-
an opal-dusted star-shaped shield - The surface of this skillfully crafted eahnor shield is covered with deeply embedded opaline stones of the highest fire. Each of the gems varies in shape and size, all of them flawless and placed with amazing precision in order to maximize the prismatic effect of this shield. You also notice a small enchanter's glyph.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O shield that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"
As you sing, gentle vibrations come from the shield, the sounds quite pleasant. The shield begins to keen quietly in your grip, the image of a rainbow forming in your mind.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O shield that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"
As you continue singing, the shield matches your song much like a tuning fork might. A long-tressed blonde woman enters your thoughts, her soft hands working with the surface of the shield.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O shield in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"
A simple change in pitch finds your voice even more in tune with the shield and the vision intensifies. The form of the woman deepens, and you see that she is wearing a simple white robe, fastened by a silvery cat-shaped clasp. Power seems to flow from her hands to the surface of the enchanted shield.
Roundtime: 8 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O shield held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"
Your voice wearies, but your song remains strong. Your images and thoughts turn to the morning sky, as the gently smiling wizardress carefully seeks out the perfect gems amidst a collection that would bring a smile to even the greediest king. Each gem is placed into the shield's surface with care, placement evidently quite important to maximize the shield's effect without dampening its effectiveness. With a final nod, and a simple gesture of her hand, a white mist covers the shield. The mist clears from the shield, but as it does so, it begins to cloud your vision, bringing a slow end to your song.
Roundtime: 9 sec.
Ardwen softly taps his star-shaped shield, and the tiny motion causes the light to dance off its gem-encrusted surface in mesmerizing fashion. The stones refract even the faintest illumination in a glittering array of colors, the prismatic effect creating a dazzling show of varied hues. With even the smallest shift, the shield radiates a new display of dazzling color.
-
Included in this one is the first and then third person perspective
a faded and torn silk blindfold - This remnant of faded red silk is now more a pastel hue than the rich brilliant color it was many years ago. Once a blindfold decorated with celebratory silver and black symbols for the Yesui Moon Festival, the scrap of fabric is way too fragile and sheer to be worn for practical purposes. Stitched along one edge that remains intact are the intials "B.H." and "J.T" centered in small heart, perhaps a later addition to commemorate a handfasting.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O blindfold that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"
Notes of your song reverberate softly in your head, and the darkness of your mind's eyes moves from a midnight black to a deep indigo. Stars slowly twinkle into existence, their heavenly light becoming a backdrop for a perfect round moon of ghostly hue. The late spring evening is filled with an air of merriment and touch of anticipation for the festival to come.
Roundtime: 8 sec.
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Singing soft and low at first, Japhrimel holds the blindfold in his hands, cradling the fragile object carefully. Slightly increasing the tempo, he urges the small artifact to surrender its song.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O blindfold that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"
Stringing more notes together in another refrain, your eyes chase a falling star downward, as it streaks across the sky. Firelight flickers brightly, inside a large ring of stones. Drummers sit outside the circle, some banging on the stretched skins with the palms of their hands, others using short sticks bound with a ball of batting and wool at one end.
Groaning tables full of meats, fruits, and sweet treats stand along the fringe of the celebration site, though many of the halfling present are not eating. Off to the side they stand, dressed for the night's occasion, drinking fermented mead. Giggling and giddy, they sway and jostle each other, clearly affected by the consumption of the potent beverage.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
A lilting refrain bursts forth from Japhrimel, the tune jubilant and playful. One hand moves to stroke the blindfold absentmindedly.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O blindfold in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"
Raising your voice up again, carrying forward the gaiety derived from your previous song, you return to the festivities and watch as the Mother and Father of this Trine are lead to a makeshift throne alongside the circle. Their hands joined and lightly wrapped with a loose cord, a symbol of handfasting, they gesture for the merriment to continue. The drummers resume their almost carnal beat, and the drunken halflings begin to move wildly around the fire.
After several moments of this frenzied dance, several elder halflings step forward, carrying red blindfolds decorated with black and silver symbols, and tie them snugly around the eyes of the young inebriates. Then, taking them by the hand, they lead them into the forest near the edge of the vale.
Roundtime: 8 sec.
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel continues his joyous song, a sly smile dancing across his lips.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O blindfold held so dear,
Sing to me now your special ability so clear!"
Stringing more notes together yields little in the way of an image, instead you have a sense of being transported, aided by the thick scent of the forest. Hands reach out to touch you, strange and yet pleasing, wandering over your body. Giggles and lusty laughter fill the air, as does a more erotic sound of intimacy here and there. Off to the side, a sweet voice sings in perfect tone.
"O' come 'way, come 'way, into the forest we go,
A caravan a' joined hands, where to we dinna know.
Blindfold 'cross me eyes, turning 'round an' round,
Sweet scent o' the night, and crashin' to the ground."
"O' come 'way, come 'way, deeper 'mong the wood,
A kiss upon yer lips, an' wanting more, dare I should.
Fingers that touch you, aye, both gentle and rough,
An' though tis but the one night, t'will ne'er be enough."
Gales of more laughter peak as the short verses conclude, and then the rustle of leaves as more pairs move off to couple under the Yesui Moon.
Roundtime: 10 sec.
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Deep color begins to blossom on Japhrimel's cheeks as he weaves another verse, pulling at the story hidden in the blindfold.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O blindfold that I see,
Let your value be revealed to me!"
Another attempt to learn the story behind the blindfold is met with the sudden red of the fabric as it fills your sight. You sense that it is daylight now, birds sing in the trees and the warmth of the golden sun shines down upon you. Strong hands, different from the gentle and lusting ones that had touched you, pull you along and return you to the circle from the night before. After enduring a short ceremony, your vision's perspective shifts back to one of a spectator again.
