Loresongs

[FlayedAngel]

That's a pretty sweet lore-song... neat to see these posted.

[shad0ws0ngs]

That's a pretty sweet lore-song... neat to see these posted.

Trying to make sure all the neat loresonged stuff doesn't get lost/forgotten as well as provide more IG back story for things that people might be able to build on.

[Elvenlady]

Trying to make sure all the neat loresonged stuff doesn't get lost/forgotten as well as provide more IG back story for things that people might be able to build on.

Speaking of which, I've finally worked Roh's ice wings into her backstory. Here's the loresong for posterity:

You tap a pair of icy silver-blue wings, which is in your right hand.
>l wings
Opalescent silver-blue pinions compose these beautiful wings. Each silky feather showcases coruscant hues reminiscent of a frozen tundra beneath a cold winter's sky with its shimmering silvers and iridescent blues, culminating in an amazing array of cool colors. A frosty coating of glimmering ice clings to the magnificent wings, never melting from the dense plumage despite the temperature. With the slightest movement, delicate ice crystals radiate forth from the feathers in a dazzling display.

As you weave your melody around the wings, they suddenly come to life, flapping gently within your grasp. Several of the feathers softly brush against your face, momentarily obscuring your view.

When you can see again, your surroundings have changed to the shadowy base of a towering mountain where a cozy log cabin stands. A man of indeterminate race exits the small wooden abode and takes a careful glance around. He is getting on in years, yet not so old as to be feeble and decrepit. With a quiet sigh, he turns to reenter his home when suddenly, something crashes nearby! He rushes over to investigate the cause of the ruckus with the energy and vigor of a man several years younger. To his surprise, he discovers a large bird, nearly the size of a dog, with silvery blue plumage, crying out in pain from a broken wing. Darkness falls upon the scene as the man carefully considers what to do with the injured creature.

Your voice caresses the wings tenderly, evoking another vivid scene from the mists of the past.

The injured bird perches comfortably upon a branch in a makeshift aviary, its wing splinted and wrapped in bandages. It appears wary as the man approaches cautiously from the side. He carries a basket of fruits, which he rests upon the ground several feet away from the bird. Backing away slowly, he watches with a slight smile on his face as the bird hops down from its perch and greedily eats up the delectable offerings. The man turns and walks away, a shadowy curtain falling upon the image, until all that remains is the here and now.

The wings in your hand pulse with a life of their own, responding to each note in your mellifluous song.

In the blink of an eye, you once again see the man tending to the bird, though this time, the creature seems friendlier towards its caretaker. The man holds an apple up to the bird, and it quickly snatches it up, crunching cheerfully on the fruit. Later on, the magnificent bird preens itself, taking care of its vibrant silvery blue plumage. Several feathers drift softly to the ground, sending off showers of ice crystals. The vivid display catches the eye of the man, who approaches the feathers with caution. After the moment of wonderment passes, he gingerly collects the fallen feathers and brings them to the cabin, all the while staring intently at the feathers with curiosity. As he closes the door, the scene drifts into obscurity.

An errant breeze ruffles the feathers of the wings as you sing, causing an unearthly rippling across the plumage that mesmerizes your gaze.

Soon, you can see the man standing in the shadow of the large mountain, staring at the sky. He watches with tears in his eyes as the bird flies off into the distance, never to be seen again. Clutching the bandages and splint in his hands, he lets out a lonesome sigh, saddened by the departure of his companion for the past few months. Lamenting his loss, he makes his way into his cabin and glances at a basket, filled with silvery blue feathers he had collected over time. With one last glance out the window, he pulls out several feathers and begins to weave them together with a skilled hand. As the sun sets, the scene fades from your vision.

With each modulation of your voice, the wings sends off showers of ice crystals.

You are caught momentarily in the display, and when you look up, the man once again stands alone in the shadow of the mountain. Sprouting from his back is a pair of icy silver-blue wings. With a deep breath, he flaps the wings once, causing a strong breeze to swirl around the clearing. He keeps flapping his wings, attempting to gain the power of flight, but after nearly an hour of trying; his feet still remain planted firmly on the ground. Crying out in pain and through tears of agony, he wrenches the wings from his back. He collapses to the ground and lies there for a while, sobbing quietly. The scene quickly passes to evening. With bandages on his back, man approaches the makeshift aviary he had built and hangs the wings he had crafted upon the perch where the bird once sat. Without a single look back, he hobbles back to his cabin and closes the door one final time. As it finally shuts, you are snapped back to reality, holding the very silver-blue wings in your hands from the vision.

