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Post by blantyr on Aug 11, 2014 8:57:24 GMT -5
Mother
When the new Legate of the Grey Isles arrived, there was a grand processional parade. The man of the hour rode atop a great war-horse to the applause of all. Musicians sang. Well, I sang at least. People cheered. Soldiers marched.
This allowed the new legate, Mortus the Timid, to quietly sneak to his fortress unnoticed. Lord Pauled seems to have the much better known name around here, and is not reluctant to parade it.
I have also discovered why his wife, the Lady Gertrude, is surrounded by such a magnificent number of virile male soldiers. With all of them in her immediate vicinity, the virtue of the men of the town might be kept safe.
I have a sense that the new Legate sent by Regium ought to be an improvement over the last. How can one be worse than a Dark Lord? Perhaps I should not ask rhetorical questions? The gods might provide answers?
Lord Pauled and Sir Tiberius are not resting on the laurels, though. The day after we arrived, off we go into the woods. (I didn’t even get to meet father’s para moor.) We were guided into the woods by a bear of a man, commonly called Bearman. He is a ranger. A real ranger, not a singer who likes to walk in the woods. He has been walking these woods for years, knows them well, and I had every confidence he would get us to the Lost Shrine.
Then he came up with a magnificent plan. He would lead a bunch of bugbears away, and thus leave the path open for us. There was only one flaw in this plan. This left the second best ranger to follow the trail.
Fortunately, the path was once upon a time a cart wide and paved with cobblestones. While the dire forces of overgrowth had done their best, the cobblestones had fought back. We managed to arrive without undue delay.
Entering a place even more entangled than the forest as a whole, we were at first somewhat concerned about traps. Gristle, our expert at such things, declared we need not be so concerned. To prove it she cleverly used a small sprung rope that had carelessly been left behind to lift herself high over the entrance. Sure enough, there were no traps up there.
There were also no traps on the body of the dead elf. The others seemed very interested in it. I found it rather ghastly. Someone has to stay in the rear of the party and check six? This seemed to be my time. Anyway, again it was proved there were no traps. The two javelins just happened to pierce the other four purely by coincidence.
None the less, in spite of the lack of traps, we proceeded from there cautiously.
I find spiders to be ugly, hairy, squishy and impolite. They seem to find me plump, juicy, spicy and delicious. Plump! Not even Nemesis implied that I might be plump! I am esthetically slender, thank you. I also find spiders make one dizzy when bitten. If the mystics think spider poison is a road to enlightenment, I’m glad to be able to see in the dark. At any rate these mutual preconceptions between elf and spider, of whatever merit, are not the basis for a satisfactory long term relationship.
I found it necessary to stab them.
They do deflate quite nicely.
There was quite a scramble for a while. Some of them dropped down from the trees on webs. Some of them crawled up out of holes from the ground. One moment there was just one crooked not-a-spider by himself, the next we were somewhat outnumbered. There was a confused bit of maneuvering as both groups tried to sneak up behind the other at the same time. Did I mention getting dizzy when bit? For a while, I was quite dizzy. Sir Tiberious was quite good at stopping the world from spinning. The spiders did seem to have a liking for elf… meat. I think, next time the humans have a gifting holiday, I might present the others with eau-de-elf.
This is just a brief break while I un-dizzy. We seem to have found the shrine, but the ritual we’re called on seems to require a well.
Your slowly spinning daughter Mithril
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Post by blantyr on Sept 13, 2014 22:57:45 GMT -5
What is it with dwarves?
I generally don’t have trouble with other species. I’ve swum with mermaids, played for pixies in their mushroom circle dances, professed alleged innocence to centaurs and clog danced with halflings. Our little adventuring group includes a gnome, a half elf, and two (two!) humans. I even made a sad attempt to sing with a siren. I know it is said that elves and dwarves don’t mix well. I was thinking perhaps I would be more flexible and adaptable that most. Still…
We were minding our own business, being quizzed by a statue and stabbing a spider, when we encountered the dwarf. He was hanging upside down inside a cocoon of spider silk, not quite being as good with quizzes and spiders as we. After unraveling him from the silk, he introduced himself as an expert sneaky person, good with rocks, tunnels and such like. Well, I’m a little bit sneaky myself, but I do trees and brambles rather than rocks and tunnels. We decided to give him a chance.
I’m dubious. In what way does incense help one be sneaky? He had a crooked little incense burner he carried clenched between his teeth. It seemed to be hollowed out so he could blow air through the incense, thus causing it to burn the hotter at whim. It seems a clever little device, allowing one to waft smoke while for the most part keeping both hands free.
Still, anyone or anything with a nose would smell the incense and be warned of our coming. I can image him pulling his head over a ride, breathing life in the fire, and thus presenting a scary face to whatever he is approaching.
Anyway, after climbing down a well and bumbling long in the dark so we would catch them off guard, we seemed to walk into an ambush. How could they have possibly have known we were coming?
