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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.

  4. #224

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    Lexbubba's blade:

    a bone-hilted rolaren coustille

    Matte black and sleek, the blade of the coustille tapers to a fine point and is bisected by a narrow fuller. Bronze is wedded to bone to form the small circle of the rain-guard, while a narrow crossguard is joined to leather-wrapped grip. A disfigured skull, probably of a small monkey, is fitted into the pommel as a counterweight, the skull's brow marred by a ragged crack. You see nothing unusual, except for a small enchanter's glyph.
    There appears to be something written on it.
    >read cous
    In the Common language, it reads:
    ~^~ Marinelle ~^~
    The Shadow's Promise

    The Loresong:

    Crimson light slashes across your vision as your voice touches upon the coustille for a brief moment. Slowly, like paint dripping down the side of a fence, the light falls away, and you find yourself standing in a one room cottage, a fire roaring in the background. A high-backed chair sits in one corner and houses a dark-haired young man with his face displaying the growth of a few days' stubble and his eyes ringed in circles.

    Cradled in his arms is the bundled form of a sleeping child, the soft face round and new. The young man seems to barely breathe as he gazes down at the small child, and it is as if nothing in this man's world exists but the child in his arms.

    Briefly, the infant stirs, and he holds his breath until she settles. The fire's flames flicker high, and your vision is obscured.


    Sudden and violent, the coustille responds to your voice and sounds burst into your mind with the harsh sound of glass breaking and furniture being broken. Crimson light skews your vision, and in the blurred moments before it clears, you hear the soft sobs of a small child, the sound ragged and filled with hiccups.

    The cottage of before is in shambles around you, and two men dressed in crimson and black lay upon the floor, their throats filled with open wounds that paint the floor sanguine.

    Panting as he stands over them, the young man from before interposes his body between the child and the expired assailants. Standing behind him, trying to stifle her cries with her own fist, is a small child of about five or six. The hem of her night dress draws your attention as its brilliant white seams slowly absorb the carnage that spreads across the floor. Gradually, your vision fades.

    Suddenly, ebon lines slice across your vision as the coustille responds to your voice and merges its song with your own. Though older now, you recognize both the man and the child as they rush down an alley. Behind them, the shadows of the night give pursuit, and you feel the urgency of their movement in every furtive glance and whispered instruction. The streets twist and turn as they attempt to lead the hunters away from their prey, and the night wears on marked by the passage of Lornon through the sky.

    Eventually, the shadows no longer follow, and the man resumes a pace that is more suited for that of a small child. A look of resignation and resolve darkens his own weary features as he spies a door up ahead. Kneeling before the child, he begins to speak, but your vision of the moment seems to fade.

    A man's voice rises to meet your song, and you realize that the world is dark, though cast in a strange crimson light.

    "You have your bear?" asks the male voice.

    "Yes, da'," replies a child's timbre.

    "You have your mother's ribbon?" he continues.

    "Do I have to go, Da'?"

    "Do you have your mother's ribbon?" he asks again, though his voice seems ragged with a barely suppressed emotion.

    "Yes, Da'," is the resigned reply.

    "And my blade, you have my blade?"

    "I have it, Da'," but the last vowels are said through tears. "Please don't make me go, please. I want to stay with you."

    "One day, you will understand. One day, you will find me again."The child's sobs are stifled, muffled by something though it is hard to tell what. Three insistent raps upon wood herald the sound of a door opening.

    "Take care of her. She's all of Marin I have left."

    Silence falls upon you and the coustille.


    Bright and red, the glow of the Lornon moon rises out of the coustille as you sing to it and obscures your vision for several moments. Slowly, the sound of steel upon steel fills your ears, and you find yourself turning from the window-framed lunar body to the practice mats, where a pair of young teens move in the age-old dance of sparing. A particularly apt student, lithe of body and raven of hair, catches your eye as she parries a blow and speedily ripostes with the second blade in her off-hand.

    Noticing your eye upon the girl, an instructor approaches you.

    "This is the one I was telling you about. She shows great promise, but is a bit naive for all that talent," he says to you.

    "An orphan?" you find yourself asking.

    "Oh, yes," he hastily replies. "Abandoned by her father nearly nine years ago."

    Your gaze never leaves the student's face, even as your vision begins to fade.


    Harsh and unyielding, the coustille's song falls upon your ears and resolves itself into two distinct voices -- that of a male and a female.

    "And why do we fight, little shadow?"

    "So that others do not have to, master."

    "And who do we fight, little shadow?"