Blinking in the bright light and looking spent from a night of debauchery, the unblindfolded halflings smile blissfully, many holding hands. In the dawn's mist several gers await, offering shelter for the weary men and women that clamber inside to slumber, some within an entwined embrace.
Roundtime: 8 sec.
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Japhrimel sighs softly at the end of his song, and his eyes take on a wistful gaze.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O blindfold that I hold,
Let your purpose now be told!"
Images drift by in slow motion, your soulful tune taking on a different cadence than past verses. Eyes alight on some of the halflings from that night, many still together. Some are courting, others are joined and expecting a child. Several pause to daydream about that celebration, smiling, though nothing became of that night's events.
Another slight shifting of the images, back in time a bit, to the handfasting ceremony occurring a week later. Those halflings that did not return from the Yesui Moon are remembered with great honor and officially joined with the Goddess of the Night Sky, forever the lover of the moons.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
Fading notes trill off into the ether, as Japhrimel brings his song to a close.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O blindfold in my hand,
Sing to me now your magic in this land!"
The blindfold twists, as if to dance, and then goes limp.
Roundtime: 8 sec.
Japhrimel sings something in Guildspeak that you don't understand.
The torn silk blindfold seems to respond to the magic of Japhrimel's song.
The blindfold twists quickly as Japhrimel weaves a song, then just as suddenly goes limp.
>wear my blind
The gauzy blindfold is so fragile and thin that you can barely secure it around your head as you fasten it. The blindfold slips downward on one side slightly, allowing you to still see where it is that you are, and where you might be going.
>rub my blind
Running your fingers across the blindfold, you feel the barely raised texture of the faded symbols drawn upon the silk. Their slightly waxy surface and crude rendering indicates they were probably applied with a stylus.
-
Cittern Loresong
Won this from a spin at the Faendryl Bardfest, figured I'd give loresinging a shot and was surprised to find some, but then was told to keep singing and I got more of the story.
"a polished ebony cittern inlaid with jeweled jungle vines"
The harmonic vibrations that your song evokes in the ebony cittern convey a sense of great age. At a rough estimate, the cittern is worth 1 silver, but a collector of antiquities might be willing to offer a significantly greater sum.
~~
As the ebony cittern responds to your song, you sense echoes of ancient enchantment drifting softly through the resonances. It is difficult to say whether or not the cittern is innately magical, but, if not, then it has certainly been exposed to a great deal of magical energy over an extended period of time.
~~
The resonances of your music caress the ancient weave of enchantment within the ebony cittern. You recognize both spiritual and elemental components, twisted together and permanently altered into a new form -- the unmistakable taint of sorcery.
~~
As you sing to the ebony cittern, you evoke the image of a short man with silver-streaked hair. He holds the ebony cittern in his hands, studying it intently. As he turns it over, its brilliant gems glitter brightly as they catch the light, and he nods his approval. He signals to a liveried servant nearby, and the servant quickly comes to take the cittern away. The vision drifts away from you as your verse ends.
~~
Another vision comes -- a fleeting image of a ship's aging gangplank. Muscular human stevedores load the vessel under the wary, watchful eye of a liveried servant. The image of a silver hunting hound cradled in a white lily has been embroidered on the sleeve of his tunic. With sharp words, he orders the stevedores to take care with his master's cargo, and, as your senses narrow upon one particular coffer, you sense this ebony cittern lying inside, so many centuries ago.
The vision flickers away, vanishing from your mind.
~~
The vibrations of the ebony cittern craft the image of a vast treasure room in your mind. This vision is much stronger than the image of the ship had been, for the ebony cittern lay there for a much greater period of time. Guttering torches shed orange light across shimmering piles of gold and gems, all carefully fenced about by a web of sorceric enchantment. You sense human figures in the room, but their presences are frail and fleeting -- they come, they gaze, they touch, but they only rarely take anything away. Only the treasure remains through the years.
The vision draws to an end.
~~
The image of the treasure room coalesces once more in your mind's eye, captured by the vibrations of your song.
The torches gutter and die, and people no longer come, but the treasure endures still. There are bejeweled dishes, gilded musical instruments, ceremonial pieces of armor and weaponry, exquisite jewels with a sparkling fire sufficient to make gnomes faint, and more beyond that, but it has all left to gather dust in an age when people no longer come to admire it. In the shadowy darkness, the treasure remains, and the web of sorcery remains, for years... decades... centuries.
Your verse winds to an end, and the image fades away.
~~
The harmonics from the ebony cittern draw you back to the treasure room, but something has changed -- the sorceric web has been damaged, and its enchantments wend over the trove in a different fashion. You sense the uneasy power of the earth, and your music brings you to comprehend that an earthquake that wrought this change, shifting the arcane balance in a small but subtle fashion.
Time passes... you sense the years marching silently past as the vision slips away.
~~
In the last fleeting, faint resonances from the ebony cittern, you see the treasure chamber a fourth time, and you sense presences in the chamber once more. They have conquered the web of sorcery and come to take the spoils, and dust billows up with every step. Somewhere in the chamber, there lies a polished ebony cittern inlaid with jeweled jungle vines, awaiting the touch of a new owner. A new owner comes, and you feel the hands touching the cittern's surface as if that surface were your skin. A wave of dizziness washes over you as the new person picks up the cittern, and, in that dizziness, your verse ends.
The vision wavers away into nothingness.
~~~
So...yeah, wow :D
First loresong!
