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- from a battle near ta'vaalor in the elven nations - looks like the undead war - didn't save plaque
a venerable crimson eahnor shield
Flashes of a battle begin to appear in your mind. Stronger and more detailed the flashes come faster and faster until you can see no more of the world around you. Two forces stand arrayed on a field of battle. On one side you see elves, banners and colors representing every house of the Elven Nations flutter in the wind. Scattered amongst the elves you can make out other races, giantkin, dwarves, halflings, even sylvans and humans. On the other is massed a horde of undead beasts. Zombies, spectres, wailing banshees in chariots drawn by nightmares, and skeletons of every beastly shape imaginable. As the undead advance upon the field, your vision returns and the battle vanishes from your mind.
The battle returns to your mind full force, just as the first blows are struck. Hundreds fall in the first clash, but neither side seems to gain an upper hand as the battle progresses. Empaths move up and down the line, dragging the wounded and dead off the field. Those they can save, are and they return to battle. Those who cannot be saved are left for dead. The clerics move up and down the line supporting the army with their magic, too busy to tend the dead. Slowly you see a slight shift in the battle, and it seems the living are advancing ever so slowly. Falling back the undead all but vanish, and the living armies stop pursuing and return to their camps. Slowly your vision comes back and the images disperse from your mind like wisps of fog.
Slowly blurred images form in your mind again. Row upon row of bodies lie as far as you can see. Soldiers left alive move up the rows removing armor and weapons from the bodies and placing them in a pile. Behind them clerics kneel beside each body murmuring prayers for the fallen. The dead are lowered into a large communal grave and sent on their way with yet more prayers. It seems days pass in this lengthy process, yet the images seem to have come and gone in moments. An enormous pile of armor and weapons stands upon the field. Clerics and wizards stand around it chanting. Responding to the mystical chants great powers of spirits and the elements surround the pile. A radiant white-blue glow surrounds the pile and slowly seeps into each piece.
Striding before the pile a High priest speaks out to the assembled races, "Let each who lost a friend or loved one take a piece to remember them by, so that we may never forget their sacrifice." Slowly people form a line and one by one take a piece from the pile, as they do they speak aloud the name of one who they knew and what they remembered about them. As the crowd disperses there is still quite a pile left, again the priest speaks, "Let those who would take from this pile and remember, so that even if all those who were here today die, always someone will remember." He turns his back and slowly walks away, fading as the visions leave you.
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-somehow connected to the creation of the luukosian temple, origin unknown - didn't save plaque info
a tiny emerald sliver - The sliver is a tiny jewel no larger than an arrowhead, its uneven facets imparting a jagged, blade-like look to its edges. Deep within its core, a shadow wavers back and forth, ever shifting when every stray beam of light crosses the surface of the sliver.
As you sing, the facets of the emerald sliver shift to a dull, blood-red hue. As you gaze into it, you find yourself somewhere else entirely...
The creaking of an inn's sign accompanies the dull patter of rain. A salty scent hangs in the air as currents of wind from the distant bay whip around you. A hooded figure approaches the doorway and pushes it open, illuminating the stormy night with the gently flickering flames of amber candlelight.
The figure makes its way toward the only occupied table in the establishment and sits down with a grizzled man, his dirty hair falling around his shoulders in knotted braids.
Looking up from his drink, the man says, "Ye 'ave the money?"
The clink of many heavy coins upon wood echoes around you as a large sack is tossed on the table.
The man nods and says, "And ye want that area sealed off, aye? The Guild was plannin' to use it fer some other business."
The figure makes no sign of moving, but its voice is like a blade's edge as it speaks, "There are to be no interferences there. You will be paid regularly for leaving well enough alone and encouraging others to do the same."
A strange look plays on the man's face, and the vision swirls into blurriness before it completely ends.
You sink into the memories of the sliver, and your vision is replaced by the dark surroundings of the inn once again...
The man raises an eyebrow as he flips one of the coins from the sack and says, "Aye. That brings us to th' next matter. You ain't smugglers, is ya? The Guild ain't takin too kindly to others runnin' 'em outta business -- even if they do pay 'em nicely."
The figure sits motionless for a moment, then says in the same cold, forced voice, "Your currency means nothing to us. We have been here for a long, long time and we wish our privacy. Your acquisitions will not be threatened."
