JustDan
07-03-2011, 07:33 PM
an invar-banded blue mithril chest (A small brass plaque on the front of the chest reads, "The Dwarves.")
a simple iron bell
a mithril-eyed dwarven miner doll
a scarred ora Kazunel war hammer
1) a simple iron bell
1 zest - Tilt bell = "As you tilt your bell from side to side, the soft chime made by the tiny clapper rings out. A fleeting image blooms within your mind's eye, a reminder that the bell holds a story."
Third person = "As Cannel tilts his softly chiming bell from side to side, his eyes glance off in the distance, lost in a momentary reverie."
The tone of your song is quickly overshadowed by the rhythmic clanging of metal upon metal that echoes in your head. With each sharp sound, your vision quickens to reveal a dwarven lad hard at work in a forge. Already, a finished iron bell almost twice his size stands off to one side, the surface polished smooth.
A wall of fire greets your initial notes, and pulling the vision back you find yourself still within a forge. Time has passed, and now a steel horn sits next the bell, its metal-sheeted surface looking much like a patchwork quilt along the surface of the instrument. The young dwarf now tinkers with an elaborate pulley system suspended over the polishing stone.
As you sing, your song interweaves with another, the songs of labor and work sung by a group of dwarves as they haul the wood crate-encased bell to the mouth of a cavern. There it is mounted on a huge lintel supported by several beams.
Your vision shifts, this time you see the steel horn on a similar journey. Dwarves struggle with their load up a flight of granite stairs, where a brass mounting awaits on the landing, to be fitted around the instrument.
Like a panorama, the vision takes in the whole of the day in a fleeting moment. Khazi Khazar wakes early and dresses quickly, turning to the portrait of his mother and father hanging on the wall. Softly he says, "I do this for us all, so that none suffer as you did at the hands of orcs."
A startling flash as the image converts, berserking orcs run rampant as they slaughter dwarves left and right, in a bloody massacre.
You return to the vision of Khazi, as he heads into the cavern mouth and begins to pull the rope attached to the giant clapper. The clanging of the bell as the sun rises signals the start of the morning, and the dwarves begin to gather together in great numbers, making their way to work. Quickly the sun and clouds streak across the sky, pale and golden in the early dawn to lavender and pink as the evening arrives. Khazi climbs massive granite stairs, resting at the topmost landing. He takes a deep breath as he prepares, and as he blows into the instrument, the low rumbling sound of the horn echoes out over the lands above the caverns, alerting the dwarves to gather and return home for rest.
2) a mithril-eyed dwarven miner doll
No zests
As your song unfolds, the world about you grows murky and indistinct.
As it returns to focus, you find yourself in a stone-walled room, where a dwarven family sits at a heavy wooden table, husband facing wife and a child in between. The child clutches the same doll you are holding, although it appears much less worse for wear in this scene. The dwarven woman concentrates on the unpleasant task of sewing closed the gory wounds on her husband's arm, while listening intently to his low, gravelly voice as he tells his tales of the war against Despana. He shows little emotion for his topic, although the child draws closer to him as the story unfolds, seeking the comfort of his father's nearness as he learns that so many have been lost.
As the vision of the room recedes with the last notes of the verse, the dwarf absent-mindedly rubs at a red mark on his cheek.
As the notes of your song flow over the doll in your hand, the world about you grows murky and indistinct.
As it returns to focus, you find yourself in the same stone-walled room, although the family has moved about since you last saw them. The young dwarven boy sits at the table, using the body of the doll in front of him as a chinrest as he gazes at his mother. She tends to his father, now laying in bed and muttering through the heavy fog of fever. As she dabs at his brow with a damp cloth, he reaches with his still-wounded arm to clutch at her. He urgently whispers something, glancing at the child now and again. She nods patiently, grasping his arm and forcing him back to continue his rest.
As the vision of the room recedes with the last notes of the verse, the weary mother rubs the back of her neck, her face flushed with the onset of illness.
As your song continues, the murk wraps itself around you like a heavy cloak, hiding the world from your vision.
