremor can be felt. As the cloud of dust grows, the tremor increases in intensity. Before long, a low rumble becomes audible. The rumble grows in volume, as the cloud rises higher into the blue sky, until it has become thunder on the plain.
As you continue to sing, the image of the steppes again fills your mind. A dark mass can be seen in the dust cloud as it nears. Soon individual forms can be discerned, manifesting the great speed of the mass, until the great herd of black- and brown- and white-coated horses bounds around you, all bobbing heads, flared nostrils and wildly flying manes.
As you finish your song, the image of the steppes again fills your mind. Now the thundering herd has passed, leaving behind a diminishing rumble as the sunlit cloud of its passage slowly dissipates on the wind.
Item #4: a braided horsehair wristlet
As you begin to sing, your surroundings fade to blackness. When your vision clears a vast grassy plain stands before you. A herd of shaggy but sturdy horses grazes amid a cluster of round tents, placidly munching on the grass. Their heads and tails hang low in relaxation as they nose along the ground, seeking the most tender stalks. In front of one of the gers, a young halfling boy stands with a small ivory-colored mare, running his fingers through her creamy mane. The mare nickers softly to the boy and butts him in the shoulder with her nose, clearly pleased to see him.
As you continue to sing, the darkness returns. Within it, a group of slender, robed figures appears. They stand in a circle, arms upraised, chanting in unison and directing their powers at an unseen target. Outside of the circle, a man with pointed ears stands, a diadem atop his head, observing the incantations of those around him. Though you cannot make out the words, the tone is ominous, and a feeling of apprehension passes over you as the figures are once again swallowed by the darkness.
As you sing a new verse, you are suddenly returned to the grassy plain, with a sense that time has shifted. What was once tranquil is now chaos. Your ears are filled with the panicked screams of horses. Those still standing paw anxiously at the dirt, tails and heads upright, as though they would flee at any moment. Others lay dead and dying upon the ground, their beautiful coats matted and dirty. Clusters of halflings, some of them clutching strands of braided horsehair, try to soothe the doomed animals. The ivory-colored mare lays upon the ground, flanks heaving in distress, her head cradled in the lap of the young boy you saw before. His face is gaunt and pale as he weeps over his beloved horse.
The scene shifts again, and the chaos has now gone silent. The cluster of gers has fallen into disarray. The air is filled with ash and the pungent odor of burning horseflesh emanating from large pyres on the plain. Vultures soar overhead, swooping down to snatch bits of carrion with their beaks. The body of the ivory mare lies to one side, where the boy struggles with other halflings to drag the mare's body into a shallow hole. They finally succeed in burying the animal and lay a cairn atop the mound, adding to the number of similar cairns spread across the steppe. Clutching strands from the mare's tail, the young boy falls to his knees with a high, keening wail, mourning the loss of his companion.