As your song's melody dances around the wings, they rise slowly, only to fall still once again.

*Will try and remember to add the verbs and messaging when she's wearing them again*

[shad0ws0ngs]

a thief helm - The helm is well worn from years of use and combat. Runes have been inscribed upon the helm in a form unrecognizable today. Sinister dark eyes upon the helm look through you almost as if they could peer through your clothing. The feeling is eerie.


Strange vibrations eminate from the helm. You almost feel a lifelike presence within the confines of the metal itself. A shudder runs down your spine as your verse touches upon the secrets of the runes which you are not quite able to make out.


Roundtime: 7 sec.


Your song's music begins to bring words into your mind, limericks to a poem written on the thief helm begin to take shape.
A thief of fame,
did once proclaim,
Stealing for him was a joke.

He wore this hat,
the top he'd pat,
then into their purse he'd poke.


Roundtime: 6 sec.


His wealth did grow,
but hatred did sow,
and soon no one would befriend him.

So he put down,
this magical crown,
you'd think this chance would be slim.

But a friend in hand,
should not slip like sand,
through fingers that lift their gold.


Roundtime: 8 sec.


The limerick continues to form in your mind.
To rid the curse,
and stop stealing their purse,
the helm he had was sold.

While this helm can bring you gold,
friends close to you are hard to hold.
The curse of this helm is plain to see,
your gain comes only from those close to thee. Just then you could swear one of the eyes on the helm winks at you.


Roundtime: 9 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a pair of silver spectacles - let your read in gnomish


Your vision clouds, a disorienting sensation stealing over you as images rush through your mind's eye. Symbols, runes and glyphs flicker by as your awareness quests back to a time long past.

Candlelight flickers shadows along a stone and mortar wall, inky figures dancing over its rough surface. A tome lies open upon a parchment-strewn desk, a pair of silver spectacles resting atop its yellowing pages. Lines of strange runes span the parchment, the symbols curling about each other like so many ants over a bit of discarded cake.

The lenses of the spectacles shimmer slightly, a prismatic sheen running across their surface as your vision gazes down through them. The glyphs upon the page appear different, and you comprehend the mysteries of the few lines visible to you: "...and would one find it, the nexus of...", "...requiring few reagents, such as wyr...", "...there, and only there, would this terrible purpose come to pass...."

The loud creak of an opening door startles you as you lean closer to the page, hungry for the other secrets the sigils hold from you. As you turn toward the source of the sound, you find your vision fading and familiar surroundings returning to your senses, though the original sensation lingers....

Roundtime: 9 sec.

Your vision clouds, and you find your awareness once again rushing across the vastness of the past.

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Back and forth, the soapy brush drifts across the floor. A frail-looking youth garbed in tattered linen robes kneels by a wooden bucket filled with murky water, his hand guiding the bristles along the darkly lacquered wooden floor.

The shuffling of turning pages fills the room, accompanied by the flicker of a guttering candle. Shuffle. Scrub. Shuffle. Scrub. The sounds play off each other in rhythm, each repetition deepening the frown worn by the youth in the dirty robe.

Stopping to rinse the brush in the brackish water, the lad raises his eyes to look at the source of the shuffling. An ancient husk of a man sits at a parchment-strewn desk, long grey hair flowing down his back from under a tall pointed hat.

Resentment slowly fills the youth's eyes, his gaze locked on the back of the man at the desk. Seeming to notice the cessation of scrubbing sounds, the man turns, saying, "Now, now. Remember your training."

The boy's face is calm once more, untouched by malice as he returns to the drudgery of cleaning. His gaze absently follows the brush in its strokes, but his white-knuckled grip on its handle betrays the anger within.

The vision fades suddenly, familiar surroundings flooding back to your senses....

Roundtime: 10 sec.

[shad0ws0ngs]

a cracked crystal sphere - The outside of the sphere is smooth and perfectly polished, but a dark crack runs through its depths.