-
Eyes of Ta'Ashrim/Star of Khar'ta/Galestone:
a flawless green crystal orb - The orb is formed of deep emerald crystal, its surface smooth and unblemished. Within the sphere, a faint blue light churns slowly.
You sing to a flawless green crystal orb:
"O orb that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."
As you focus on the orb, azure motes begin to swirl within. Tiny bolts of green lightning arc about, crackling within the orb in a brilliant display of viridian light. Booming thunder echoes through your skull as your ears are assaulted by the crashing of waves. Your surroundings peel away to reveal a black sky, where a green orb floats among thick clouds. The orb flashes, and rain and hail create a cacophony as the night comes alive with a blinding storm. The orb begins to grow when your vision ends.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
-
some tigerfang crystal prayer beads - from Sacred Blessings at EG10
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O beads that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."
As you sing the opening notes of your song, the crystal prayer beads begin to hum in harmoic response, subtly transforming your musical phrase into a hymn. You sense that the beads have been consecrated to a holy purpose.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' beads in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"
As you begin to sing a second verse, the crystal prayer beads respond with bell-like tones that turn your song into a joyful noise! You sense that the crystal prayer beads are worth about 85,000 silvers, though their value to the faithful is beyond price.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' beads that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"
At the sound of your third verse, the crystal prayer beads begin to thrum with the mellow tone of a harp. You sense that these crystal prayer beads have a special ability to focus the spirit of their user, making them an invaluable aid to prayer and meditation.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' beads made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"
As you begin to vocalize the notes of a fourth verse, your vocal cords suddenly falter, then fail, and the words come out as a harsh, rasping cough. Perhaps your throat could do with a bit of a rest?
Roundtime: 9 sec.
-
a white chaos maul
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O chaos maul that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."
This weapon is permeated with magic, but what kind of magic is difficult to discern because its properties keep changing.
You learn nothing new about the maul.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the chaos maul in your hand, and you learn something about it...
The first thing that strikes you about the maul is the weight, which is about 8 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 250,000 silvers. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the chaos maul.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' chaos maul in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"
Most of the weak two legs fall to your weapon easily, but you must stay clear of the robed ones. Especially those that carry the little sticks and smaller weapons.
Roundtime: 8 sec.
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the chaos maul in your hand, and you learn something about it...
You sense a faint aura of magic around the chaos maul. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the maul is as some type of weapon.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' chaos maul that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"
This weapon is permeated with magic, but what kind of magic is difficult to discern because its properties keep changing.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the chaos maul in your hand...
The way it vibrates in tune with your voice tells you that it requires skill in twohanded weapons to use effectively. It also has some type of special ability, but you can't tell what yet.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' chaos maul made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"
This weapon is permeated with magic, but what kind of magic is difficult to discern because its properties keep changing.
Roundtime: 9 sec.
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the chaos maul in your hand...
You are unable to determine anything new about the maul.
-
a ruddy crimson drakar sledgehammer with a bone spike on its head - trollbane
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O sledgehammer that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."
Roundtime: 7 sec.
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the crimson drakar sledgehammer in your hand, and you learn something about it...
The first thing that strikes you about the sledgehammer is the weight, which is about 8 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 100,000 silvers. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the crimson drakar sledgehammer.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' sledgehammer in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"
Roundtime: 8 sec.
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the crimson drakar sledgehammer in your hand, and you learn something about it...
You sense a faint aura of magic around the crimson drakar sledgehammer. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the sledgehammer is as some type of weapon. A sense of deep seated hatred clings to the crimson drakar sledgehammer, as if it had been crafted with a specific purpose.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' sledgehammer that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"
Roundtime: 7 sec.
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the crimson drakar sledgehammer in your hand...
It has a bonus of +25 from a normal sledgehammer, and the way it vibrates in tune with your voice tells you that it requires skill in twohanded weapons to use effectively. It also has some type of special ability, but you can't tell what yet. This crimson drakar sledgehammer seems to be the bane of trolls.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' sledgehammer made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"
Roundtime: 10 sec.
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the crimson drakar sledgehammer in your hand...
The harmonics generated tell you that the sledgehammer has been infused with the power of a fire elemental.
This crimson drakar sledgehammer flares with the power of elemental fire when employed against trolls.
-
a steel-studded azure mithril chest
>read my che
A small plaque on the front of the chest reads, "The Giantmen."
>
In the azure mithril chest:
jewelry (1): an amber-bound flesh globule pendant.
uncommon,weapon (1): an etched rolaren ice hammer.
skin (1): a silver-tipped carved drinking horn inlaid with ruby Saramar runes.
a silver-tipped carved drinking horn inlaid with ruby Saramar runes:
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O horn that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."