    "Those that would take our hearts and steal what is ours, master."

    "Do we simply pick our fights, little shadow?"

    "No, master, our fights are picked for us by the Hands of Destiny, and we must but hope that we are strong enough to fulfill their contracts."

    The litany continues, the words rhetoric that seem to have been repeated over and over through time. More questions are asked, all answered with a blind faith that the student has placed in the master. One last question fills the air, its response an echo that lingers on your ears before falling into silence.

    "What is the purpose of this fight, little shadow?"

    "It is for the greater good, master."


    Crimson and obsidian steal your vision as your voice touches upon the coustille. Twisting and turning, a shadow dances across the rooftops silent as a cat and just as nimble, and it slips inside an open window. Darkness greets the shadow, though faint outlines can be discerned from the coals that are banked in a nearby fire. Something large collides with the dark form, and for a brief moment, the glow of the coals illuminates the raven-haired girl's face. She tumbles and sprawls, but quickly regains her feet. The larger darkness looms over her.

    "I must be strong enough to take the mark," she whispers and lunges, but she is not fast enough, and the other tosses her into the windowsill.

    Moonlight slants across a man's face, his beard new in growth, as a blade comes slicing down at her. She does not move, her features slack with shock, and a single syllable slips from her lips, "Da?"

    The vision fades to sanguine and ebon mists.


    As your voice collides with the coustille, your vision blurs, and darkness paints the world in silver and black. Two figures race across the rooftops, one lithe and long, while the other is lean and strong. Like felines prowling in the night, they move silently and unobtrusively through the city with nary a sound, the wind their only companion. They slow before the windows of a warehouse, and the smaller of the pair slips inside.

    A terse conversation ensues, but quickly dissolves into a litany of questions and answers, their cadence and rhythm familiar.

    The man on the roof tenses and dashes into the window, his movement followed by a resounding scuffle and then silence. Slowly, the wind moves the clouds across the moonlight, and your vision fades.


    Darkness spills across your vision, and you feel the weight of night lay upon you. A soft, female voice begins to speak, "Marin was my mother, wasn't she?"

    There is a heavy pause, but no one answers.

    "And she fought for you against the tide of the greater good."

    Again, there is a pause, but no answer follows.

    "I have your knife, Da, and Marin's ribbon."

    The silence is almost deafening.

    "And I will find the Hands of Destiny to teach them about the true greater good."

    Movement of some kind, faint but there nonetheless, disturbs the air.

    "One day, Da, you'll find me again."

    Silence remains the only answer.
    Luxie's adventures (because I must write) plus some guests from the past at my blog:
    http://www.thebardess.com

  5. #225

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    Tonight, Meureii brought me a pair of boots with quite the story to tell! They came from a Great Auction sometime in the past.

    a pair of heavy stone boots

    >look my boot
    Crafted from various stone, the boots are held together through some magical means. Gornar sigils are emblazoned into the stone heels that give off a radiant glow.
    You see nothing unusual, except for a small enchanter's glyph.


    The Loresong:

    As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the stone boots in your hand, and you learn something about it...

    The first thing that strikes you about the boots is the weight, which is 5 pounds. The boots are worth an innumerable amount of silver. You can also tell that the boots are predominantly crafted of stone.

    A vision suddenly takes over your sight...

    A frail and weak cobbler sat trembling in fear as a pair of very large brutes mocked him. They would point and stare, as they laughed at him. The man was always teased; throughout childhood, adolescence and adulthood, the man always stood out for his weakness. The man didn't wish this pain anymore. He wanted it to end, so he prayed one night. He prayed that night for his suffering to end.

    As the poor shoe-maker sat there on his knees, his hands folded in prayer, a figure of a giant made of stone appeared. "You wish power? You wish to no longer be weak? Then I shall grant this for you once, and remember it well." The giant recited something unknown to the man at first but the knowledge was instilled. The giant disappeared into the night as the man sat there, a broad grin across his face.


    As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the stone boots in your hand, and you learn something about it...

    You sense a dark aura of magic surrounding the boots.From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the boots is to be used as unarmed combat equipment.

    The vision continues...

    Upon the next morning, the cobbler went out to study the titans of the north and the giants of the east. He went south to see the trolls and west to ogres. He found himself traveling for years, studying the ways of the giantkin across Elanith. Slowly, he digested the knowledge the giant gave him. At once, he finally discovered what was to be done.


    As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the stone boots in your hand...