The effects of the vague statement make themselves known on the man's face just before he says, "Oh... aye, aye. The Guild still wants ta take a peek on what ye got goin down there, eh? Ya mind showin me?"
You see the briefest shadow of a smile as faint light shows the slightest image of the figure's mouth, "Certainly," he replies.
The vision comes to a close as the heavy patter of rain echoes ceaselessly about you.
The emerald sliver shivers gently in your fingers, and the familiar luminescence flickers into your vision before you're whisked away into its memories...
The tangly-haired man and the hooded figure stand before a black marble dais surrounded by banners bearing green serpents. The man looks a tad shaken by the surroundings.
"You should know something," The figure says.
"Yeh?"
"Showing consideration for the Order shows consideration for your own well-being. And your organization's prosperity. Observe." The figure moves its hand, concealed by bell-sleeves, toward the back of the hallway.
Two similar hooded figures drag a grubby man of questionable background toward the altar atop the dais. Binding his wrists and ankles, they step back as the taller hooded figure that was speaking to the man steps ascends the dais. With a sweeping gesture of his hand, the candles ensconcing the altar come to life with emerald green flame. The wavering light reveals the form of a massive serpent cast in bronze, its fangs poised to strike the altar beneath it. With another fluid movement, the hooded figure produces a dagger and slices the jugular of the vagrant on the altar, leaving him time only to scream wetly before he dies.
The eyes of the serpent statue pulse a sickly green as a misty white, humanoid form rises toward its maw. As it reaches its gullet, you hear a faint, desperate scream that is the very rawest form of anguish -- and then the soul disappears into the endless blackness of the serpent's mouth. Almost immediately, the man's body crumbles into nothing but a fine ash.
The echoes of the man's scream fades mercifully from your mind as the vision comes to a close.
A faint, flickering crimson aura sparks briefly to life around the sliver before you become wrapped in its memories once again...
The figure turns from the altar and back toward the now considerably more paler man and says, "You have people you wish to disappear, yes? Send them to us and your worries simply become... no more. Mutual benefits."
The man gulps slightly and says, "Aye, aye... I'll tell 'em that."
The figure begins to step down the dais, "I trust you no longer believe us some petty smuggling group?"
"Nae, nae... I'm quite convinced now, aye..." The man manages to murmur nervously.
"Very good," The figure reaches up to remove its hood, revealing a very old human with shoulder-length hair whiter than bone. His unusually large and vibrant green eyes bore into the other man, "You would do well to be adamant in your efforts to keep this place hidden from the main populace. We remain hidden only by choice. You are aware of the Order's power?" He caresses the edge of the blood-stained dagger with a thin smile on his lips.
"Aye... aye. You won't be havin' no troubles, I'll put me word on it."
The priest's smile grows deeper, "Good. For your sake, I hope you were speaking the truth. An oath spoken here has considerable power." He nods sharply to the two robed figures behind the man, "Escort him out."
Your vision comes to a close as the tangly-haired man walks off into the darkness of the halls.
You weave your song precisely around the emerald sliver and coax the final memory from its faceted depths...
The rain comes down in sheets, echoing against the cobblestones and the docks far off in the murk. A man wearing a heavy leather coat stumbles into a nearby inn, its moody light serving only to cast things in half-shadow. He sits down next to a figure clad in a voluminous robe. The only sign of recognition it gives him is a faint nod. A voice comes from the shadows that hides the face of its wearer, "You have reached a decision on our agreement?"
The bedraggled man looks around nervously and leans close to whisper, "Aye, aye... the Guild'll accept it. But they ain't want no paperwork. No way to trace it to them, yeh? Gold, silver and jewels is th' only thing they'll be takin ta keep quiet about ya."
"That is acceptable." The figure reaches into its robe, and the man tenses up briefly before he sees the small pouch, "Consider this a gift in honor of the agreement." He tosses the pouch on the table and the man quickly retrieves it. "We are very..." The figure's voice changes noticeably, as if the one he was speaking with was a forced, changed version of what his true voice actually was, "...glad for your graciousssnesss in thissss matter." A flicker of the amber light in the inn causes it to play across the figure's once-hidden eyes, revealing reptilian slits staring out from under the hood.