As it returns to focus, the scene of a cavernous room filled with enormous pillars hewed from the rock opens before you. As far as the eye can see, dwarves lie on cots and patched blankets, some unconscious and others moaning in delirium. All are covered with liquid red welts, some of which ooze with blood. A young dwarven child, darting quickly from one hiding place to another, drags a beloved doll behind him as he stealthily searches the faces of the dwarves he passes, looking for one he has not yet found. Finally, the child's eyes light up as he emerges from behind a pillar to fling himself on a blanket that hosts the unconscious form of his mother. He shakes at her arm, begging her to wake up, attracting the attention of an empath tending to the sick nearby who ushers him away with both scolding words and a comforting touch to his hair.
As the vision recedes with the last notes of the verse, the young boy is lead from the sadness of the makeshift infirmary by an older dwarven couple.
As your melody unfolds, you again slip into a dark haze, the comfort of the world slipping away beneath you.
As it returns to focus, you see a passageway filled with dust and the sounds of stamping feet. The dwarven boy follows behind an older dwarven couple, who look back now and again to assure themselves that he is still there. They carry heavy packs full of gear on their backs and push a wheelbarrow of household goods before them, the doll perched on top as if keeping watch over the hurried travel of its owner. As they emerge from the tunnel onto a carved rock bridge, the boy looks over the side into a chasm that yawns away beneath him. On cliff-side trails and deeper bridges, lines of dwarves, loaded with all their portable possessions, trudge heavily in a single direction. The heavy clang of miners' picks echoes up through the chasm, and you know that this can only be the dwarves destroying their path behind them.
As this vision recedes with the last notes of the verse, a glimmer of light appears at the end of the passageway ahead.
As your notes carry clearly through the air, darkness covers your vision and you feel yourself pulled away.
As the world returns to focus, the dwarven boy, again clutching his doll, stands with many others outside a towering opening in a stone wall. Numerous dwarves work around the top of this grand arch and, with a loud rumble, they let loose a stream of debris, filling the archway with boulders, rocks, and pebbles. They then use rolling logs and ropes to coax an enormous slab of rock in front of the archway, sliding it back so that it joins with the surrounding stone, leaving no visible seam. One dwarf, dressed a shade finer than the rest, steps forward and leans a short ladder against the camouflaged barrier. He climbs to the top and, with chisel and hammer, proceeds to inscribe a single rune into the stone's surface. You are unable to get a good look at the rune, but for the dwarves around the boy, the meaning is clear.
As this vision recedes with the last notes of the verse, a shout, tinged with grief, rises from the crowd, calling out in unison.
"Farewell!"
3) a scarred ora Kazunel war hammer
5x, steam flares
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
Damp warmth washes over you immediately, and your heavy breath echoes hollowly off the close stone walls. As you shift your feet, the feel of the sharp grit of a rocky floor is noticeable through your boot soles. You begin to notice the sensation of your visceral form; wide shoulders, stout limbs, and a thick low-slung belly. Smoothing your beard in a gesture that seems practiced, your fingers trail across intricate thick braids running down your chest, stopping a moment to finger a heavy Kazunel clan beard clip. Your eyes adjust with natural dwarven quickness to the pitch black, and a dim glow emanates from somewhere ahead. You pick your way slowly towards the weak light, surrounded by the sounds of dripping water and rough scraping alternately plinking and shuddering through your bones.
The dim light ahead swirls and fades as your heavy grip suddenly loosens and the hammer almost slides from your grasp.
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
With eyes shuddering from darkness to a bright bluish-green glow, your vision swims into clarity. Forms become distinguishable as you adjust to the change, and the hardy body you inhabit is comfortable. A rusty yet serviceable cart on sturdy tracking is half filled with shining chunks of mithril ore, and several well-used mining axes rest against a mined rock wall next to their stout companions. A deep grunt of satisfaction escapes your throat, as the sharp scent of the ore mixes in your nostrils with a soft yet salty smell of freshly-hewn rock. As you approach the methodically-cut wall, your strong calloused fist clenches around the smooth haft of your heavy forging hammer. Suddenly you feel like you are plunging forward and down, your eyes close and your stomach lurches.