    The boots have a bonus of +25 and require skill in brawling to use effectively in combat. They do extra damage when they strike.

    The vision of the cobbler progresses...

    The man collected various stones from around Elanith as he set forth to build a device to stop his pain. Months passed and his stone pile grew. Once his gatherings were complete, he started to build a pair of boots made from only the stone he found. When his craft was complete, he stared in awe at his new treasure. Just then, the figure of a giant appeared before the shoe-maker. "You have done well, now let me complete your work!" The giant gestured toward the boots, emblazoning gornar sigils into the heel. The giant began to sweat heavily as he concentrated upon the boots. And with a final grunt, the giant stopped and nodded to the cobbler.

    "It is done." The booming voice of the giant continued. "All that is left is the blood of my stone heart. You must cut it out yourself." Just then, the giant produced an odd-shaped cleaver and handed it to the man. The cobbler was nervous, but he knew it had to be done to have the power. The man's face turned to a face of grim determination and he leapt at the giant and began carving into the stone giant's chest! The giant collapsed as the man pulled the beating stone heart from the creature and pierced the knife into the heart over the boots. At first, nothing... No blood was produced. But then, the heart pulsed and began dripping a blackened liquid that appeared to be like tar. The man nodded and cackled.
    sR>


    As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the stone boots in your hand...

    The harmonics generated tell you that the boots have the ability to sunder an area once an hour, knocking those before you to the ground.

    The final vision is revealed...

    The man rested that night, because he knew his work was nearly complete. The next morning he wore his new boots, while heavy and hard to move around, the boots gave him a tremendous amount of power. He stepped out into the streets looking for the brutes that mocked him years ago. When he found them in the market, he crossed his arms over his chest and held his head high. The brutes did not laugh. Nor did they point or stare, but they looked uneasy around the cobbler. And just then, to strike his vengeance, he lifted his foot as high as he could and stomped into the ground causing the whole market to shake. The shoe-maker stared out to look at his surrounding; just about everyone there had fallen to the ground. The man looked pleased, for he won this day.
    Luxie's adventures (because I must write) plus some guests from the past at my blog:
    http://www.thebardess.com

  6. #226

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    Ardwen handed me a veil iron-nocked red longbow


    The noise and light fades around you. Blinking your eyes you find yourself among an armed and armored group of Sylvankind, many sporting wounds and bandages. All around the sounds of heavy fighting filters in from among the trees. Screams and cries of things only dreamt of in nightmares can be heard coming from the edges of the encircled position the Sylvans hold. The leader of the band, an arrow protruding from the shoulder, gives an unheard command and her retainers begin stripping off the most powerful of their artifacts. Once shorn of the items they wrap them in cloth and place them in a chest. The chest is then lowered into a hole dug beneath a massive oak's roots and covered with loamy earth. The sole remaining cleric in the group blesses the ground to hide the cache from the unholy. The leader of the band gives a curt nod and the group with you among them draw their remaining weapons and charge one last time into the forest. Suddenly feeling a sharp pain, you see a feathered shaft has sprouted from your chest. With a final scream you collapse and everything around you goes black.


    You feel as though you have reached the end of the longbow's song.

    As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the iron-nocked longbow in your hand, and you learn something about it...

    You sense a faint aura of magic surrounding the longbow. From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the longbow is as some type of weapon.



    The noise and light fades around you. Blinking your eyes you find yourself among an armed and armored group of Sylvankind, many sporting wounds and bandages. All around the sounds of heavy fighting filters in from among the trees. Screams and cries of things only dreamt of in nightmares can be heard coming from the edges of the encircled position the Sylvans hold. The leader of the band, an arrow protruding from the shoulder, gives an unheard command and her retainers begin stripping off the most powerful of their artifacts. Once shorn of the items they wrap them in cloth and place them in a chest. The chest is then lowered into a hole dug beneath a massive oak's roots and covered with loamy earth. The sole remaining cleric in the group blesses the ground to hide the cache from the unholy. The leader of the band gives a curt nod and the group with you among them draw their remaining weapons and charge one last time into the forest. Suddenly feeling a sharp pain, you see a feathered shaft has sprouted from your chest. With a final scream you collapse and everything around you goes black.




    You feel as though you have reached the end of the longbow's song.

    As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the iron-nocked longbow in your hand...

    The harmonics generated tell you that the longbow assists its bearer with aiming attacks at range.
    You feel that you have reached the end of the longbow's song.
    Luxie's adventures (because I must write) plus some guests from the past at my blog:
    http://www.thebardess.com

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