The bedraggled wet man lets out a startled shriek and leaps out from his chair, spilling some of the pouch's contents before he nearly bolts out the doorway. A few tiny sliver drop alongside the figure's foot. Retrieving one, he smiles to himself and says, "No paperwork, indeed..." He tosses it idly over his shoulder and walks out of the inn and into the night.
The scene fades away entirely in your mind's eye as your song draws to a close.
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In the Common language, it reads:
This item is also thought to have belonged to a Stone Tending practitioner of Aldora, and was used to inscribe runes into the stones.
an eonake chisel engraved with silvery thorns along its sharp beveled edge
Muted rose-hued colors spiral collectively as your song begins. Your voice conjures images of an arched wooden doorway leading into a simple, well-lit room. An ivory and white clad woman sits studiously at a rosewood table, covered with lapidary tools. Your song lingers for a moment and then fades away.
Your voice rings clearly as the images return and your attention is drawn toward the rosewood table. Upon it, various stones and gems rest in separate piles, each sorted by color and type. The ivory-clad woman scrutinizes each stone as she plucks them up one by one. Your song begins to drift and your vision subsides.
Your song resonates clearly as your mind fills with a recurring scene. The woman eyes each stone meticulously before she takes a thorn-etched chisel and begins to carve tiny markings on the various sides. She carefully brushes off the dust from each carving and then holds it up to the light for examination. The vision drifts into soft blending colors as your song lingers for a moment and then dissipates.
The scene returns as the woman resumes her labor, then pauses briefly to murmur a soft, almost inaudible prayer. As she completes the etching she rubs the stone with a soft cloth. For a moment, peculiar glow emanates from the stone and then fades. She places it carefully in a drawstring rose-colored leather pouch. The vision ends as does your melodic song.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Common language, it reads:
This weapon was wielded against the Horned Cabal in the battle of Tyllan.
an eagle-winged blue vultite longsword
Everything around you falls away with vertiginous speed. Without knowing exactly how, you understand that you are part of a small cadre of soldiers creeping along in the lee of an old stone wall. The night is dark, cold, and silent save for the hooting of a lone owl. Blood is pounding in your ears and your nerves are stretched as taut as bowstrings. You round the corner into a dense grove of oaks, and see Ethauc, your leader, raise his hand, signaling a halt.
With jarring suddenness you are once again yourself, the last notes of your song still hanging in the air.
With no transition at all, you find yourself back in the grove of trees. Ethauc gestures for you and your companions to gather around. There is an odd catch in his voice as he says, "My brothers and sisters, we have fought together, bled together, and survived together. We face a great foe tonight, but if anyone can turn the tide, it is us. But even we could use some help, so on a recent journey to Brantur I had swords made for us all, and each one of them I sharpened on the Whetstone." With great ceremony Ethauc withdraws one sheathed longsword at a time from his pack and hands it to a member of the company. When you receive yours, the cold weight of it is both surprising and familiar. Even in this watery moonlight the sapphire in the sword's pommel sparkles with life.
The illusion slips away, though the longsword is still in your hand.
Eagerly, you allow the song to send you back to that dark forest. Donning the sheaths, you and your brethren resume battle-ready positions. Ethauc whispers, "Drinks in Tyllan are on me tomorrow night!" As a unit you steal out of the woods and over a small hill, surprising a ragged band of undead beasts. You draw your sword and charge into the fray, cutting down your opponents right and left with startling ease. To either side you see your fellow soldiers taking out the few remaining creatures, when a trumpet blast echoes from behind. A man on horseback gallops toward you, shouting, "Blue Eagles, turn back to Elstreth! It is besieged and in need of aid!" He blows the trumpet again and races off.
You look around for your companions but the vision has slipped away.
It seems easier now, stepping back into that other life. Your legs ache from the hurried march back to the city. The walls of Elstreth are in sight, as is the great army of the Horned Cabal. A rush of energy floods your system, and you charge behind Ethauc toward the nightmarish creatures. You fall quickly into the rhythm of the fight, the sword in your hand moving almost of its own accord. You hear a sudden shout, and turn to face it.
The battlefield has gone, leaving you feeling unbalanced and anxious to return.