Your hand tenses hard around the hammer and the vision passes, though the awareness of your belly clenching and roiling persists.
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
Blasted with brilliant light, your eyes close reflexively and you flinch away from pulsing waves of white-hot heat. Immediately you erupt into a heavy dripping sweat and your eyes slowly open. Squinting through a shimmering filmy haze, you can make out a stout smoke-vomiting forge humming with flame. Gripping the hammer's hilt protectively in your hand, you look down to see a fine-edged mithril dagger upon the anvil, and you grunt quietly to yourself in appreciation. The marriage of a near-perfect mithril double-edged blade with a simple yet elegant balanced gold hilt pleases you, and you scoop it up to examine your work. As you touch the edge of the blade with the tip of your tongue, a slight metallic tang rings through your mouth.
Your hallucinatory body turns, the brilliant light from the forge near-blinding your eyes to the darker recesses of the room. Suddenly a sweaty chill races up your spine and the vision ends.
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
A sturdy but not yet properly stout dwarven boy races into the room, a shred of panic washing over his features. "Orcs!" he cries in a still squeaky voice. Without thought you discard the dagger back to the anvil, your other hand deftly releasing a winged mithril helm from the wide belt around your girth. Striding to the door, you heft your hammer, turning to the boy grunting plainly for him to stay put. He nods at you with mingled fear and admiration as you stride out.
A scene that seems all too familiar plays out in front of your eyes, a good-sized contingent of vicious orcs versus your clan family in a passionate yet almost routine fray. Moving efficiently through the battle, you are surprised by a sharp thud hitting the back of your neck. Your head snaps forward with an uncontrollable jerk like the swing of a clumsy apprentice's hammer stroke. You fall face-first to the floor, a wheezing grunt escaping your lips, and the vision fades.
Blackness slides across your field of vision, your muscles go limp as you barely retain hold of the hammer. A wheeze blows past your lips as you feel brief warmth, a thudding pain and then a return to your true senses.
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
Your vision becomes brighter and slowly clears, while a different sensation of body and feeling envelopes you. Sadness mingled with resolve overcomes your emotions as you look into your now smaller hands. You feel as if you want to cry, but you know you cannot, and will not. Through the doorway, within the throng of your clan and the squealing orcs, your father's body has fallen and does not move. You wait, each moment telling yourself that he will rise, but his form remains still.
Breaking inside, knowing you are foolish, you rush through the doorway and out into the melee. As you reach your father, an orc in a mottled iron-spiked helmet raises its crude broadsword to strike at his motionless body. Taking up the forging hammer from the ground, the weight as comforting as a mother's yank on your beard, you swing it with all your might into the gibbering beastial warrior's skull.
Knuckles aching as they turn white on the hammer's haft, you suddenly gasp and your vision clears. The vibrations of striking the death blow still quaking through your arm, the poignancy of the historic illusion remain strong in your mind.
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
A flicker in the corner of your eye grabs your attention and forcibly intrudes into your sight, resolving again into the cavern-like room and the blazing forge. Placing the hammer on a sturdy glaes-topped mithril stand, beside others of its brethren, you grunt sadly and look away for a fleeting moment. Outside the open doorway you can see others from your clan, even some as young as you are, dragging away the corpses of orc and brother alike. Glancing back at the fine mithril dagger on the anvil, a sense of burgeoning pride swells within you, and deep purpose binds your soul to this moment. You realize that the work of your father will outlast even your own grandchildren's children, and you smile slightly, proud yet resigned, and walk quietly back towards the hammers and forge.
As the visions organize in your memory, a shroud of sorrow settles lightly across a steely admiration for the smith and his brave son. Softly, you run a thumb over the hammer's head a few times and your awareness begins to recover, the visions dissipating into a deeper part of your memories.
