Loresongs

[shad0ws0ngs]

an ancient rolaren longblade

Vibrations from the notes of your song cause your vision to waiver, and a battleground of acrid smoke roils before you, dissipating to reveal a scene. Standing dark against a light stone wall, a huge keep towers over an advancing army comprised from the seven Elven houses. In unison, a large gathering of Faendryl raises their hands and summons demons that quickly swarm the massive tower. Then, as they cast one final spell, Maelshyve implodes, disappearing, and leaving a large stygian crater. The keep is no more, and no life stirs from the rubble.


As your song resonates, waning fog swirls initially in your vision, then clears to show what is obviously an intimate moment. Meeting under the canopy of a tall lor tree, a Faendryl ranger gazes at a younger version of himself - father and son. The elder elf's hands hold a longknife and a longblade, which he slowly extends, offering them to the lad. The boy takes both blades without a word, silently watching as the older elf turns and walks away.


Another refrain of your song produces a murky purple cloud charged and winking with tiny sparks. As it clears, you see another close-resembling Faendryl ranger standing inside a wizard's workshop coming into focus. The grandson now watches on as a giantkin man and a half-elven lass stand in the center of a swirling pool of mana, the first holding a pair of twin blades as he quietly chants magical phrases. The essence in the room slowly begins to coalesce and sinks into the weapons.


Attempting once more with your song, you are returned to the scene from your first refrain, obscured again by battleground smoke initially. Fading into view, the young Faendryl ranger from the workshop scene stands in the rubbled courtyard of Shadowguard, toe-to-toe with a Vaalorian commander. They circle each other warily at the start, the Faendryl parrying and blocking each thrust, but never connecting. The elven warrior smirks as she mutters under her breath, her words summoning a host of undead that rush forward. Knowing he cannot win, the Faendryl calls on the power of Voln and disappears.


The longblade vibrates slightly before going still.

[tiggereye]

A wooden hair-braiding tool

As you sing to your hair-braiding tool, your vision flashes silver for a moment. When your sight returns, you find yourself gazing out from a mirror as if it were a window into a dressing room. Before you, a human woman sits, a young half-elven girl resting on her knee. Humming a wandering tune, the woman carefully braids the child's hair into neat plaits, taming the unruly auburn tresses which closely resemble her own. The woman rests her cheek against the child's, hugs her into an embrace, and gazes into the mirror. As her gaze falls to directly match yours, you are startled out of the vision.

The dressing room returns as you sing to your hair-braiding tool, and the young girl appears front and center once more, a little older and garbed in a long black dress. The human woman is gone this time, replaced by an elven man who stands behind the girl, attempting to tug a comb through her unruly, tangled hair. The young girl cries out in protest, and with a defeated sigh the elven man sets the comb down on the dressing room table, beside a portrait of the family of three. The human woman is noticeably older than in your previous vision, her curly hair peppered with grey. The man pulls a black bonnet over the girl's head and tucks her hair into it as the vision fades.

Your song again coaxes the scene of the dressing room from the hair-braiding tool. The elven man stands behind his half-elven daughter once more, guiding her as she sections her auburn hair with the aid of a fork-like tool and pulls it slowly, carefully into a loose braid. She beams at his reflection in the mirror and claps her hands in delight, and a smile crosses his face as the vision dissipates.

With a flash of silver, the dressing room unfolds before you as you sing to the hair-braiding tool. The half-elven girl, now a young woman, sits before the mirror, gazing at her reflection as she weaves her auburn tresses into a series of silky braids decorated with pink lace flowers with the aid of the fork-like tool. Passing a hand over her flawless braids, she sets the tool down beside the portrait of her as a child with her parents and smiles down at the portrait as the image fades.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a horse-carved white ivory flute - Stylized galloping horses have been incised across the bone-white ivory surface of the flute. Age has darkened the ivory along the incisions, resulting in the carved horses standing out starkly, outlined in brown, and yellowed at the edges.