The warmth of your song insulates you against the cold into which you are thrust. Highmen and Shantira tribesmen of the T'Kirem Bear Clan are restless. They pack up and leave the frozen peaks to seek out more hospitable climes for their seasonal battle. Not far from Yuriquen, they come to a hilltop named for Jirkirl of the Issimir Clan. Still occupied by the Issimir, the hilltop is dotted with shops and dwellings of the kegritsha. With so many giantkin in one place, it surprises no one that the ale starts flowing freely. Each tribe replenishes their precious supplies of alcohol in preparation for the upcoming fighting. Perhaps spawned by leaders too deep in their cups to be thinking clearly, the tribes nonetheless decide to try something new. This year's combat will consist of competitive tasks and contests, rather than brute force and bloodshed. You find yourself reaching, quite automatically, for another round of ale as your song runs out.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' horn in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"
A new verse begun, you find yourself back on Jirkirl's Hilltop. Clusters of giantmen gather to compete in games only fellow members of their race could truly appreciate. Logs, taller by half than the average giantman, are hefted in slings of interlaced fingers and cupped palms. A burly red-haired man grunts and grimaces under the weight of the tree trunk, sweating to maintain control till the last second, then heaves the tall timber end over end, hoping it will come to rest farther away than the throws of his compatriots. As he tends to trousers neatly rent in the effort, Highman warriors proclaim the advantages of their kilts. Off to one side, two other men face off, hands locked together and elbows firmly planted on the stump of a newly cut tree. Onlookers taunt, jeer and cajole as the knotted muscles of the competitors straining for an advantage. With a final roar, the smaller of the two men seizes an opening and forces the other man's fist to the wood. Both winner and loser are doused with ale and laughter erupts all around. As if to avoid being drenched in spirits, yourself, you quickly sidestep the past for the present.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' horn that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"
With the first notes of your new verse, your mind is drawn to the cheers of another crowd. Assembled in a field with only a small meadow left bare, you watch as a broad-shouldered blond giantman grasps an iron ring set into a rock. Lifting with his powerful legs, he finally muscles the rock into position. With a short spin and a loud grunt, he hurls the rock down the field. It soars past two small flags, marking other stone throws, and comes to rest a full pace beyond the others. Fellow members of the hurler's tribe lift him to their shoulders with congratulatory shouts and howls. In yet another direction, several tipsy tribesmen huddle around monstrous kegs of ale. A grizzled old warrior and a strapping youth in his prime, match each other hornful by hornful of stout ale, then stand to prove they're not too drunk to do so. The youth quaffs his drink in a single confident gulp. Legs sturdy as logs, he forces himself to stand, wavering only slightly, and grins widely as he turns his horn upside-down on the table. As the crowd looks on, his eyes suddenly glaze over and he falls, rigid as a plank, face-first into the table. You're not sure whether the crunch you heard was the splintering of the table or the shattering of his nose. Either way, the sound breaks your focus and the image dissipates.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' horn made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"
The notes of your next verse carry you back to the hilltop where new activities have begun. The Shantira attempt to instruct the Highmen in the ways of a new game, but don't seem to be having much luck. As the Highmen look on in confusion, a tow-headed Shantira youth removes his shield, places it face down on the ground, sits in the hollow and pushes off into the snow. Adeptly, the youth shifts his body-weight to steer the shield 'round rocks and trees. Soon dozens of giantmen are careening down the slope, some crashing into each other or colliding with obstacles, while others skillfully slalom back and forth to the sound of singing and laughter. At the bottom of the slope, another group of men, women and children form teams on either side of a huge slush-filled puddle. A thick rope is strung out between them and, at the sound of a horn, the two teams begin to pull on the rope with all their might. Just when you think the contest must end in a draw, a single warrior slips. Soon his entire team gives way and the opposite group of tribesmen drag their opponents through the ice-cold mud amidst howls and laughter. As if covered with mud, your sight is obscured and the vision slips away.
Roundtime: 9 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O horn that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."
Your final verse seems to be joined by the haunting melody of bagpipes. A roaring bonfire casts a reddish-orange glow over all who have assembled here. At the beat of a drum, leaders from every tribe and family step forth. They call out their names, the names of their kin, and a brief history of their grandest deeds. One by one, every person is recognized and the pipes fade away solemnly. A special brew, rumored to have been developed by the Issimir, is passed among all the gathered T'Kirem. This strong drink, this "uisge", is tasted by young and old as they raise their voices in unison to howl at the moon. When the last howl is carried away on the breeze, the Highmen march forward, waving a banner in triumph. This, the first games of its kind, will henceforth be known as the "Highmen Games," in honor of the victorious tribe. Each winner is marked with a special tattoo and the champions march to the Hairless Rolton Tavern to inscribe their names on the wall for posterity's sake. Your song draws to a close as the giantmen evaporate into thin air.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
an etched rolaren ice hammer:
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O ice hammer that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."
The notes of your song seem to reverberate through the head of the rolaren ice hammer as an image coalesces. Seated around a campfire, giantmen of the Wsalamir clan take turns relating tales of history to the sons and daughters gathered at their feet. Rising slowly to stand before them, an elder chieftain takes a final slow pull at his pipe and exhales the smoke into the cold night air. A hush settles over the listeners as the deep, sing-song style of his quiet words sets the stage for this, the most important of their stories. At his dramatic pause, your verse runs out and the vision evaporates.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' ice hammer in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"
Your song resumes to find the chieftain beginning his tale in earnest. All of the children know of the wendigo and revere them as clan totem. The tale of the hunter named Templeton is one they have heard before. The listeners growl and hiss at the name, feeling anger and shame as the chieftain tells of the wendigo cruelly tortured. They howl in frustration as the wendigo did, and join hands as they listen to how the other wendigo gathered. In unison they chant a somber song and take pleasure as the villagers in the story grow fearful. Together they call out to Templeton, "Release our wendigo brother!" The tale still unfolding, your verse comes to an end and the image dissipates.