MB on the chest and items: 500k
a simple iron bell
a mithril-eyed dwarven miner doll
a scarred ora Kazunel war hammer
1) a simple iron bell
1 zest - Tilt bell = "As you tilt your bell from side to side, the soft chime made by the tiny clapper rings out. A fleeting image blooms within your mind's eye, a reminder that the bell holds a story."
Third person = "As Cannel tilts his softly chiming bell from side to side, his eyes glance off in the distance, lost in a momentary reverie."
The tone of your song is quickly overshadowed by the rhythmic clanging of metal upon metal that echoes in your head. With each sharp sound, your vision quickens to reveal a dwarven lad hard at work in a forge. Already, a finished iron bell almost twice his size stands off to one side, the surface polished smooth.
A wall of fire greets your initial notes, and pulling the vision back you find yourself still within a forge. Time has passed, and now a steel horn sits next the bell, its metal-sheeted surface looking much like a patchwork quilt along the surface of the instrument. The young dwarf now tinkers with an elaborate pulley system suspended over the polishing stone.
As you sing, your song interweaves with another, the songs of labor and work sung by a group of dwarves as they haul the wood crate-encased bell to the mouth of a cavern. There it is mounted on a huge lintel supported by several beams.
Your vision shifts, this time you see the steel horn on a similar journey. Dwarves struggle with their load up a flight of granite stairs, where a brass mounting awaits on the landing, to be fitted around the instrument.
Like a panorama, the vision takes in the whole of the day in a fleeting moment. Khazi Khazar wakes early and dresses quickly, turning to the portrait of his mother and father hanging on the wall. Softly he says, "I do this for us all, so that none suffer as you did at the hands of orcs."
A startling flash as the image converts, berserking orcs run rampant as they slaughter dwarves left and right, in a bloody massacre.
You return to the vision of Khazi, as he heads into the cavern mouth and begins to pull the rope attached to the giant clapper. The clanging of the bell as the sun rises signals the start of the morning, and the dwarves begin to gather together in great numbers, making their way to work. Quickly the sun and clouds streak across the sky, pale and golden in the early dawn to lavender and pink as the evening arrives. Khazi climbs massive granite stairs, resting at the topmost landing. He takes a deep breath as he prepares, and as he blows into the instrument, the low rumbling sound of the horn echoes out over the lands above the caverns, alerting the dwarves to gather and return home for rest.
2) a mithril-eyed dwarven miner doll
No zests
As your song unfolds, the world about you grows murky and indistinct.
As it returns to focus, you find yourself in a stone-walled room, where a dwarven family sits at a heavy wooden table, husband facing wife and a child in between. The child clutches the same doll you are holding, although it appears much less worse for wear in this scene. The dwarven woman concentrates on the unpleasant task of sewing closed the gory wounds on her husband's arm, while listening intently to his low, gravelly voice as he tells his tales of the war against Despana. He shows little emotion for his topic, although the child draws closer to him as the story unfolds, seeking the comfort of his father's nearness as he learns that so many have been lost.
As the vision of the room recedes with the last notes of the verse, the dwarf absent-mindedly rubs at a red mark on his cheek.
As the notes of your song flow over the doll in your hand, the world about you grows murky and indistinct.
As it returns to focus, you find yourself in the same stone-walled room, although the family has moved about since you last saw them. The young dwarven boy sits at the table, using the body of the doll in front of him as a chinrest as he gazes at his mother. She tends to his father, now laying in bed and muttering through the heavy fog of fever. As she dabs at his brow with a damp cloth, he reaches with his still-wounded arm to clutch at her. He urgently whispers something, glancing at the child now and again. She nods patiently, grasping his arm and forcing him back to continue his rest.
As the vision of the room recedes with the last notes of the verse, the weary mother rubs the back of her neck, her face flushed with the onset of illness.
As your song continues, the murk wraps itself around you like a heavy cloak, hiding the world from your vision.
