2low4zero
12-04-2014, 07:20 PM
a faenor-banded grey mithril chest
an interesting item of Faendryl lore.
In the grey mithril chest:
uncommon,weapon (1): a rust-pitted heavy gornar falchion.
other (2): a gold coin, a blood-stained piece of rubble.
long lore song attached to each item as follows.
rubble first.....
xxx says, "Well, let's se what the piece of rubble says."
xxx removes a blood-stained piece of rubble from in her grey mithril chest.
xxx sings:
"Rubble, tell me and tell me true
what is your value, of what worth are you?"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"The Basilica, Faendryl sorcery's shining bastion,
The Basilica, the root of mortal civilization."
xxx sings:
"Rubble, all stained with blood
tell me more of your story, with more songs will you flood?"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"The home of knowledge magical, the home of Faendryl sorcery.
A place of study, a place of arts, a place of Faendryl history."
xxx sings:
"Piece of rubble, tell me more of your story
you're making me sing songs of Faendryl glory"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"With arms upraised a chant went up.
For years their anger seethed, pent up."
xxx sings:
"Piece of rubble, keep making me sing
songs of Faendryl, what's the big thing?"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"The Laurentiu faction made their play,
The Laurentiu faction's final day."
xxx sings:
"Piece of rubble, you are very strange
what's with this singing? My voice you arrange...."
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"Down came their arms from where they poised,
Down came the Basilica with thunderous noise."
xxx sings:
"Piece of rubble, continue to make me sing
what is this strange song, what is the thing?"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"The throne was emptied on that day, and on that day many died,
For the Patriarch and the Basilican Guard died with others who were inside."
xxx sings:
"Piece of rubble, this goes on and on
what a strange thing you are, let's hear more of the song"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
J>
xxx says, "That's all, apparently."
falchion next.....
"Gornar falchion, tell me and tell me true
what is your value, of what worth are you?"
As your voice focuses into the falchion, it seems to expand and envelop you. Blazing flares of light condense and then resolve into a vision.
Gouts of flame and fluid pierce the clouds of smoke on the battlefield, randomly flying from the raging melee stretched before you. The curtain of combatants parts, a channel opening through the bloody fray which you are propelled through. Hewing necks and limbs like errant blades of grass, gliding amidst the writhing warrior masses, your song of bloodlust keens with surging power and desire.
As the sensation of ripping through gorget into spine blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
Roundtime: 12 sec.
As your song focuses into the weapon in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Sunbursts of light dance through the blackness and then resolve into a vision.
Wailing as your edge splits the air, the song made staccato by brief bites through armored foe, energy pulses from your pommel to point. Suddenly, the grip on your hilt loosens, your mighty slash falters, and you fall to the ground. Your wielder crumples beside you, lifeless, but there is no sadness. The dance must continue, but yet, there you lie. Stepped on, bled on from inflictions not of your blade, you blaze in furious need for the fray, until the blood-choked soil slows its pounding and silence reigns.
As the vision around you darkens and fades away, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
Roundtime: 11 sec.
As your voice focuses into the falchion, it seems to expand and envelop you. Blazing flares of light condense and then resolve into a vision.
The weakness of the grip that closes around your hilt is immediately apparent, and the hold is limp and clumsy. Your tip is thrust into the remains of a wooden shield a few times without skill or care, and then bypassing all ceremony you are hurled upon a cart loaded with less significant, passionless, armaments. You feel affronted, diminished, yet power and murderous thirst still project from your gornar, though no ear understands.
As the vision blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
As your song focuses into the weapon in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Sunbursts of light dance through the blackness and then resolve into a vision.
Tied in rolls, stuffed in barrels, even hung upon a wall like a crucified traitor, time is less interpretable when you neglect your purpose. Passed from one unworthy palm to the next, your once keen edge dulling from insipid use as a tool or toy, you can still feel the patient surety that soon you will be recalled to your destiny.
As the vision blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath. Your hand feels damp and gritty on the grip of the falchion.
As your song focuses into the weapon in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Your emotions and very being are washed away, and again you find yourself within the simplistic mentality of the falchion.
Time continues to dodge the bolt. Need has twisted under the pressure of wasted years, and now perhaps you would even turn on a wielder for the opportunity of blood. As the life around you dies in disgusting natural ways, never more violent than perhaps a passing of wind in the final relaxing moment, you are shuffled deeper and deeper into the dusty storages.
As the vision blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
As your voice focuses into the falchion, it seems to expand and envelop you. Blazing flares of light condense and then resolve into a vision.
Mislaid and wasted away by the passing years, a thirst born white hot by the forge now cooled to a memoryless sentience in your unmajestic repose, a vagrancy of spirit is your only sentiment remaining. A somber stoicism deeper than the wandering pitted scars of rust and decay dwindles within, a note hung long after the end of a sonnet, retreating into the darkest shadows of timelessness. Lost to all, to being, the final thread of hatred snuffs quietly into nonexistence. The sliver of urnon forged within your blade quiets, and you are only a sword.
