-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