You are back in the battle, once again turning to face the source of that unexpected shout. The scene that greets your eyes chills you to the very marrow of your bones. Cutting a swath through the regiments behind you is the northern force of the Horned Cabal, the very army you had been sent to destroy in the first place. Caught now between the rotting jaws of these two merciless powers, there is nothing to do but fight. With a deep growl you raise your longsword and dive back into the battle.
The enemies become phantoms, then vanish altogether, although your battlelust remains.
With fierce determination you launch yourself back into the ancient war. Foes are falling away with a grisly sort of grace when three skeletal figures surround you. You hold off two of them but the third is too much. He lunges in to strike at your exposed side, then collapses with alarming suddenness. Ethauc is revealed, ichor-stained longsword in hand. You grin at him, but your smile becomes a gasp of horror at the sight of a spear head sliding out through his chest. Ethauc grins back at you before falling slowly to his knees. You move toward him, but feel something very cold on your left shoulder. Faster than thought, ice suffuses your system. The battlefield is silent, the sun goes out, and only the taste of metal lingers on your tongue.
Silently you stand as sound and sense return. The icy hand holding your heart is slow to release its grip. The blue vultite longsword you hold seems warmer than before, but also heavier, more substantial.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Common language, it reads:
This weapon is thought to have been passed down the generations of a Aldoran family that practiced the art of Stone Tending. It was found outside the city of Elstreth.
an ancient twisted rosewood staff capped with a faceted star sapphire
As your song begins, a kaleidoscope of colorful greens, golds and browns washes a tranquil scene before your eyes. Walking along a blanketed forest path, an elderly woman dressed in ivory bows her head toward the earth as she supports her steps with a twisted wooden staff. Crisp golden leaves trickle down and cascade back and forth in the air as they gently find their rest on the ground below. Bending down slightly, the woman clears a small circle of protective leaves with her staff, and, beneath the soil, she finds amongst the protective leaves a golden-flecked stone.
As your song continues, crisp drafts of cold air penetrate to the bone, revealing a snowy white scene of a mountainside. Tapping his staff in front of his pathway, an aged man carefully makes his way to a narrow recess, which has been partially protected from the harsh conditions. Up the side of the rock, tiny powder blue flowers grow collectively in a huddled bunch, as if trying to keep warm. Slowly, as your song shifts, a faint glow resonates from the twisted staff, and you hear a soft hum drifting into the air. The man glances down to find a tear-shaped sapphire resting upon the silky blue carpet. He plucks up the stone, rolls it gently between his fingers, and the vision fades.
The song shifts into a steady even tempo, as splashes of crystal blue water fill your cloudy vision. A chorus of birds and frogs chirp melodically together in unison, as the image of a riverbank fades into view. A young woman sits along the river's edge, dipping a twisted wooden staff into the surface of the water, sending ripples out like a resounding echo. A white flowering lily pad drifts toward her, oddly against the soft current. Nested upon the round leaves is a tiny green frog holding a round bloodjewel in its mouth. The young woman smiles and the song begins to dissipate.
The sweet melody of spring reflects the image of a freshly budding garden in its prime. Butterflies of assorted colors flitter back and forth from flower to flower, as a youthful man walks casually through the garden, gently aerating the soil with his wooden staff. Without forewarning, a brightly colored songbird swoops from a low tree limb to the ground, dropping a sparkling diamond at the man's feet. As he kneels to pick it up, the song ends.
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In the Common language, it reads:
This ring, displaying the signet of the House of Kestrel, is thought to have been worn by Chaston Kestrel during his reign as Emperor of Tamzyrr.
an enruned gold signet ring set with a brilliant fire pearl
As your voice rises in song, the ring responds by vibrating slightly. The world shifts and when it reforms, you are in a different place.
A human man sits at the head of a table in a chamber lined with marble pillars. With a quill, he scratches his signature onto parchments, making his way through a pile stacked in front of him. As he completes each one, an assistant removes it, blotting the wet ink before rolling it into a tight tube and tying it with a red ribbon. When the last ones are placed into a pile along the length of the table, the man, his circlet of yellow gold shining in the candlelight, leans back in his chair and clasps his hands in front of him. He speaks a single word and a row of darkly garbed men step from behind the pillars, taking their places along the length of the table. Soundlessly, each picks up a number of scrolls from the table, their gold signet rings flashing in the light.