Instead of the resonations of your voice slowly fading away, they abruptly cease as if muffled. You open your eyes and intake a ragged breath, feeling the despair and death slowly fade like a dream.
You attempt to withdraw more hidden secrets from the falchion, but meet with amazing failure.
and the gold coin.....
"Gold coin, tell me and tell me true
what is your valuel, of what worth are you?"
Starting notes from your song evoke the image of the towering patriarchal Basilica of the glorious Faendryl Empire. The time of bloodshed and mourning is hopefully coming to an end, as first matriarch Geniselle Anaya Faendryl ascends to the position. Radiant from her throne, she gives off an aura of confidence, but beneath her strong exterior she knows that her term will be short-lived due to binding elven traditions.
Continuing your song, the image of Geniselle comes to you once again, a small elven boy standing by her side. She looks upon him with evident love and adoration, praising him as he speaks of his accomplishments that day. An advisor hovers nearby, watching the couple, leaning over occasionally to whisper in the matriarch's ear. She nods each time, a wistful look upon her face.
Escalating your tune, you see the same throne room, but now the elven lad is older. Geniselle fusses over him motheringly, pulling at his elegant suit, adjusting it as she rambles on with advice. He frowns and pushes her hands away impatiently. A blare of trumpets sound a clarion call and the doors at the far end of the hall open. Side by side, the two exit the room, your vision suddenly shifting to the Basilica steps. Mother and son arrive to greet the cheering crowd gathered for a celebration.
As you reach the crescendo of the song, your inner vision returns to the steps of the Basilica, where the elder elven places a crown upon the head of the lad. A wild and triumphant cry sounds from the masses, and the elven youth moves forward to speak. Impassioned, he makes a plea for unity and leadership within their House, a welcome direction to end internal strife.
In a shocking turn, he then declares that plotting against the Patriarchy to be a capital crime, and those offenders who sought to destroy it would be retroactively sentenced. Turning to face his mother, Yshryth Faendryl performs the ultimate betrayal and commands her execution.
Feeling both cold and hot at the same time, the coin rests in your hand, refusing to offer anything more.
falchion is 4x vibe flaring.
don't really remember where i got this item so have no clue where it is from.
mb... 20 million reduced to 10 million
cb...
an interesting item of Faendryl lore.
In the grey mithril chest:
uncommon,weapon (1): a rust-pitted heavy gornar falchion.
other (2): a gold coin, a blood-stained piece of rubble.
long lore song attached to each item as follows.
rubble first.....
xxx says, "Well, let's se what the piece of rubble says."
xxx removes a blood-stained piece of rubble from in her grey mithril chest.
xxx sings:
"Rubble, tell me and tell me true
what is your value, of what worth are you?"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"The Basilica, Faendryl sorcery's shining bastion,
The Basilica, the root of mortal civilization."
xxx sings:
"Rubble, all stained with blood
tell me more of your story, with more songs will you flood?"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"The home of knowledge magical, the home of Faendryl sorcery.
A place of study, a place of arts, a place of Faendryl history."
xxx sings:
"Piece of rubble, tell me more of your story
you're making me sing songs of Faendryl glory"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"With arms upraised a chant went up.
For years their anger seethed, pent up."
xxx sings:
"Piece of rubble, keep making me sing
songs of Faendryl, what's the big thing?"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"The Laurentiu faction made their play,
The Laurentiu faction's final day."
xxx sings:
"Piece of rubble, you are very strange
what's with this singing? My voice you arrange...."
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"Down came their arms from where they poised,
Down came the Basilica with thunderous noise."
xxx sings:
"Piece of rubble, continue to make me sing
what is this strange song, what is the thing?"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
xxx follows her singing with another apparently unrelated verse...
xxx sings:
"The throne was emptied on that day, and on that day many died,
For the Patriarch and the Basilican Guard died with others who were inside."
xxx sings:
"Piece of rubble, this goes on and on
what a strange thing you are, let's hear more of the song"
The piece of rubble seems to respond to the magic of xxx's song.
J>
xxx says, "That's all, apparently."
falchion next.....
"Gornar falchion, tell me and tell me true
what is your value, of what worth are you?"
As your voice focuses into the falchion, it seems to expand and envelop you. Blazing flares of light condense and then resolve into a vision.
Gouts of flame and fluid pierce the clouds of smoke on the battlefield, randomly flying from the raging melee stretched before you. The curtain of combatants parts, a channel opening through the bloody fray which you are propelled through. Hewing necks and limbs like errant blades of grass, gliding amidst the writhing warrior masses, your song of bloodlust keens with surging power and desire.
As the sensation of ripping through gorget into spine blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
Roundtime: 12 sec.