Roundtime: 8 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' ice hammer that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"
Eager to hear the rest of the tale, your song weaves the image once more. Snow tossed on the fire creates billowing steam which simulates the fog in the story. With mock screams and chattering teeth, the children imitate the frightened villagers. At a motion from the chieftain, all sound ceases. The Wsalamir warriors lift their hammers and pound a vengeful rhythm on the hard ice around them. As the last wisp of steam blows away, a single head-sized block of ice is placed atop a cairn of stone. Though this should have been the end, the children pale as they are told how the hunters retaliated. Several cover their eyes or clasp hands over their ears, not wanting to hear this part. Your vision obscured, as if by small giantkin hands, you find yourself back in the present.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' ice hammer made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"
Once more you lift your voice in song, this time to hear the end. The chieftain tells of the hundred years when Wsalamir were hunted along with wendigo. None at the time could believe the wendigo possessed such powerful magic, so they blamed the hapless Wsalamir. The children bow in honor to the Grishknel clan as the story tells of the truce they forged. Sad, wistful sighs recall the loss of both hunters and hunted. With piercing gaze the chieftain locks eyes with each child in turn. "Remember!" he demands, and the children nod in fierce affirmation. At last they all stand, touch cold fingers to the talismans they carry, and close their eyes in an attempt to commune with the elusive wendigo. As your verse ends, you return to yourself, feeling as isolated as the reclusive Wsalamir.
Roundtime: 9 sec.
an amber-bound flesh globule pendant:
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O pendant that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."
As your song pulses through the amber pendant your vision warps and then reforms into an unusual hallucination.
Around you the vision takes shape, you see thousands of crude bottles and bubbling tubes on every surface inside a massive cave-like alchemy laboratory. A wizened T'Kirem Bear Clan shaman, absentmindedly stirring something in a hollowed-out mountain gremlin skull, is scrying into a jagged crystal shard on a stand. The vision within the vision shows a battle between human armored soldiers and Baloran tribe giantkin in a rocky mountain pass. The fighting is cautious in the morning light, but lusty and heralding great bloodshed to come.
The aged giantman severs the magic controlling the crystal and sits back heavily, frowning.
You follow his eyes as he scans a primitive calendar painted on the wall, looking at a date decades in the future. Your unknowing host sighs, which elicits a great honking spasm of coughs before he can control it, and rubs at his wrinkled face.
The power flowing through the pendant goes still and you open your eyes.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' pendant in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"
Your eyelids become leaden and you allow them to slowly close.
Your surroundings shift, and the dark alchemy cave clears around you once more. As though you were crouching, you are gazing across the surface of a table, and you see two heads on the other side with their chins on the tabletop as well. The larger head belongs to the shaman, and beside him is a tiny oval-eyed kobold head, and they both peer down at a brilliant green and gold scarab slowly crawling on top of the table. The massive arm of the giantman reaches out, holding a cracked vial of a yellowish powder, and taps a sprinkle over the wandering insect. As the powder hits the scarab, a tiny flash of light and puff of angry red smoke erupts around it, and passes to reveal the bug encased in a hard amber shell.
The kobold assistant grins and nods wildly at the shaman, who flicks him in the forehead and points back to the tabletop.
As the assistant watches closely, the giantman taps another substance over the amber, and the scarab strolls out of the tiny green cloud of smoke, alive again. The kobold claps wildly and the pitter of his little hands, and subsequent smack on his head from the giant, fades as the vision breaks apart.
The power flowing through the pendant goes still and you open your eyes.
Roundtime: 8 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' pendant that I see,
Sing now of your magic free!"
Your eyelids become leaden and you allow them to slowly close. Colors swirl and a vision forms around you.
Inside the shaman's cave there is a wide open space now cleared. Any illusion of actual cleanliness is abolished by an errant turn of head toward the half of the room piled with the broken tables and refuse that were in the way. Standing on a legless tabletop, the aged giantman is wearing the simplest of robes and is taking deep, controlled breaths. He turns a piercing glare on the kobold assistant, who quickly bounds to the calendar wall and begins jabbing a finger at a large circled day, far in advance. Nodding grimly, the shaman taps one green vial on a ledge until the kobold nods again reverently, and then speaks, his words wavering and echoing in your ears,
"My dying power be preserved to aid the kin once more in my life."
With that, the giantman takes up the yellow bottle from the ledge, raises it above his head, and breaks it open. A cloud of static-charged yellow mist swirls around the shaman's body, and when it clears, he stands frozen as a statue inside the honey-colored sap cocoon. Beaming, the little kobold assistant applauds and hoots wildly, then cringes as if expecting a slap! Glancing at his amber-encased master, he grins stupidly and claps his hands again.
The power flowing through the pendant goes still and you open your eyes.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' pendant made for battle,
Sing now your ability without a rattle!"
Your eyelids become leaden and you allow them to slowly close.
Shapelessness coalesces into a familiar cave and the shaman's magic is running its course. Green smoke charged with energy begins to disperse, and the amber wavers and disappears from around the giantman's form. Grinning like a drunken child before the sickness hits, the kobold waves away the smoke and peers up at his master expectantly.
A massive forefinger thumps the kobold's forehead!
Still encased in golden amber the giantman's entire head reflects no emotion, but his body speaks volumes. He lurches and begins to flail around the lab, the assistant being knocked aside but bouncing right back up, gibbering. Futilely attempting to sprinkle the remaining powder on his careening master, the kobold bounds around wildly chasing after him. As the shaman trips over a rusted cauldron and falls to the floor, his amber-covered head hits the ground and shatters.
The power flowing through the pendant goes still and you open your eyes.
Roundtime: 9 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O pendant that I hold,
Sing now your value bold."
Your eyelids become leaden and you allow them to slowly close.
Returning to the previous moment without prelude, the body of the headless shaman falls still. The assistant is aghast, taking quick jerky breaths and touching his lips with quivering hands. Falling to his knees beside the body, the kobold carefully piles up the magical amber shards, each containing a small bit of his preserved master.
Images slowly superimpose over each other, showing the kobold traveling great distances, and occasionally escaping ignoble toothy death. All the while he is clutching a roughly-cut hide sack against his chest.