Loresong:

A bright light flashes before your eyes and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself staring at what was not before you previously. The new scenery is that of a lush green field underneath a clear cerulean sky. A harras of ponies can be seen scattered across the field munching on the bounty of the land and colts frolicking with one another.

Far off in the distance at the end of the lush field lies the lake of Khesta 'Dahl. Faintly noticeable at the edge of the lake seems to be a dock and slight movement happening upon it.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


A second bright light flashes before your eyes and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself staring from upon the lakeside dock now. A young halfling lad sits upon an overturned pail with a lengthy fishing pole in his hands.

The lad seems relaxed and content in his fishing, even if you notice he isn’t catching anything at all. Every so oft the lads turns to whistle loudly at the horses, corralling them and calling back any that may have wandered too far.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


Another bright light flashes before your eyes and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself back amongst the ponies in the lush field.

The sky begins to darken quickly, and a strike of lightning illuminates a tall elf atop a hilltop off in the distance. He wears ebon black robes and wields a runestaff crafted of witchwood. Thunder booms loudly as lightning cracks, and the harras of ponies begin to neigh in a terrified manner and corral together in one tight-knit group.

Turning to look off in the distance toward the dock, the faint form of the halfling lad can be seen rushing toward the field as fast as his hairy little feet can take him, waving his arms wildly as he whistles loudly toward the ponies.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The bright light flashes again before your eyes, and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself standing atop the hillside beside the crazy-eyed elf in black robes. His hands are moving in intricate patterns in the air as a growled voice chants archaic phrases.

A sickly green miasma forms in the air around the elf before he thrusts his hands forward sending the jade-hued cloud quickly toward the corral of ponies. The ponies begin to neigh in an even more high-pitched tone before crashing lifelessly, one by one, to the ground.

Right as the halfling lad reaches the dead zone, the cloud dissipates into the air, leaving the lad unharmed. The lad screams out in rage and recites a vow of revenge upon the black-robed Ardenai elf that caused such death and destruction.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The bright light flashes again before your eyes, and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself back in the once-lush field. A circle of death surrounds you, as the only thing left now are the decayed remains of the magnificent ponies. Even the grass below your feet has dared not grow back in the area.

Nearby upon a rock sits the halfling lad, yet not a lad now. He has aged considerably since the event years ago and now mumbles dark curses underneath his breath as he turns a flute over and over in his hands.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The bright light flashes again before your eyes, and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself suddenly in a grand ballroom. All around you, elves dance the night away cheerfully, laughing and sipping fine wine.

At the edge of the room a vast table has been set up and pushed back against one wall. Upon the table sits a finely penned placard that reads, "Wedding gifts for King Aemon and Princess Elsevel." Movement near the far end of the table draws your eye toward a short, hunched-over robed figure, who sets a flute upon the table and then hobbles out of the ballroom as quickly as his old hairy feet will take him.

No one else seems to have noticed the extra gift placed upon the table.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The bright light flashes again before your eyes, and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself suddenly back in the grand ballroom, now empty except a few servant girls cleaning up the place after the wild celebration.

A young elven girl takes a moment to distract herself from the cleaning to gaze over the vast amount of gifts upon the table. She makes her way to the end of the table, and her eyes seem to brighten excitedly as she sets her sights upon the flute.

Quicker than the blink of an eye, the elven servant snatches up the flute and tucks it away in her bodice, then glances about to see if anyone had noticed. A soft murmur can be heard underneath her breath saying, "They obviously don't pay me enough silvers to clean up after them."

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The bright light flashes again before your eyes, and when your vision begins to clear you find yourself outside the city of Ta'Ardenai. The young, elven servant girl stands nearby and is pulling the flute out of her bodice.

She quickly raises it and begin to play, but no noise escapes at first. She tries again and it sounds, loud and horrendous. She pauses, giggling, and then continues to play.