As your song focuses into the weapon in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Sunbursts of light dance through the blackness and then resolve into a vision.
Wailing as your edge splits the air, the song made staccato by brief bites through armored foe, energy pulses from your pommel to point. Suddenly, the grip on your hilt loosens, your mighty slash falters, and you fall to the ground. Your wielder crumples beside you, lifeless, but there is no sadness. The dance must continue, but yet, there you lie. Stepped on, bled on from inflictions not of your blade, you blaze in furious need for the fray, until the blood-choked soil slows its pounding and silence reigns.
As the vision around you darkens and fades away, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
Roundtime: 11 sec.
As your voice focuses into the falchion, it seems to expand and envelop you. Blazing flares of light condense and then resolve into a vision.
The weakness of the grip that closes around your hilt is immediately apparent, and the hold is limp and clumsy. Your tip is thrust into the remains of a wooden shield a few times without skill or care, and then bypassing all ceremony you are hurled upon a cart loaded with less significant, passionless, armaments. You feel affronted, diminished, yet power and murderous thirst still project from your gornar, though no ear understands.
As the vision blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
As your song focuses into the weapon in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Sunbursts of light dance through the blackness and then resolve into a vision.
Tied in rolls, stuffed in barrels, even hung upon a wall like a crucified traitor, time is less interpretable when you neglect your purpose. Passed from one unworthy palm to the next, your once keen edge dulling from insipid use as a tool or toy, you can still feel the patient surety that soon you will be recalled to your destiny.
As the vision blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath. Your hand feels damp and gritty on the grip of the falchion.
As your song focuses into the weapon in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Your emotions and very being are washed away, and again you find yourself within the simplistic mentality of the falchion.
Time continues to dodge the bolt. Need has twisted under the pressure of wasted years, and now perhaps you would even turn on a wielder for the opportunity of blood. As the life around you dies in disgusting natural ways, never more violent than perhaps a passing of wind in the final relaxing moment, you are shuffled deeper and deeper into the dusty storages.
As the vision blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
As your voice focuses into the falchion, it seems to expand and envelop you. Blazing flares of light condense and then resolve into a vision.
Mislaid and wasted away by the passing years, a thirst born white hot by the forge now cooled to a memoryless sentience in your unmajestic repose, a vagrancy of spirit is your only sentiment remaining. A somber stoicism deeper than the wandering pitted scars of rust and decay dwindles within, a note hung long after the end of a sonnet, retreating into the darkest shadows of timelessness. Lost to all, to being, the final thread of hatred snuffs quietly into nonexistence. The sliver of urnon forged within your blade quiets, and you are only a sword.
Instead of the resonations of your voice slowly fading away, they abruptly cease as if muffled. You open your eyes and intake a ragged breath, feeling the despair and death slowly fade like a dream.
You attempt to withdraw more hidden secrets from the falchion, but meet with amazing failure.
and the gold coin.....
"Gold coin, tell me and tell me true
what is your valuel, of what worth are you?"
Starting notes from your song evoke the image of the towering patriarchal Basilica of the glorious Faendryl Empire. The time of bloodshed and mourning is hopefully coming to an end, as first matriarch Geniselle Anaya Faendryl ascends to the position. Radiant from her throne, she gives off an aura of confidence, but beneath her strong exterior she knows that her term will be short-lived due to binding elven traditions.
Continuing your song, the image of Geniselle comes to you once again, a small elven boy standing by her side. She looks upon him with evident love and adoration, praising him as he speaks of his accomplishments that day. An advisor hovers nearby, watching the couple, leaning over occasionally to whisper in the matriarch's ear. She nods each time, a wistful look upon her face.
Escalating your tune, you see the same throne room, but now the elven lad is older. Geniselle fusses over him motheringly, pulling at his elegant suit, adjusting it as she rambles on with advice. He frowns and pushes her hands away impatiently. A blare of trumpets sound a clarion call and the doors at the far end of the hall open. Side by side, the two exit the room, your vision suddenly shifting to the Basilica steps. Mother and son arrive to greet the cheering crowd gathered for a celebration.
As you reach the crescendo of the song, your inner vision returns to the steps of the Basilica, where the elder elven places a crown upon the head of the lad. A wild and triumphant cry sounds from the masses, and the elven youth moves forward to speak. Impassioned, he makes a plea for unity and leadership within their House, a welcome direction to end internal strife.
In a shocking turn, he then declares that plotting against the Patriarchy to be a capital crime, and those offenders who sought to destroy it would be retroactively sentenced. Turning to face his mother, Yshryth Faendryl performs the ultimate betrayal and commands her execution.
Feeling both cold and hot at the same time, the coin rests in your hand, refusing to offer anything more.
falchion is 4x vibe flaring.
don't really remember where i got this item so have no clue where it is from.
mb... 20 million reduced to 10 million
cb...