One by one, they turn to leave the room, touching their hands and fading into the background as they go.
As your voice rises in song, the ring responds by vibrating slightly. The world shifts and when it reforms, you are in a different place.
A whipping wind blows outside an inn in a small village. Pedestrians, the cowls of their cloaks pulled low over their faces, struggle through the street, some making their way onto the inn's porch and through the entrance. Your attention is drawn to a space just to the left of the front door and, as you watch, a darkly garbed man appears in the act of moving forward to nail a parchment to the inn's wall. The wind does not seem to disturb him, although his dusky grey robes and cloak flap violently around him. A human approaches, stabbing a finger at the parchment and speaking angrily. The mysterious man turns to him and pulls his sleeve away from his hand, revealing a gold signet ring. He says nothing as he stares coolly at his adversary. The objector's mouth snaps shut and he seems to shrink as he hurriedly makes his way off the porch.
As you strain to get a closer look at the parchment, you can only make out the title, "Regarding Elves and Those of Elven Descent," along with the looping signature along the bottom, "Chaston Kestrel."
As your voice rises in song, the ring responds by vibrating slightly.
A jumbled mass of moving images fills your mind.
A harrowed group of elves, marching toward a dense forest ahead of a darkly garbed man.
A wailing woman, gesturing at her burning home as a mysterious man strides away, disappearing with a light touch to his hand.
A volcano, smoke rising silently from its summit.
An ash-coated city, filled with citizens and visitors racing wildly through the streets.
A river of lava, slowly overtaking and destroying wooden structures in its path.
Darkly-garbed men, appearing out of thin air as they rush toward a collapsed palace as flaming debris rains down around them.
Several darkly garbed men gather in a darkened hall, the whites of their eyes gleaming in the torchlight seeping through a nearby doorway. Just beyond, a young man kneels on a pillow of rich red and gold, a cleric facing him with a golden circlet raised overhead. The anonymous men exchange wary looks as the priest completes his blessing and lays the crown upon the young man's head. One by one, the silent watchers disappear with a light touch to their gold signet rings, as the celebrants in the chamber beyond burst into cheers.
As your voice rises in song, the ring responds by vibrating slightly. The world shifts and when it reforms, you are in a different place.
A young man crowned with a circlet of gold stands on a raised dais, his brow furrowed as he listens to a petitioner before him. The subject, a middle-aged man weathered beyond his years, gestures at a group of darkly garbed men who cluster between two stern statues. The young man passes a hand across his face, shaking his head with a look of disappointment. He takes a dark-stained box from an attendant and steps down from the dais to mingle among the objects of his displeasure. From each man he accepts the reluctant gift of a gold signet ring and places them into the wooden box.
One by one, the men turn to leave the room, touching their throats and fading into the background as they go. A troubled shadow passes over the visage of the emperor, but he masks it with a regal smile as the box of rings is carried from the hall.
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In the Common language, it reads:
This piece of jewelry is a fine example of old Tamzyrrian craftsmanship, and is thought to have belonged to a minor outlying noble lady.
a black seed pearl in silver anklet
As your song enfolds the anklet in your palm you begin to feel it stir in response. Your eyelids slide shut and a vision of immaculate clarity unfolds.
Peering into a large oak-trimmed mirror, a beautiful woman sits fitting a net of black seed pearls onto her auburn hair. Over her shoulder the door suddenly bursts into a cloud of debris, and the frame darkens with a massive cloaked figure stepping through. Behind the figure two large armored forms lie motionless in the hall, her hired bodyguards. Faster than memories can record, the woman is clamped inside a muscular arm and the man and his prize launch through an eruption of shattered glass, out the window and down to the waiting beast with a long neck and two great humps on its back.
Sight twists and narrows back to black, and you slowly open your eyes and blink at the light.
As your song issues forth the anklet starts to resonate strongly, and suddenly your vision clouds and reshapes into broad visual illusion.
With days already passed, the woman's clothing showing the wear of travel but her hair still cleanly held within the pearl netting, she seems to understand now at least why she is here. He is a bounty hunter of Phannus, a great desert warrior hardened by the seas of boiling sand. Now that they were away from the eastern city where she once thought herself safe, he explained quietly, precisely with bare words, what her future would hold. Two weeks of hard travel, being presented alive and unharmed to the jeweler in Tamzyrr, the hunter collecting her bounty, and then her being tortured slowly to death in the privacy of the jeweler's basement for robbing him.