You sense a visceral change in the air as a symphony of spectral instruments fill your mind. The elven maid lowers the flute with a frown.

All of a sudden a gaggle of roltons rush into view and charge straight for the girl. Their eyes are bloodshot and a white foam seeps from their jowls. They leap toward her and land roughly upon her, knocking her to the ground, and then mauling apart her body in fervor. Blood and guts fly in all directions.

The frenzied cacophony fades from your mind, and the gaggle of roltons stop their attack abruptly. One by one, they turn and walk calmly into the distance and out of sight; the white foam disappearing from their mouths and the bloodshot look in their eyes fading quickly.

All that remains of the young girl is a shredded bodice and the flute resting atop it.

Suddenly, the scene dissolves altogether.


The faint sound of frenzied, chaotic music echoes across your mind before fading away.

[Luxelle]

Last night, Mister Crime Royal allowed me to listen to the black ora kris from the auction. It's seriously cursed.

A black ora kris set with a hematite-etched grip

Verse 1
As your song flows into the black ora kris, 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.

Verse 2
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.

Verse 3
With a frightful abruptness, your song calls forth a vision from the black ora kris. -- 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 kris set with a hematite-etched grip, 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.


Verse 4
The notes of your song draw you back into the black ora kris'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.


~ ~ ~

I put it on it's own wiki page, it seems deserving of one. Whether it has a name or not, I was not told. Perhaps Mister Crime will learn of it one day.

https://gswiki.play.net/Black_ora_kr...te-etched_grip

[shad0ws0ngs]

a shadowy black ora tanto - You see nothing unusual, except for a small enchanter's glyph.
There appears to be something written on it.
>read my tanto
In the Common language, it reads:
Nocturna

>gaze my tanto
You spin your black ora tanto deftly in your hand, watching as the blade changes to a mix of sanguine and amber.
The sanguine side pulses brightly and the amber side pulses brightly.

>pull tanto
You pull the hilt of your black ora tanto against your chest and breathe deeply, causing the blade to glow amber.
You clutch at your chest in pain!
Roundtime: 3 sec.

>push tanto
You flip your black ora tanto in your hand and push it out from your body. The tanto pulses amber tendrils down your arm; you feel reinvigorated!


>cover my tanto
You press your black ora tanto flat against your hand and gently turn it, causing the blade to glow sanguine.
You feel drained!
Roundtime: 3 sec.


>raise my tanto
You flip your black ora tanto in your hand and hold it parallel to your eyes. The tanto pulses sanguine tendrils down your arm; you feel reinvigorated!


As your loresong begins, you find yourself transported to the halls of a grand palace in the dead of night. All is calm, with the gentle clinking of chainmail the only sound puncturing the silence. An armored guard rounds the corner, slouched with boredom and fatigue. Then something catches his attention: a dark puddle growing at the foot of a gilded cabinet. He moves closer to investigate.

As if in a dream, you find yourself looking through the guard's eyes as he opens the gilded cabinet. His horror overcomes you as he sees inside the dead corpse of one of his fellow palace guard, a sigil of Onar has been traced in blood on his forehead. You run your gauntleted hands across the corpse's armor and behold it has been sliced through as if it were paper. You race to the king's chambers at once.

The king is missing, nowhere to be found. The windows are open, their silken drapes fluttering in a mild breeze. A young girl cowers in the corner, terrified. You do not know her, but you approach nonetheless, seeking to comfort her, question her, anything. Your outstretched hand falls cleanly off your body. You have been disarmed! The girl fixes you with her impassive gaze, a black ora tanto gleaming in her hand.

You can no longer separate yourself from the guard. His terror overcomes you. His heart races within your chest. You feel every cut as the girl's tanto slices through your armor without trouble. Your vision is remarkably clear as you lay prostate, your life ebbing away. Amber tendrils pulse from the tanto, drawn into the girl's arm, reinvigorating her. She kneels and, using your own blood, draws what you realize must be a sigil of Onar on your forehead.