As it returns to focus, the scene of a cavernous room filled with enormous pillars hewed from the rock opens before you. As far as the eye can see, dwarves lie on cots and patched blankets, some unconscious and others moaning in delirium. All are covered with liquid red welts, some of which ooze with blood. A young dwarven child, darting quickly from one hiding place to another, drags a beloved doll behind him as he stealthily searches the faces of the dwarves he passes, looking for one he has not yet found. Finally, the child's eyes light up as he emerges from behind a pillar to fling himself on a blanket that hosts the unconscious form of his mother. He shakes at her arm, begging her to wake up, attracting the attention of an empath tending to the sick nearby who ushers him away with both scolding words and a comforting touch to his hair.
As the vision recedes with the last notes of the verse, the young boy is lead from the sadness of the makeshift infirmary by an older dwarven couple.
As your melody unfolds, you again slip into a dark haze, the comfort of the world slipping away beneath you.
As it returns to focus, you see a passageway filled with dust and the sounds of stamping feet. The dwarven boy follows behind an older dwarven couple, who look back now and again to assure themselves that he is still there. They carry heavy packs full of gear on their backs and push a wheelbarrow of household goods before them, the doll perched on top as if keeping watch over the hurried travel of its owner. As they emerge from the tunnel onto a carved rock bridge, the boy looks over the side into a chasm that yawns away beneath him. On cliff-side trails and deeper bridges, lines of dwarves, loaded with all their portable possessions, trudge heavily in a single direction. The heavy clang of miners' picks echoes up through the chasm, and you know that this can only be the dwarves destroying their path behind them.
As this vision recedes with the last notes of the verse, a glimmer of light appears at the end of the passageway ahead.
As your notes carry clearly through the air, darkness covers your vision and you feel yourself pulled away.
As the world returns to focus, the dwarven boy, again clutching his doll, stands with many others outside a towering opening in a stone wall. Numerous dwarves work around the top of this grand arch and, with a loud rumble, they let loose a stream of debris, filling the archway with boulders, rocks, and pebbles. They then use rolling logs and ropes to coax an enormous slab of rock in front of the archway, sliding it back so that it joins with the surrounding stone, leaving no visible seam. One dwarf, dressed a shade finer than the rest, steps forward and leans a short ladder against the camouflaged barrier. He climbs to the top and, with chisel and hammer, proceeds to inscribe a single rune into the stone's surface. You are unable to get a good look at the rune, but for the dwarves around the boy, the meaning is clear.
As this vision recedes with the last notes of the verse, a shout, tinged with grief, rises from the crowd, calling out in unison.
"Farewell!"
3) a scarred ora Kazunel war hammer
5x, steam flares
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
Damp warmth washes over you immediately, and your heavy breath echoes hollowly off the close stone walls. As you shift your feet, the feel of the sharp grit of a rocky floor is noticeable through your boot soles. You begin to notice the sensation of your visceral form; wide shoulders, stout limbs, and a thick low-slung belly. Smoothing your beard in a gesture that seems practiced, your fingers trail across intricate thick braids running down your chest, stopping a moment to finger a heavy Kazunel clan beard clip. Your eyes adjust with natural dwarven quickness to the pitch black, and a dim glow emanates from somewhere ahead. You pick your way slowly towards the weak light, surrounded by the sounds of dripping water and rough scraping alternately plinking and shuddering through your bones.
The dim light ahead swirls and fades as your heavy grip suddenly loosens and the hammer almost slides from your grasp.
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
With eyes shuddering from darkness to a bright bluish-green glow, your vision swims into clarity. Forms become distinguishable as you adjust to the change, and the hardy body you inhabit is comfortable. A rusty yet serviceable cart on sturdy tracking is half filled with shining chunks of mithril ore, and several well-used mining axes rest against a mined rock wall next to their stout companions. A deep grunt of satisfaction escapes your throat, as the sharp scent of the ore mixes in your nostrils with a soft yet salty smell of freshly-hewn rock. As you approach the methodically-cut wall, your strong calloused fist clenches around the smooth haft of your heavy forging hammer. Suddenly you feel like you are plunging forward and down, your eyes close and your stomach lurches.
