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Thread: Loresongs

  1. #221


    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)


    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
    Join Date
    Jan 2003
    The Danger Zone
    Blog Entries


    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.

  4. #224


    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:

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