>gaze sphere
Concentrating upon the crystal, you expand your awareness outward. A faint tingling on the back of your neck makes you aware that someone concealed from view is present.
Roundtime: 5 sec.

Aurach softly says, "I just know I can see.. people."
>
Aurach softly says, "Hide."
>
Aurach softly says, "And it shows me when I am alone."
>
Aurach softly says, "As well."

" multiple people: Concentrating upon the crystal, you expand your awareness outward. Tingling pinpricks run along the back of your neck, making you aware that three concealed people are present. Images swirl through the crystal, but none coalesce sufficiently to be recognized."
"one person: Concentrating upon the crystal, you expand your awareness outward. A faint tingling on the back of your neck makes you aware that someone concealed from view is present. Within the crystal, you briefly glimpse the image of a shadowy figure with a completely bald head."
"sometimes I see 'everything' but thier name"



As the sphere responds to the vibrations of your voice, you sense magic dwelling within it. The nature of the magic is linked in some ways to your own bardsong -- a magic of the mind, though not one shaped in the same ways as yours. Colors play softly across the sphere's surface.


As your voice delves into the crystal sphere, you determine that this sphere was once part of a greater artifact, but a catastrophic incident shattered the structure and destroyed that greater magic. You sense a power within the sphere that is ancient beyond mere years, a length of time measured better by elves than humans, and better by the stars than by either race.


Searching further for information about the sphere, you sense that the greater magic was a magic of scrying and location, with abilities to predict both the future and the past. You sense that the hands of many master craftsmen were involved in creating the greater artifact. Now, the sphere still cradles scrying magic, but it is a frail shadow of its former existence, stretching only through aspects of the present and only in a small ring around its possessor.


The magic of your loresong calls an image forth from the sphere. You see a delicately formed glass sculpture depicting an erithian woman with twenty or more squid tentacles fanning from her body in place of arms. She is far taller than any true erithian, standing twenty or twenty-five feet tall, and each of her glimmering tentacles cradles a sparkling crystal sphere much akin to the sphere that you hold now. Scribes stand around the sculpture, scribbling intently across pieces of parchment as they gaze into the various spheres. A serene smile graces the sculpture's face as she watches her watchers.

The image fades away.


Your magic reaches into the sphere and recalls images that dwelt within it in the past. As visions swirl before your eyes, you sense that these images first shone in the crystal when the crystal was part of the greater artifact and lay cradled in one of those glimmering tentacles. You see a dwarven man covered with pustules and bent with heavy coughing, a crowned Faendryl woman lying motionless upon a funeral bier, a tall giantman woman with a cobalt blue mask tattooed across her face, an auburn-haired human man holding an orchid and a dagger, an elven woman praying to the starry darkness beyond a prison window, a veniom airship gliding through the sky, a gilded scarlet drake dying as a sylvan woman weeps, a group of translucent children running through a pair of black gates that rend the earth and sky as they open.... the images flash and fade, coming faster and faster, until they melt into a blur.

With a sharp jolt, the flow of images ends, leaving you as dazed as if you had just awakened from a sound sleep.


As you summon the lore of the sphere with your music, you are plunged back into a vision. You see a terrible battle in the chamber surrounding the erithian sculpture. It is impossible to tell the identities or even the races of the attackers, although they are as tall as the erithians they fight, for their forms are completely swathed in white silk. Most of the scribes flee, but some try to protect the great statue, and their bodies are spilled on the ground for their trouble.

Then, a new presence enters the room -- a woman garbed in turquoise blue silk who bears a gleaming katana in her hand. She fights with greater skill than anyone else, whirling and slashing in a dance of unerring death that lays waste to the attackers. Soon, only one attacker stands, and she pivots precisely before bringing the katana sweeping upward through his body.

The katana passes cleanly through the attacker's body, splitting it into two halves, and connects with the sculpture. Both katana and sculpture shatter. Fragments of glass and steel rain across the ground like petals in a windstorm, and the crystals strike the ground with the heaviness of apples shaken from an orchard. The crystals do not break, although, from the horror on the warrior's face, it makes little difference that they do not.

She is the only one standing. She drops the hilt of the katana, turns, and flees. The vision fades out on her departing shadow.



Another vision comes from the sphere. Instead of touching you gently, this one closes about you with the cold strength of a skeletal fist, forcing you to observe what follows.