Your hand tenses hard around the hammer and the vision passes, though the awareness of your belly clenching and roiling persists.
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
Blasted with brilliant light, your eyes close reflexively and you flinch away from pulsing waves of white-hot heat. Immediately you erupt into a heavy dripping sweat and your eyes slowly open. Squinting through a shimmering filmy haze, you can make out a stout smoke-vomiting forge humming with flame. Gripping the hammer's hilt protectively in your hand, you look down to see a fine-edged mithril dagger upon the anvil, and you grunt quietly to yourself in appreciation. The marriage of a near-perfect mithril double-edged blade with a simple yet elegant balanced gold hilt pleases you, and you scoop it up to examine your work. As you touch the edge of the blade with the tip of your tongue, a slight metallic tang rings through your mouth.
Your hallucinatory body turns, the brilliant light from the forge near-blinding your eyes to the darker recesses of the room. Suddenly a sweaty chill races up your spine and the vision ends.
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
A sturdy but not yet properly stout dwarven boy races into the room, a shred of panic washing over his features. "Orcs!" he cries in a still squeaky voice. Without thought you discard the dagger back to the anvil, your other hand deftly releasing a winged mithril helm from the wide belt around your girth. Striding to the door, you heft your hammer, turning to the boy grunting plainly for him to stay put. He nods at you with mingled fear and admiration as you stride out.
A scene that seems all too familiar plays out in front of your eyes, a good-sized contingent of vicious orcs versus your clan family in a passionate yet almost routine fray. Moving efficiently through the battle, you are surprised by a sharp thud hitting the back of your neck. Your head snaps forward with an uncontrollable jerk like the swing of a clumsy apprentice's hammer stroke. You fall face-first to the floor, a wheezing grunt escaping your lips, and the vision fades.
Blackness slides across your field of vision, your muscles go limp as you barely retain hold of the hammer. A wheeze blows past your lips as you feel brief warmth, a thudding pain and then a return to your true senses.
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
Your vision becomes brighter and slowly clears, while a different sensation of body and feeling envelopes you. Sadness mingled with resolve overcomes your emotions as you look into your now smaller hands. You feel as if you want to cry, but you know you cannot, and will not. Through the doorway, within the throng of your clan and the squealing orcs, your father's body has fallen and does not move. You wait, each moment telling yourself that he will rise, but his form remains still.
Breaking inside, knowing you are foolish, you rush through the doorway and out into the melee. As you reach your father, an orc in a mottled iron-spiked helmet raises its crude broadsword to strike at his motionless body. Taking up the forging hammer from the ground, the weight as comforting as a mother's yank on your beard, you swing it with all your might into the gibbering beastial warrior's skull.
Knuckles aching as they turn white on the hammer's haft, you suddenly gasp and your vision clears. The vibrations of striking the death blow still quaking through your arm, the poignancy of the historic illusion remain strong in your mind.
Waves of warmth and heaviness invade your body as your vision tunnels down into a mere pinpoint of light that pulses for a moment then winks out. You feel your mind enter that of a previous owner with a gentle transition.
A flicker in the corner of your eye grabs your attention and forcibly intrudes into your sight, resolving again into the cavern-like room and the blazing forge. Placing the hammer on a sturdy glaes-topped mithril stand, beside others of its brethren, you grunt sadly and look away for a fleeting moment. Outside the open doorway you can see others from your clan, even some as young as you are, dragging away the corpses of orc and brother alike. Glancing back at the fine mithril dagger on the anvil, a sense of burgeoning pride swells within you, and deep purpose binds your soul to this moment. You realize that the work of your father will outlast even your own grandchildren's children, and you smile slightly, proud yet resigned, and walk quietly back towards the hammers and forge.
As the visions organize in your memory, a shroud of sorrow settles lightly across a steely admiration for the smith and his brave son. Softly, you run a thumb over the hammer's head a few times and your awareness begins to recover, the visions dissipating into a deeper part of your memories.
MB on the chest and items: 500k