As the vibrations from your song fade into imperceptibility the vision ends and your eyes reopen.
Focusing your magic into the anklet you are rewarded with a pulse of power, and your sight clouds into a vision.
Trekking along the southeastern edges of the DragonSpine, the past week of the journey has left the woman threadbare and despondent. Continuous pleading, bargaining, and demanding avails her nothing from the stony male, who keeps her leashed closely on the animal behind him. When she struggles, he is not rough, but shifts so her efforts avail little result. He ignores or tolerates her rambling, remaining silent except for an occasional calm command or simple answer. A creature of honor, he would follow his contract to the very letter. He would deliver her, alive and unharmed.
Sight twists and narrows back to black, and you slowly open your eyes and blink at the light.
As your song unfolds the anklet starts to resonate strongly, and suddenly your vision clouds and reshapes into broad visual illusion.
Bumping more frequently against him as they began the first days of travel through the mountains, her tired muscles not accounting completely for her desire to lean against his solid back, the woman has given up her struggles and now is studying her captor. A bark-colored viper swings down at her from a tree limb, and without shifting his weight he cleanly severs it in two with his dagger. With waning reluctance, she gazes on him more truly, seeing this man of enviable virtue and power among a world of the weak and despicable.
As the vibrations from your song fade into imperceptibility the vision ends and your eyes reopen.
Focusing your magic into the anklet you are rewarded with a pulse of power, and your sight clouds into a vision.
A few short days travel out of the mountains, still with miles of plain and hill ahead, and her life's end, the hunter and captive's path winds slowly beneath a beating white sun. She was unbound now, physically and perhaps more, for they both seemed to know she would not run from him. She even elicited a chuckle or nod from him occasionally as she spoke about her life, and when her spoken hardships caused his own eyes to tighten in remembrance, she sees his spirit is kindred. Within her tales there is a question, unnoticed or ignored by the man. An offer of freedom, together.
Sight twists and narrows back to black, and you slowly open your eyes and blink at the light.
As your song unfolds the anklet starts to resonate, even stronger than before, and your sight falls to pitch black instantly. Black resolves to dark grey, and then to the interior of a modest city building.
Stepping down into the cool recessed room below the jeweler's shop, the journey of the two strangers comes to an end. She looks into his eyes a final time, knowing that to plead would diminish her and be pointless, and sees that feelings also dwell behind his gaze. The jeweler giggles mercilessly, and speaks that she is turned into his custody, handing the payment to the hunter.
The definitions of the agreement met, that she be delivered alive and unharmed into the jeweler's hands, the bounty hunter takes her by the head and snaps her neck with one quick jerk. As she falls to the floor, the jeweler's wailing cry of lost revenge splitting the musty air, her hairnet of black seed pearls breaks and scatters.
As the vibrations from your song fade into imperceptibility the vision ends and your eyes reopen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Common language, it reads:
This musical instrument is believed to be an example of the craftsmanship of the rural towns in the Barony of Riverwood.
an amber-inlaid engraved silver flute
You hear the sound of laughter and whispering just behind you. The voice of a young maiden calls out, "How about this dress for the nutting festival?" She is answered by murmurs of approval from her friends. There is more giggling, and the sound of a brush sliding through long hair. The girls sing softly as they ready themselves, overlapping one another in a simple round that grows quieter and quieter before fading out altogether.
You hear a sudden gasp, then cheers erupt from all sides, though no source is visible. A deep voice booms out, "And now, the challenger!" There are more cheers, then the sound of a ball rolling along the ground and clicking against two others before coming to a halt. Triumphant shouts break out on one side, and good-natured grumbling on the other. The deep voice shouts, "Our new champion!" and the cheers grow loud before fading back into silence.
Fiddle music plays from somewhere very nearby, echoing as though inside a long room with a high ceiling. A flute joins in, and a large crowd claps along with the beat. After a short introduction, you hear the sound of many pairs of feet dancing about in time to the music. Snatches of conversation float in through the pauses, and laughter carries through like a minor theme. The tune changes, you hear a few loud hurrahs, then it all fades away.