The light fades as the scene becomes early pre-dawn, stars still visible overhead. The kobold is standing in a mountain pass, much like, if not exactly like, the one seen in the shaman's crystal so many years ago. Gazing around sadly, the diminutive figure crouches and places the sack on the ground, darting away as the sounds of heavy footsteps draw near.
The power flowing through the pendant goes still and you open your eyes.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
You sing in Guildspeak:
"O' pendant in my hand
Sing now your purpose in this land!"
Although your vision dims as the notes of your song unfolds, no new visions follow.
Roundtime: 8 sec.
-
Provided by Radom, from here: http://forum.gsplayers.com/showthrea...2003-storyline
a faenor-banded smoky glaesine globe
look at globe
Thin bands of black faenor wrap around the small globe, reinforcing the seams between the thin panels of glaesine. Each pale glaesine panel bears a twisting, darker-hued pattern within its surface, which resembles several interwoven tendrils of smoke. The globe is suspended on a fine copper neckchain, which threads through a small loop at the top of one faenor band.
A shapeless blob of pale blue gelatin lies within the sphere, oozing restlessly back and forth within the confines of its prison.
clench globe
>clench globe
As you tighten your hand around the smoky glaesine globe, you feel a sudden, sharp ache in your palm. A fine mist of scarlet diffuses through the inside of the globe, settling on the pale blue blob of gelatin inside, which reaches greedily up to consume the nourishment.
In only moments, the fluid within the globe is clear once more.
(Did this once today, not sure how frequent can be done....whether you can feed it daily or multiple times...gave me a hand minor)
tap globe
You tap the globe, and the gelatinous blob inside reacts in surprise by sending a fleeting burst of iridescence over the walls of its prison.
-Purgram taps his smoky glaesine globe lightly, and iridescent light shimmers briefly in its depths.
wave globe
As you wave the smoky glaesine globe around, the small gelatinous blob inside sloshes quietly back and forth within the confines of its prison.
turn globe
You turn the globe around, causing the pale blue blob to roll back and forth within.
May be others, but a bit lazy tonight to find them out
LORESONG
You remove a faenor-banded smoky glaesine globe from in a sturdy leather weapons harness.
Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy value of this land
You sing:
"Globe in my hand
What's thy value of this land"
As you sing to the globe, your song penetrates its outer surface to reach the small blue blob inside, and the world changes around you.
Ribbons of iridescent color flow past as your gelatinous body ripples smoothly through rock, stone and the occasional brief pocket of cold liquid. You absorb all the food you need as you travel, and you are constantly aware of the keening and clicking of your kin's communication dancing along your amorphous flanks. Your form is as fluid and ever-changing as the nature of your joy, but there is always joy, for you are always among your kin, and to be joined is to be whole, and to be whole is to know joy.
Disorientation and a powerful sense of loss overcome you as the vision reaches to an end.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy purpose of this land
You sing:
"Globe in my hand
What's thy purpose of this land"
Your verse draws you back into communion with the gelatinous blob inside the smoky glaesine globe.
The world fades into darkness streaked with shimmering iridescence, but it is not the same as it was in the prior loresong vision -- it feels silent, and more...it feels dead. The silence aches like a wound, and neither rock nor earth nor water have any food for you. This is something more terrible than you have ever imagined, let alone experienced. Yet there are things that live and move about in the air that are food, and they make noises, living noises -- not like the presence of your kin, but sufficiently famliar to comfort the agony of the silence, or comfort it slightly before the horrible hunger overcomes you.
But there is danger as well, terrible danger, because parts of yourself fall silent and fall away from you as you try to feed the hunger and fill the silence. This, you have known in the past, but only in times of great carelessness or foolishness, when you risked damage for the thrill of the matter -- here, where your song is the only song to be heard, it is even more horrifying to feel parts of yourself fall silent. Mourning for your kin is driving you mad.
The last strains of your verse are pitifully weak as you become aware of yourself again.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy magic of this land
You sing:
"Globe in my hand
What's thy magic of this land"
You fall away from yourself into the powerful resonances evoked by your song.
The madness of starvation and silence consumes you, but there is a way to survive, you have realized -- you need to be more than you are, and then you can fill your own silences with songs that are not your own. In warm places, the hunger fills you too greatly for you to concentrate, so you send many of yourself to seek out cold places. In the cold, everything is quieter, which hurts, but the hunger backs away and you can concentrate on the songs that you want the new kinds of you to learn. If you can only remember well enough, if you can only sing well enough, then there will be more of you and they will begin to fill the silences.
You need food, so you send parts of yourself looking for food in the air, but some never come back. Some do, and they bring food back for the small new kinds of you. Because it is hard to move food through the rock, since you have never needed to move food before, you carve tunnels into the rock, and then it is easier. The food gives you strength to endure in the silence, and the cold mutes the rest of the hunger to the point where it can be ignored. You have to endure.
Like a diver surfacing from icy waters into sunlight, you return from the memories evoked by your song.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy special ability of this land
You sing:
"Globe in my hand
What's thy special ability of this land"
At first, it seems that your loresong has failed -- the world remains unchanged around you as the melody weaves from your throat to touch the tiny blob of gelatin. Then, you abruptly realize that the song is not the verse you intended, but a high-pitched, keening cry, and your shock at the realization distracts you badly. In the next instant, the power of the vision surges over you, and you forget who you are.
The world begins with song, and the song is the most important thing in the world.