The harmonics generated tell you that the tanto inflicts more fearsome wounds when it strikes.
You feel that you have reached the end of the tanto's song.

[shad0ws0ngs]

1 of 3 - this has been posted before, but a bit more detail this time.

a leather-hung gnarled bone amulet - Except in substance, the piece of gnarled grey bone more closely resembles a twisted briar root than any part of a skeleton. Four parallel ridges run along one side of the amulet, and the bone breaks open at three spaces between the ridges to expose a blood-red crystal imprisoned at the heart of the amulet. A black leather cord loops down through a hole bored beneath a fifth ridge.


As the amulet vibrates in response to your song, the world darkens around you, and even your voice seems distant and unimportant. What matters is the pain, which permeates every joint in your body, and the pressure of the shackles on your wrists. Every lashmark and bruise burns with a deep, dull ache, but the despair and hopelessness run more deeply than the ache. There is no information to cling to, no face in which to spit, no sword to grasp; there is only the dull red glow from the brazier, the choking smells of smoke and blood, the bars of the cell, and the shackles.

As your verse ends, color and light return to the world around you, and the stench of burning flesh fades.


The vibration of the amulet in response to your voice summons you back into the vision. You see the inside of a white silk tent, and a kneeling elven prisoner, bound and shackled. Two armor-clad skeletons wielding spears stand on either side. Blood courses down the Illistim man's cheek from a cut above his left eye, and a patchwork of welts, as well as burn-marks cover his bare torso.

The man lifts his head and snarls, "Why do you mock me again? I know it is only a dream."

"No," responds a harsh, rasping voice. "Take up the challenge, and I offer you freedom. All you must do is claim this and place it in my hand..."

As your field of view shifts in the vision, you see an alabaster-skinned hand, so heavily scarred that it nearly appears deformed. The hand dips into a gleaming black ora bowl and withdraws a clear, spherical crystal. The rasping voice asks, "Do you accept my challenge, or shall I give you back to Morvule's servants?"

Hope wars with fury upon the elf's face before he finally chooses. "I accept."

The vision fades out with the end of the verse.


With the first notes of your loresong, the amulet responds almost eagerly by plunging you back into the vision. Beneath a tattered black pavilion, a pair of cringing pages are assisting the elven prisoner in donning heavy steel platemail. They look at him with mingled envy and hatred, and, as one of the pages steps forward to fit the helm to the man's head, the page takes the opportunity to spit in his face. In the next instant, the page doubles and falls, screaming, as a skeletal guard's spear disembowels him.

The prisoner spares only a glance for the messily dying page before staring at a high iron gate. Beyond the gate, a makeshift arena may be seen, and only shadows are visible past the opposite gate. In the center of the arena stands a tall chalice, and a sickly green flame dances above the cup. Black streams of smoke curl from incense burners on each side of the chalice.

The vision fades as your verse dies away.


Your mind's eye returns to the elven prisoner outside the arena, and you watch as a cloaked figure comes into view beyond the iron gate. Bloodstains mar the front of her tunic, and fresh scarlet flows freely from the razern bracelets about each wrist, which open new gashes with each of the figure's movements. The clear crystal sphere glimmers in her palm before she drops it into the chalice. She retreats again with slow, measured steps.

The prisoner chooses a broadsword and a tower shield from a rack nearby, and the near gate swings open with a shrill cry of tortured metal. The opposite gate swings open as well, and a similarly armored combatant steps through that gate into the arena.

Both prisoners turn their heads as a harsh voice cuts across the battlefield: "Hand me the crystal, and you will go free." As the prisoners move forward, shifting their attention warily between one another and the burning chalice, they do not seem to hear the rasping whisper that follows: "Lord Mularos, Thy Whip consecrates the ending of these lives to Thee."