The chamber stands deserted, heavy with the dust of passing decades. Skeletons litter the floor where scribes and attackers fell. Debris from the sculpture and the katana litter the ground.

A cold wind sweeps through the chamber, stirring the debris gently. White mist coalesces beside the door and becomes the shape of the former katana-wielder, now translucent and ethereal with the touch of death gone by.

One by one, the ghost picks up the spheres and cradles them gently in her spectral arms. As she touches each sphere, a faint shock runs through you, and you intuit that she is transforming the nature of the spheres' magic as she touches them. The ghost whispers in erithian, but you understand the words as if she had whispered them in your native tongue. "Some things should never have been. Some things should never be again."

Then she dissolves, taking the spheres with her, and the chamber is left empty. The vision fades away.


A cold tingle runs across your fingertips and palm where your skin touches the sphere. The presence of the ghost's touch still contaminates the crystal, preventing it forever from being reassembled as part of the artifact that once contained it. The world around you seems darker, colder, infused only with shadow, bereft of any hopeful future... and then your verse ends, and the brief impression fades.


You can discern nothing more of the sphere's nature.


(also, Dergoatean's chipped spherical crystal)

[shad0ws0ngs]

a jeweled black ora morning star - You glance at your star. The handle of the morning star has been carefully inlaid with a gleaming spiral of jade that winds elegantly up the haft. At the end of the haft is a mounted chain with a wickedly spiked black ora ball attached to it. Wispy crimson silk is delicately wrapped around the handle ending right above a small jade wisp with something written beneath it. The ora morning star is shrouded in swirling shadows from top to bottom and no amount of light seems to be able to penetrate the gloom.

In the Common language, it reads:
Desire


(OOC) Vishra's player whispers, "Desire is 5x true black ora. Standard +3 WIS, -1 Spirit Gen, +1 Mana Regen. Also has rotflares and unbalance flares."


Your vision clouds over and a scene unfolds before you. The image of a scarred dwarf in leathers laboring deep in a dark, dank mine, grunting as he extracts precious black ora ore. Orcs goblins, and other slaves load the precious ore and push the cart towards a towering smelter. An oversized troll cracks a weighted scourge as the miners pass, tearing skin, leather and fur with equal ease. Most of the miners are criss-crossed with scars and most have fresh, bloody weals.


You can see the dwarf laboring over a hot iron forge. He mops his brow continually as he pumps the bellows then returns to the anvil, coaxing a weapon from the white-hot black Soon, the ora takes the form of the business part of the ora morning star. He plunges it into a barrel of softly smoking oil, then another of a strange glowing substance, and then finally into a barrel of congealed blood. He cackles madly as a shadow slowly takes form around it which soon twines around his hand.


Your inner vision once again focuses on the scarred dwarf, carefully polishing the black ora star before handing it to an emaciated mage with hollowed white eye sockets. He incants over the ora morning star and looks pleased. He raises it to the sky and shadows swirl around and a bolt of greenish-black lightning cracks over it causing the mist to scatter and then reform. The dwarf and the mage both laugh maniacally.


The scene shifts as the emaciated mage incants powerful charms over the the ora morning star. He cackles incessently as he waves the star, but suddenly shadows detach themselves from the wall and surround the mage, as the mist assaults him, shadowy fangs plunge repeatedly into his body, his mouth open in silent scream. The mists slowly fade away and with them, the ora morning star vanishes.


Your song draws to a close and you feel the story has ended.
You learn nothing new about the star.


The first thing that strikes you about the star is the weight, which is about 8 pounds. In your best estimation, it's worth about 1,000,000 silvers. You can also tell that there is some type of metal in the structure of the ora morning star.

[shad0ws0ngs]

From the officials:



A ribbon-tied parchment


The strange parchment was discovered on the floor of the Thirsty Penguin on Restday, the 8th of Fashanos. It could not be read nor written on, and seemed fussy about being in the hands of anyone who had previously touched it. However, upon having a bard sing to it, it revealed this story:

Mist enshrouds your vision for several seconds, and when it clears you find yourself gazing into a shadow-riddled orchard. Long spindled branches dip into the lane and are laden with plump apples that shine in the silvery moonlight. Strolling with purpose, a wrinkled old man glides across the dusty trail that winds through the gnarled trees, his beady eyes glittering with purpose. Slowly, the vision fades away.

