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Thread: Loresongs

  1. #221

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    a glyph-incised dark veil iron maul - "Bane's Will" - one of the three Prisma Relics (V'tull's Maul)
    5x, veil iron, heavily damagae weighted, 1x per hour V'tull's Fury

    Thin chains of crimson eahnor glyphs are inlaid in the dark veil iron surface of the maul's head, their sharp-edged angular forms contrasting with the gentle curve of the ebon-striated eahnor scimitar that they surround. A large brick of rough-hewn veil iron forms the head of the massive hammer, its murky exterior interrupted by thousands of tiny sanguine flecks. The carved ironwood haft of the dark veil iron maul is smoothed save for a small discolored band in the center of its length, right beneath an empty eahnor-caged socket.

    (The socket is for the Berserker's Bloodjewel, which is another of the Prisma Relics. When combined with a ring called Illusion's Shroud, it makes the user practically invincible and able to inhabit the bodies of others at will)

    Loresong:

    You direct your voice at the dark veil iron maul, prodding it vocally as you search for any hint of its history...

    Just as it looks like the dark veil iron maul is inert, something grabs you and pulls you along as a swirling mass of a story begins to play itself out.

    Your vision focuses on a notched bone ring that encircles the dark ironwood haft of the dark veil iron maul. Immediately above the ring of bone rests a dark-cored bloodjewel, sparkling with a crimson inner fire.

    The vision begins to draw back, granting a wider field of vision as you see the wielder standing in front of an opposing army. Suddenly its ranks break into chaos and confusion as soldiers turn on their comrades, hacking and hewing with reckless abandon. The bloodjewel set into the dark veil iron maul begins to glow with a baleful, bloody crimson radiance as the slaughter continues. Laughter echoes in your ears though the source is unclear. The few remaining survivors fall on their own swords in a gruesome display.

    Undertones of desperation seep into the story, painting it in an acrid sense of fear and anger...

    Danger. Panic. They seek to unmake me. Vessel of bloodlust, we must destroy the monks. Completely and utterly. They will unmake me. VESSEL OF BLOODLUST, THEY MUST BE DESTROYED. VESSEL! The elven warrior must die first. Then the monks will fall easily. LET NONE LIVE. DO NOT LET THEM LAY THEIR HANDS UPON ME. WE WILL KILL THEM ALL. Each and every one rendered down until their bones are dust.

    The story continues as a drama writ small, your field of vision reduced to the haft of the dark veil iron maul. A weathered pair of forge-scarred hands slowly runs over the weapon, stopping to prod and poke at the dark-cored bloodjewel and the notched bone ring encircling its haft. As the hands vanish and reappear you notice the shadow of a hammer in one hand, but are unable to look up. You hear a short prayer as the hammer's shadow begins to descend upon you and the world dissolves into nothing but pain and rage.

  2. Default

    a black ora no-dachi with a blood red sandruby pommel


    As your song flows into the black ora no-dachi, it is echoed back like a distorted reflection from a warped mirror. The discordant tones twist and writhe across the backdrop of your mind, bringing forth imagines that flash with alarming vibrancy. -- A light haze of smoke slants across the scene, back lit by dozens of ebony candles glowing with a purple-tinged brilliance. Your gaze pans upward, and you find yourself staring into the marble faces of the Lornon pantheon. The smoke dances languidly in your line of sight, creating on the pale visages the illusion of movement - leering smiles, laughter, and contemptuous gazes from cold stone eyes. Your breath quickens, and your sight begins to fail as all plunges into darkness.


    The notes of your song shed light once again on your marbled surroundings. Above, the patrons of Lornon gaze downward upon the scene, and you turn your eyes from them, instead taking in your surroundings. Around you rise the walls of a marble chapel, and tucked within the stony niches are windows of dark stained glass. No light filters through their jewel-toned panels, and instead, the light from a myriad of candles caresses their polished surfaces.

    Before you, in the center of a floor marked by concentric circles of brass-inlaid conduits, is a raised, ivory marble and obsidian altar. Atop the altar, the prone form of a young man lies, his face turned from you, and his limbs fixed at each corner. You can see that from each of the corners, thin rivers of blood run within brass-inlaid channels, conveying the sanguine liquid to the design underfoot. A glance downward reveals the labyrinthine pattern traced in blood, and the movement of your head causes your vision to swim. With a quick inhalation, your sight is extinguished.


    With a frightful abruptness, your song calls forth a vision from the black ora no-dachi. -- You find yourself closer now to the altar at the labyrinth's heart, and a heavy weight calls your attention to your hands. You find there a black ora no-dachi with a blood red sandruby pommel, its blade smeared with incarnadine streaks. In your chest, your breath comes and goes in haste, and you feel a certain dizziness as you take the blade into one hand and extend your other to the face of the man atop the altar. Your fingers leave ruby-hued prints on his skin as you tilt his face toward you, and you hear an unidentifiable, though audible noise fall from your lips. All at once, darkness closes your sight.


    The notes of your song draw you back into the black ora no-dachi's memories, and you find that the face looking up at you no longer belongs to the prone young man. Instead, your own visage stares back at you: sightless eyes, sallow skin, and lips perched open as if to draw the next breath, which never seems to come. Laughter begins to echo in the empty chapel, and you look up, expecting to see one of the marble statues come to life with morbid merriment. Instead, they are motionless, and you come to realize that the hysterical laughter is none other than your own. As you stumble backwards, your feet slip in the blood that runs in narrow rivers through the marble floor, and you feel yourself falling... falling... falling... until blackness engulfs you.


    The first thing that strikes you about the no-dachi is the weight, which is about 6 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 12,350,000 silvers. You can also tell that the black ora no-dachi is predominantly crafted of black ora.
    Japhrimel takes his black branding iron and jabs the superheated metal into your open wound. You let out a scream as the hot iron sizzles against your flesh, which begins to smoke and burn. The sensation sets your nerves aflame with blinding white agony, but somehow you manage to retain consciousness through the excruciating procedure. At last, the wound is blackened and sealed, but the pain is slow to recede.

    ...unfortunately, your heart gives out a moment later.

  3. #223
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    Loresong for those 20th anniversary spiders:

    As you sing, you sense a connection with the opaque spider and your mind reaches out toward a path of some type.

    As your voice rises and falls, you once more see the edges of a faint path. Looking toward the horizon, you see not sky and trees, but faint glimmers of spidersilk stretching into infinity.

    As you continue to sing, you see the image of a spirit moving out of its dwelling and onto the path, led by a rather colossal armored spider.

    As you conclude the song, the image of the twisting path gradually fades, replaced by another vision of a meteor. Somehow, the spider and the spirit now stand before Mount Aenatumgana. The spider turns and skitters away, leaving behind only a small object, glistening in the light of three moons.
    You had better pay your guild dues before you forget. You are 113 months behind.

    The wounded child is tiny in size.
    The child should prove to be a difficult challenge for you.

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