As the amulet vibrates again in response to your song , you see the two armored prisoners come together with a great crash of blades and armor in the center of the makeshift arena. Sword crashes against sword, shield slams against shield, ground is lost and regained and lost again. They circle around the chalice, and the green flame flares as they approach, fading away again as they retreat. The tendrils of black incense coil and sway like snakes made of shadow.

Suddenly, one of the combatants growls ferociously and flings himself at the other man. In a clatter of platemail, both go down, but one has the advantage and rises first. Wielding his heavy broadsword like a dagger, he brutally stabs down at his fallen opponent's face. The visor gives way, and the other man jerks horribly, flailing like a skewered cockroach before falling still.

The vision fades from your mind as the man dies.


The image of the victorious prisoner returns to your mind. A grimace of self-hatred contorts his features as he throws down his sword and helm. He stalks to the burning chalice and shoves his gauntleted hand into its depths, but he comes up without the prize. He fishes around a second time, but, again, finds nothing. With a roar of fury, he turns, but a harsh voice cuts him off --

"The crystal abhors the touch of metal. Only flesh can claim it."

Desperation overrules apprehension. The prisoner casts aside his gauntlet, and, with only a brief moment of hesitation, reaches into the serpentine green flame, and past the flame down into the seething liquid in the chalice. Tears of agony shine in his eyes, and every tendon in his throat stretches tautly as he searches for the crystal. When he withdraws his hand this time, white blisters are rapidly forming all along his skin, but the transparent crystal sphere is nested within his curled fingers.

"Bring the crystal to me. Place it in my hand, and I will let you go," the unseen woman says harshly. As the prisoner begins to walk, the vision fades.

Your own hand is tingling slightly, though you notice nothing strange about it.


The amulet responds instantly to your voice, and the vibrations bring you the image of the cloaked woman facing the elven prisoner. Her pale grey eyes are narrowed with hunger as she stretches out her scarred alabaster hand. Blood runs from her razern-braceleted wrist down to her palm.

The prisoner reaches out to drop the crystal into her palm -- but he cannot. His muscles bulge and strain, but his fingers only curl more tightly around the crystal. In desperation, he wrenches at the locked fingers of his right hand with his left, but wisps of steam begin to trail from beneath his left gauntlet cuff, and the rising blisters on his right hand pop and bubble like the surface of boiling water. As he screams in agony, matching blisters begin to form on his neck, and then the flesh of his face turns an angry, seared red hue.

The bones of his right hand break through his skin and fuse together, just as the flesh begins to fall from his face in long, dark red strips. The woman does not move a muscle as he dies at her feet His screams fade into gargling, then into bubbling, then into silence, and finally his armored skeleton lies still in a mass of steaming carrion.

As the last notes die in your throat, the fleeting image in your mind shows blood pooling in the woman's scar-ravaged hand, and the way in which her hungry eyes relax with satisfaction.


The amulet responds to your song with a vision of the scarred woman. She draws a loop of razern wire around the skeleton's fused hand and neatly removes it from the corpse. Through the gaps between the mutilated former fingerbones, the crystal sphere glows with an angry red hue.

"An interesting trophy, Whip." The voice is male, and, as the speaker comes into view, you see that he has slate grey eyes and braided white hair. "What do you plan to do with it?" A crimson vaalin symbol of Sheru hangs around his neck.

"If you wish it, it is yours," she answers immediately.

The Sheruvian priest laughs scornfully. "I have souls enough," he says, waving her back. "Keep this one."

"No -- it will be a present," the woman harshly says, "to one who has pleased me well -- one with whom you may be pleased, also."

The old man reaches out to touch the surface of the bone. With his touch, the angry red glow dies, and a ripple of blackness shivers across the surface of the blood red crystal. "A playmate for him," he says offhandedly, and turns to walk away.

The woman traces the line of one of the scars on her throat, leaving a trail of scarlet stains from her bloody palm. She bows her head, and, though she does not speak, her thoughts ring through your mind, just as harshly formed as her voice: "Lord Mularos, be pleased with this Suffering."