Chilling mist clings to your skin, and you find yourself gazing a high tower. A commotion in the front yard draws your eyes to a wrought iron gate, and within seconds you find yourself standing before it. Men with torches form a ring around an elven man that is bound by the feet and ankles. Nearly falling from his horse, an injured man, dressed in the finery of a lord, issues several orders, and the crowded courtyard bustles with activity. On the edges of the slowly emptying yard, a wrinkled old man with beady eyes watches, his face drawn downward into a frown. Slowly, the vision fades away.

Slowly obscuring your vision, a fine mist rises all around you. Images flow through the mist, and in each of them is an old man gifting various people with trinkets, charms, bowls, or other small items. Each of these gifts is received with genuine delight and quickly stored away or placed on display within a home or shop. Slowly, the vision fades, and with it all traces of the aged man.

The parchment vibrates in your hand, but you learn nothing more from its cold presence.

The parchment was left where it was found, but has since vanished.

[shad0ws0ngs]

Got PM'd this one today!

It's "a deep purple pendant"...apparently it's a 2x/day familiar pendant from parts unknown...


As you sing, your vision clouds over and a scene unfolds for you. A pair of hands, weathered and wrinkled with age tirelessly polishing a perfect purple.

As you continue to sing, your field of view widens. An ancient man of elven features works on the purple, chanting in a lilting language while polishing it. As he continues his chant the purple begins to shine with an inner light, as if it were absorbing power.

As you continue to sing, you see the elven magician place the purple aside long enough to pick up a finely wrought chisel of adamantine. Carefully, he begins to carve a strange swirling symbol into it. as he completes the work the purple flares with a brilliant light which fades to a faint glow.

You sense that the pendant is of a time long past. The power contained within sings to you of ancient magic and hidden knowledge. The nature of the power hidden within is such that you are unable to learn the manner in which it will manifest itself. It would appear the only way to find out more would be to call forth the power within.

[shad0ws0ngs]

This is up for sale currently, elsewhere:

Elemental bow of lightning 5x/5x short bow version

As you sing, you sense resonant vibrations coming from the bow, matching pitch with yours. Soon a harmony is achieved, and a brilliant display begins to materialize before you...

The scene unfolds in a deep, shadowy forest, with an aged sylvan craftsman gazing upward, almost sadly, to a giant white monir tree.
He gestures to a group of younger lads and walks away. The gathered youth watch him leave with a visible degree of respect before advancing on the great trunk. They begin to chop methodically, their voices rising and falling with rich texture and resonance. Their song seems to calm you, as if their singing was designed to aid the great tree itself in accepting its fate.

The aged sylvan craftsman now sits alone in a wooded glade, his eyes closed, and his mouth working in some silent chant.

Arrayed neatly around him are several thick, straight pieces of white monir wood, each shining faintly in the light that filters through the overhanging tree limbs. The craftsman runs his hand along each in turn, and as he does so they seem to glimmer with varying hues. He settles his hands in his lap once again, and continues his quiet chant...

Once again you harmonize with the bow and beckon it to continue with the display...

The scene shifts to reveal the sylvan craftsman once again. His features appear the same however he looks much older, as if his work has drained him. He stands next to a work table with an oiled rag in his hand, gazing down at several polished bows of white monir, each easily identifiable by the runic patterns etched upon them. He nods quietly to himself and beckons an apprentice standing in the shadows forward to take the weapons off the table. The youth glances at her master with concern before gathering the bundle and walking out of the workshop.

Your breath becomes labored as you try to coax yet more out of the bow...

Another shift in the scene reveals the craftsman, his face hollow and shrunken, his eyes not moving, and no breath escaping his lips. He lies on a carved linden platform, and is surrounded by a score of other sylphs. Apart from these are five archers, standing at the foot of the platform facing away from the others. They slowly raise their bows and let loose into the air. As their missiles arch away from the scene, you examine them closely. One appears as if it is on fire, another leaves a faint trail of frost in the air, the third seems to shimmer slightly, and the fourth seems to boil as it flies.

The fifth arrow arcs slightly above the others, streaking across the sky in a dazzling display of electrical energy. The archer who fired that arrow turns and seems to look directly at you.