You can't sing back, but you listen and you remember. The second most important thing is food, which diffuses through the eggshell surrounding you to help you grow and make you strong. As you listen to the song, you make patterns on the inside of the eggshell to help you remember. You can feel the patterns and they feel like song, and a great joy rises in front of you as you wait for the day you can sing.
Then -- the world shatters. The shell is gone, and a terrible impact splashes your frail body over shell-shards and rock alike, but that is nothing compared to the silence. Only fractured, agonized pieces of the great song remain, and the great singer is gone. It would be possible to live, but what is the point? You will never know the full song -- you will never have food again -- you will die in silence. It is better just to let life seep away into the cold, dry air and be done with it.
Then something encases you, paralyzing all but your awareness, and even the escape you sought is denied.
You become aware of yourself, Mither, again, and you realize that your voice fell silent some time ago as you were lost in the vision.
Roundtime: 7 sec.
>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy value of this land
You sing:
"Globe in my hand
What's thy value of this land"
The gelatinous blob's memories flow into you, invoked by your music.
The silence dominates your awareness. Grief and loneliness fill you, made even worse by captivity and immobility. As the world around you grows warmer, the hunger grows more intense, for cold wards off hunger, and even your immature form of consciousness begins to fade into a mindless animal awareness of the lack of food. There are sounds, but they are not song, and they cannot hold your attention for more than an instant.
The world changes. The immobility ends, and you find yourself locked in something like an egg that has no patterns on the wall and that is too tough to trace any there. Your form has changed as well, and you find, to your shock, that you can sing now, and flow into new shapes -- but you are still as tiny as if you were in the egg. Food comes sifting down through the thin liquid around you from time to time, but it is never quite enough, and the world is too quiet and too warm for you to forget the hunger and think clearly.
Your only song is weak and unformed, but you sing it over and over, crying into the void beyond the shell to try to fill the eternity of silence. You reach for new shapes whenever inspiration is near, hoping that someday, somehow, one of the new shapes will let you break the shell.
You return to your own awareness to find your left hand grasping helplessly and uselessly at the air, as if you reached for something that you could never possibly attain. Your hand aches from its tight grip on the smoky glaesine globe.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy purpose of this land
You sing:
"Globe in my hand
What's thy purpose of this land"
When your song reaches into the globe, you feel a horrible wrenching sensation, and then everything dissolves in a spray of rainbow light...
You were never mature enough to grow eyes, only to sense outward with the invisible senses of your kind, but a cacophony of sound tells you that something is near.
You reach for a shape like the maker of sound, but this shape, like every other, is useless against the walls of your prison. You sing your fragment of broken, agonized song into the songless silence, hoping that the thing nearby will open your prison, and hoping that there is only empty air behind the wall, air to dry your weak flesh until an end to the silence comes. All you want is an end, and you plead helplessly for that end in the only language you have ever learned.
You snap painfully back into your own awareness. Light stings your eyes, and you inadvertantly close them as you feel them water. A single tear still escapes your lashes to tickle your cheek. Your entire body feels bruised, and your throat is torn and raw.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
>
You feel at full magical power again.
>Loresing globe in my hand;what's thy magic of this land
You sing:
"Globe in my hand
What's thy magic of this land"
The small blue blob of gelatin within the smoky glaesine globe gives a faint, keening cry as you sing, but no vision comes as a result -- only echoes of misery, anguish, and madness shivering through your bardic senses.
Roundtime: 6 sec.
-
Here is a good one, probably my favorite (EXCEPT for the Vreen morph sphere). I've had this saved for a long time. Its not mine, but I saved it from someone at some point.
There is also another loresong that I always remembered out there . . . it was an axe of some sort, and in the loresong, it was used by a group of Empaths in some huge battle. They were camped out in a snowy region, and stuck with no food . . . the empaths camped in a cave and cut off their own legs for food, then just grew them back. It was pretty horrifying. I wish I could find it.
Anyway, on to my main attraction, the music stand.
________________________________________
(The below is the loresong of a music stand awarded by Lady Bone to Hubris but now in the hands of a proper bard.)
________________________________________
As your voice resonates through the brass music stand, you become immediately aware of a presence within the stand. The stand is haunted-- but not by a trapped spirit. The spirit within remains voluntarily caged in the stand's physical framework. You detect both pleasure and interest in the spirit as it takes curious note of your song.
________________________________________
When your voice touches the spirit within the stand, it listens to your song for a moment before presenting you with a vision.
An elderly gnomish man works in a lantern-lit room. His brow is creased with concentration as he fits a screw into place on a gleaming music stand and tightens it with a small screwdriver. The screwdriver slips as he is suddenly distracted by a small yellow puppy pouncing on his foot. As if the first brave puppy's move were a single, he is suddenly surrounded by puppies, all sniffing, woofing, licking, and panting. His eyes almost vanish in delighted wrinkles as he laughs at his pets.
Four large dogs sit on the edges of the scene with their tongues lolling out in an amused fashion. Looking up at the largest, the gnome inquires, "Well, Tympani, is it past dinnertime again?" When the wolfhound thumps her tail in agreement, he rises to his feet, smiling all around as he pushes through the fuzzy horde. "Well, then, I'd best feed you, my friends, for there's nothing I love more than music, but there's nothing I love more than you."
He sets the music stand aside in a forest of similar stands on his way out of the room, and you briefly glimpse the very brass music stand in your hand among them before the workshop fades away and the vision ends.
________________________________________
As you sing again to the stand, the spirit within it listens before giving you another vision. In contrast to the first vision, this is blurry and vague. From the vibrations, you understand that the brass music stand was not physically present for these events, but they are part of its history all the same.