The vision slips away, leaving you with black spots dancing before your eyes and the taste of blood in your mouth.


The world wavers and fades around you. All forms slowly dissolve into an even, unrelenting haze, and all colors turn to red -- the shades range from the bright crimson of freshly spilled arterial blood to the near-black of old blood drifting on blue water. Your own voice fades away, and you can hear nothing at all but a soft clicking and scraping somewhere in the distance. In the instant you hear the sound, every sense attunes to it, and your heart races with terror. You sense that you are being watched, and you sense the simple, easy malevolence flowing from the being that made those sounds. Whatever it is, it hates you, just as it hates all things, but it lusts for you even as it hates you, for it wants you to be afraid. There is no doubt that it has achieved its goal. Waves of red pulse and flicker around you, and you strain your vision through the crimson void. Somewhere in the distance, you know that there waits a hint of true blackness, a single shadow cast within the sea of blood, and the fear of that shadow consumes your entire existence.

The rapid drumming of your heartbeat in your ears slowly returns you to your senses: light and sound come back, washing away the field of pervasive redness, and you remember who you are and what you are doing. Nevertheless, a deep apprehension remains with you, and you know that it would be unwise to coax further lore from this artifact.



As you begin to sing, you are plunged instantly back into the world of featureless crimson haze. From the depths of the darkness, a tendril of true blackness coalesces, but it fades again as quickly as it came in the instant that you try to focus upon it. The corner of your left eye catches another wisp of darkness, and you whip around in panic to stare at it, but the red haze consumes that tendril as well. The sounds of scuttling and scraping fill your ears, but you cannot pinpoint a direction -- the noise comes from all sides, and it draws closer by the second. You cannot move, or even sense your own body, though your heartbeat thunders frantically through your temples.

Suddenly, a tendril of blackness materializes out of nowhere and whips across your eyes. The agony is unbelievable, with the heat of drakar and the icy cold of rhimar rolled into one to destroy your vision. In the moment of perfect anguish, the heartbeat pounding in your ears stops.

Your verse is cut off as your dead body collapses sideways. With the cessation of your loresong, your senses are mercifully returned to the real world, though, in your current condition, you won't be sensing much of anything anyway.
The brilliant luminescence fades from around you.
You feel less confident than before.
The tingling sensation and sense of security leaves you.
The deep blue glow leaves you.
The bright luminescence fades from around you.
The silvery luminescence fades from around you.
The light blue glow leaves you.

It seems you have died, my friend. Although you cannot do anything, you are keenly aware of what is going on around you...

You mentally give a sigh of relief as you remember that the Goddess Lorminstra owes you a favor.

...departing in 16 mins...

[ktig]

a leather-hung gnarled bone amulet -

Ah, you took it all the way this time. *chortle*

[ktig]

a barbed white ora whip with a cross-like handle


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

The first thing that strikes you about the whip is the weight, which is 3 pounds. The whip is priceless in value. You can also tell that the whip is predominantly crafted from white ora.

A vision suddenly takes over your sight in a dense forest...

Inside a hut, an old elven alchemist appears to work on a barbed length of white ora. He attaches a cross-like handle and a small spiked ball to the chain, forming a whip. With a nod, the alchemist turns to a younger man in the hut and hands him the weapon. "Take this to the Order of Voln to be used against the undead blight in the forest. The man exits the hut and begins his journey toward Krestle.

As the man approaches a village outside the Turamzzyrian city, hordes of undead have overrun the villagers. The man rushes inside and seeks out a specific home...his home. The door is open and his wife lies on the ground and surrounded by undead. He uses the whip against the undead, releasing the evil from his home, but it's too late, his wife is fatally injured. She reaches toward her husband, resting a hand on the whip and laments, "Revenge me, Cecil..." Her eyes close and the whip burns with a violet flame. The man, Cecil, exits his home and all that can be heard is a bloodcurdling cry.