This time you hear the flute most clearly, though the fiddle is still playing somewhere off to your left. The musician runs through a tricky passage, then pauses for a moment. You hear running feet approach, a soft giggle, then the sound of a daring kiss being delivered to the musician's cheek. The feet run off, the musician chuckles, and the playing resumes. The sound of the festivities grows louder and louder, then disappears, leaving only the sound of the flute. That plays on for a few more beats, then itself fades away into nothing more than memory.
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In the Common language, it reads:
This garment is suspected to have belonged to one of the Maidens of Riverwood, a forest dwelling clan that is thought to have worshiped the spirit Jes'Tamaline.
a vermilion spidersilk greatcloak
Your eyes grow heavy and you allow them to slowly close. Your stomach lurches as you are pulled forward suddenly, rushing air sweeping over your face.
When you open your eyes, you feel no corporeal form. You rush over a stream, so close you dip beneath the water occasionally as you are propelled forward with little effort. The water sparkles like diamonds and you move faster and faster, passing herds of deer drinking from the water, schools of fish swimming over the pebbled bottom, swaying clusters of flowers guarding the bank. It is as if you know the stream's course before it does, turning and rising and falling with every meander it makes, always watching its flow and life as it moves through the trees of a forest.
With no warning, you suddenly rise far above the stream and the forest, so that the water becomes a ribbon of blue peeking from beneath a carpet of verdant foliage. A voice echoes through the air, "Listen to the rush of water through the stream. Listen and you will hear Jes'Tamaline."
Your eyes grow heavy and you allow them to slowly close.
When you feel refreshed, you open your eyes again to find yourself at the edge of a forest, clustered with many young human women wrapped in vermilion greatcloaks, their hair plaited into tight braids that fall down their backs. You look down and see that you are wearing the same deeply hued cloak of spidersilk and, touching your hair, feel a mass of braided hair. In a nearby clearing, the exuberant celebrants of a grand festival sing, dance, and bedeck each other with garlands of fresh flowers. You pull the spidersilk fabric close around you as you search the crowds for a familiar face. A dark-haired woman smiles and waves to you and your fellow maidens, their faces full of cheer yet pulled with worry around their eyes. Heartened, you face the woods and plunge in, ready to face a night alone among the trees and woodland creatures.
Your eyes grow heavy and you allow them to slowly close.
When you feel refreshed, you open your eyes again to find yourself deep within the forest, cloaked in darkness where the moonlight cannot penetrate the dense foliage. You do not sense the nearness of humans, but feel that you are watched all the same.
The forest blurs and you feel time passing quickly. When it returns to normal, you find yourself seated on the bank of a stream, tending a small fire over which a skinned hare is roasting on a spit clumsily made of stripped green branches. The hare looks delectably done, and you remove it from the fire. At the same time, you catch sight of a silver wolf hovering at the edge of the firelight's glow, its eyes reflecting the bright flames as it stares at you.
Your eyes grow heavy and you allow them to slowly close.
When you feel refreshed, you open your eyes again to find yourself face to face with the wolf. It widens its jaws, revealing the sharp points of fangs as it curls its lip at you. Drawing back with fear, you turn your face to the sky, the starlight twinkling through the trees, oblivious to your predicament.
A sudden disorientation overtakes you as you leave the body of the maiden and rise rapidly into the night sky, resuming the rushing feeling of travel you experienced at the opening of your song. You turn your attention toward the stream below, halting as quickly as you once moved. Gathering the air and moonlight to you, you rush downward, the trees drawing closer and developing the detail of individual leaves. Plunging through the branches and into the clearing, you explode as you reach the ground, scattering the light of the stars, the moons and the dancing fire over the fearful young maiden and pained wolf before you.
Your eyes grow heavy and you allow them to slowly close.
When you feel refreshed, you open your eyes again to find yourself blinking into the starlight, momentarily blinded by flashes of light that leap beyond your vision. When you look to the wolf again, you find it has crouched at the edge of the stream, licking at a festering wound on its paw. Your fear forgotten, you reach forward, laying a hand upon the soft fur of the wolf's head and offering it the hare's haunch you are still holding. The wolf casts a grateful look at you before grabbing the meat between its teeth. While it is focused on its meal, you gently take its paw and dip it in the stream, allowing the flowing waters to cleanse the wound as best it can.