The gnome stands on stage, proud and straight, as a human kneels to hang a glimmering gold medal about his neck. In one hand, he holds a shining oak flute, and the other cradles a ruby and diamond bracelet of obvious value. Joy shines in his eyes, but the audience's mood is ugly, and the human competitors arrayed to the side glare at him with obvious malice.
The next moments flicker past like a bat swooping in and out of moonlight. As the gnome travels home, he is interrupted by a group of masked human stepping from a building's shadows. They smash his flute, steal the bracelet, score the medal's face into unrecognizability, and leave him face-down in a rubbish heap.
The sadness of the spirit within the music stand surrounds you for a long moment after the vision ends. The spirit aches with sorrow for the gnomish man, and you sense that the spirit innately does not understand why anyone would do such a terrible thing.
________________________________________
You sing to the brass music stand, and you finish your verse. You sense the spirit's presence and awareness, but a long moment passes before the spirit delivers the next vision. This one is as intense as the last was blurry, and it grips you so powerfully that the sensations and emotions briefly seem like your own.
Brothers and sisters lie in sleepy piles about the floor. You are happy and sleepy, too, though the big ones are a bit restless. It is late for the man to come home, but why worry? He always comes home.
Crunch, crunch, the gravel sounds outside. The good man's feet are little and they don't make such a big sound. New friends! You wiggle, you bounce, you are excited--
WHAM! You cower backward. You are afraid! The four big ones are snarling and bristling-- you knock over some music stands as you scramble for cover. Huge men come inside. They are angry. The four big ones are angry! Suddenly one of the four big ones is down, screaming and writhing, and then another one has fallen, howling his pain. There are long shiny things that are terribly bad. Everything smells of anger and fear. A big hand reaches for you, and you can't escape....
Pain stops.
The vision ends, leaving you reeling
________________________________________
The spirit within the brass music stand listens in a subdued way before showing you its next vision.
Battered and bruised, the old gnome hurries through the doorway, but his own pain is forgotten as he sinks to his knees in raw horror. Then he moves from one to another of his pets in a dazed fashion, stroking bloodied fur here, caressing a nose there, crying freely and without shame.
At last, he goes to a hidden drawer, and he takes out a carved wooden flute that looks almost as old as he is. He begins to play, and the music he produces is truly wonderous. At first, his song aches with sorrow, but then it slowly eases through regret toward a soft, tender melody that expresses his unconditional love. From there, the flute soars upward, dancing playfully through notes, and he almost smiles through his tears as he serenades his dead and remembers the good times.
One by one, ghostly forms shimmer into view around him. Some small, some large, the ghosts come and sit around him, surrounding him with their love and support, although he cannot see them.
The vision fades away.
________________________________________
When you finish singing, the spirit brings you back to continue the prior vision.
The old man stops playing, but he looks blindly through the spirits of the dogs and puppies, not able to perceive them. One of the big dogs goes and tries to rub up against him, whining softly, but he is unaware of the wolfhound's presence. The puppies are worried at first, but then grow curious about their new existence, and one of them pounces into the scattered music stands in a botched attempt to jump on another puppy.
The puppy's form dissolves into the music stand. When it jumps to its feet, the music stand jumps up as well, startling the poor gnome severely. Then, another puppy tries the same trick, and third, and a fourth, until he is gaping and amazed as the music stands crowd around him and try to cuddle up to him.
"Can it be?" he asks, in a dazed, wondering tone. "Can it truly be..." Then, he is laughing and patting the music stands and hugging them all, regardless of their metal bodies, as they dance around the room in delight. Only the four grown dogs remain apart, watching in loving pride.
The vision ends.
________________________________________
A cold shiver passes unbidden through your body as you enter this vision. The harmonics tell you distinctly that this is not a place within mortal ken.
Looking much older, now, the gnomish man walks down a path through a snowy wood. The four grown dogs range at his side, each looking as solid and physical as he, and the puppy-possessed music stands bounce along behind.
They come to a gate in the wood, and a black-robed woman bearing a staff of crystal stands before it. "I greet you, and your... entourage," she says. "This is your hour and your time." The gnome bows to her as she opens the gate.
When he starts to walk through the gate, the four older dogs follow willingly, but the music stands hesitate and fall back, jostling worriedly and turning this way and that. The old man hesitates as well, looking unhappy. "Lady," he says, "I've got a bit of a problem. You see, I love them more than music, and I know that they love me, but I don't think they're quite ready to go on through yet, and I know that I am...." Beneath her gaze, he fidgets nervously and falls silent.
The black-robed woman considers him for a moment and nods. "Other arrangements will be made. Their hour is not locked to this hour."
His thanks drifts away into the darkness as he passes through the gate, and the four grown dogs follow behind him, vanishing into the darkness. The music stands mill about uncertainly for a moment, but the woman says to them, "Wait here a moment. One will come for you, and then you will return." Obediently, they pile to the side of the path and settle down to wait.
The vision fades away.
________________________________________
When you finish this verse, the spirit does not present you with a vision. Instead, you sense that it is considering you carefully. Its reply comes not truly in words, but in emotion: "Do you like me? Can we be friends?" you sense it asking. If the answer is no, you need only to set the brass music stand aside and sing no more, but if the answer is yes, you need to sing again.
________________________________________
When you finish singing, the spirit's giddy joy washes over you in waves. For a moment, you glimpse the outline of a roly-poly puppy wiggling in place of the brass music stand in your hand, but then all you see is the stand. Still, you sense the connection, and you know that you are now the spirit's chosen person, to be followed, trusted, and loved.
________________________________________
You hear a faint spectral bark, and you feel something like a tongue slurping along the side of your cheek.