Third Person during song:
The white ora whip seems to respond to the magic of Naamit's song.
Naamit takes on a ghastly appearance as she sings to a barbed white ora whip with a cross-like handle.


Verse two
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white ora whip in your hand, and you learn something about it...

You sense a holy aura surrounding the whip.From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the whip is to be used against undead.

The vision continue back inside the hut...

Cecil is now garbed in heavy armor and carrying the whip. He is speaking to the alchemist inside the hut once more. "My wife, when she passed, she empowered the whip. Why is that?" The alchemist nods and responds, "I worked a spell into the whip that would unlock its full potential. I was not able to do anything more, and nor were you by yourself. But your wife's soul activated it and your rage has empowered it in your hands. Meet the Holy Scourge. It is now yours, Cecil Braggiani."

Years have passed, Cecil now an old man. He arms himself with the Holy Scourge and heads into the forest where rumors of a necromancer resided causing the undead blight. The sun sets and the vision fades.

Verse Three
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white ora whip in your hand...

The whip has a bonus of +40 and require skill in blunt weapons to use effectively in combat. It does extra damage when it strikes.

The visions progress in the city of Krestle...

Centuries have passed, a father and son are walking home. The father looks to his son and asks, "Leon, did I ever tell you of Cecil Braggiani, our ancestor that honed the whip called the Holy Scourge?" The boy shakes his head and his father tell him the story of their family heirloom. That night, he shows his son the whip.

Time goes on and Leon joins the Order of Voln, a rite of passage for many Braggiani men. Several members of the Order go missing after investigating rumors of undead in a nearby forest. Leon and a group of Volnites are dispatched to the forest to locate the missing party.

The group encounter an undead necromancer whose strength is immense. They are quickly overpowered, and only Leon survives. The blade of his broadsword is destroyed in the fray and he retreats back to Krestle. He retrieves the Holy Scourge from the family tomb and rushes back into the forest to finish the necromancer off. A long adventure takes place as the visions drift in and out of highlights of Leon fighting off hordes of undead and overcoming obstacles along the way. Leon's adventure ends in some old ruins where he faces the undead necromancer. He is able to deal the death blow, but in doing so, Leon is cursed and collapses.

All goes black and the vision ends.

Verse Four
As you sing, you feel a faint resonating vibration from the white ora whip in your hand...

The harmonics generated tell you that the whip has special abilities against undead and when used by a specific bloodline.

The final visions are revealed and have shifted to a tavern in modern times...

A younger man of average height and bright blue eyes leans against the counter in a crowded barroom. Garbed with a green canvas jacket and a belt wrapped with colorful bandanas, the man is discussing some adventure with the locals gathered. The bartender remarks, "You know..."He points to the younger man, "Rumor has it, the one that haunts the forest near Krestle was a Braggiani like you." The young man pipes up, "You think I'll believe that old wives' tale?" They all laugh and continue on with their conversation.

Later that evening the young man's curiousity gets the best of him and heads to the forest. He is met by a ghoulish figure wearing rusted armor and holding a white ora whip. The young man unsheathes a blessed dagger and sneaks behind the ghoul. Just before he strikes the being, it turns to him and cries, "I've been waiting for you, child. Your name, tell me your name." The young man announces, "Khlat Braggiani, the Treasure Hunter Extraordinaire!" The ghoul smiles and the vision ends abruptly.

[ktig]

You'd have to get with Alisaire to find out, she did mention there were only two made. I had sung to it long ago and never logged it. Thankfully she was willing to let me have another go at it. I'll see if I can find out more when I next see her.

There are four.

[gs4-PauperSid]

You glance down to see a red sylvankind scalp in your right hand and nothing in your left hand.

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

This is a small item, under a pound. In your best estimation, it's worth about 200 silvers.

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

From the pitch of the vibration you determine that the purpose of the scalp is as a kind of trophy.

--hehe---I was wondering if it'd report whose scalp it was.....seems not.