The big bad evil was another of those overgrown magic using twig things. It taunted us as we approached — apparently knowing something of our fathers — and prophesied our doom. It was better at entangling our feet with coils of plants than prophesy. It turned into one of those stumbling bumbling messes where you knew where you wanted to be if only you could get there. There were three of them, the twig, and two oversized preying mantis things. It took a while, but swords eventually prevailed over claws.
I’m starting to think that the best part of adventuring is the party afterwards. Humans are in a hurry. Could we rest a bit after a long sea voyage? Nooooo. Off into the woods and plant an ent seed. I picked up a couple of local songs that might become popular at the Old Hiss. “Heart of the Griffin” is the anthem of Griffin company. I lost the singing contest to that song, but a lot of the legate’s guard are former Griffins and really get into that one. I also picked up “Cranberry Home.” Some halfling not so long ago missed his village and wrote a homesick song that isn’t all that bad.
Everything is fair except the Legate’s lady, Gertrude. You’d think it wouldn’t be hard for her to become the greatest noble lady on the island. So far as I know, she’s the only noble lady on the island. Except it seems like she wants to work at it. It seems as like as not that she’ll work her way out of it.
I plan to give her the stars, butterflies, and if possible the sea.
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Post by blantyr on Sept 16, 2014 18:27:12 GMT -5
Mother Dearest
Humans, with some justification, consider their younglings to be cute. In many ways they are. In other ways, a few might be considered a threat to civilization. Recently, I was playing once again my role as Defender of Gris. There was a child, Maralissia, with a voce of particular clarity, volume and quite admirable tone.
She just had trouble with pitch control, a tendency to drift sharp.
This Would Not Do. I didn’t care how cute she was, and how tolerant of off pitch singing humans can be when the singer is so young. I deemed it a personal mission from Desna to properly teach the fine art of singing on key.
This effort was disrupted by another singer. I am not generally fickle, or I don’t think so, but someone started a particularly poor rendition of “The Boys are Back in Town.” Maralissia needed a little work, some tender care, some training. This guy needed his vocal cords realigned.
Him and his twenty goblin friends and three hobgoblin advisors.
The first question, though, was one of priorities. Should I first correct his interpretation of the song, or would it be prudent to prevent them from burning down the town? Tough call. I’m afraid the deciding factor was the singer’s placement to the rear of his friends. One couldn’t get there from where I was, not without cutting through rather a lot of goblin.
Then there was a problem with human bravery. Most of the soldiers and Gris bystanders formed into a nice tight mass and stood behind the largest gap in the wall. Wise. Prudent. Appropriate. One soldier took it upon himself to defend the second largest gap in the wall… all by himself. This was Brave, Noble, Idiotic and Painful. Well, I suppose if one is out to save the town from fire, one is allowed to be a bit idiotic. But not alone. The situation called for two idiots. At least two idiots.
Fortunately, I happened to be available, but only if I allowed that short, green and ugly piece of dung to keep singing.
For a while I was busy. The mood kept shifting. First there were two of us and a half dozen of them, but they were short. That was OK at best. Then two of us and four of them, which was nice. Then there was one of me and a whole huge humongous hoard of them… at least three. Not nice. Then three of them and a bugbear…
Then there were hoof beats. The Great Sir Pauled had arrived. You remember how I said he knocks nobles off horses with a stick? It turns out that when things get serious he occasionally uses a sharp stick. I was rather preoccupied at the time, and couldn’t take the time out to watch, but he came charging in and scattered a good deal of green blood about the place.
Alas, he chose to save the many intelligent people who had fought together in a cohesive mass rather than try to save the idiot.
I guess that was Tiberius’s job. We had recently had a discussion about a ring of protection. He thought it would be prudent to keep the healer up and healing, and promised that if he had that protection I would be among the protected. Wonderful theory. Unfortunately it was dependent on his being present at the battle. Well, he did in time arrive. He arrived just about the time that the bugbears showed up, which was about the time I decided that fighting goblins was too painful, that standing up required too much effort, that the proper thing to do was to fall face down in the mud.
But he did show up. He did heal. He healed just in time for me to roll out of the way of Pauld’s horse. Just so you know, from the perspective of face down in the mud, Pauld has a really really large horse. Not that I’m complaining. In addition to keeping out of the way of the horse, I also managed to avoid various falling chunks of bugbear.
We were victorious. Well, mostly victorious. One of the local townspeople died. While no buildings were burned, several piles of wood being used to build the wall did.
The singer got away, if one is generous enough to call what he did ‘singing’. In time, I suspect we will have to give him a more drastic form of voice lesson than those I’ll be giving Maralissia.
I also suspect we’re going to have to replace the burned wood.
Your muddy daughter Mithril
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Post by blantyr on Oct 12, 2014 6:05:47 GMT -5
Mother
It seems that success leads to sore wet feet. After one defeats the enemies that live closest to home, one has to pursue them ever farther into the distance. This is complicated by their stubborn refusal to leave maps behind leading to their hiding places.
Fortunately, goblins and bugbears at least seem to like to trample on things. After the attack on Gris, we pursued two foes in particular. My own particular target was a goblin bard who seemed to prefer to sing off key. The world needed to be made safe from his idea of 'singing'. The others were concerned with the last of the three bugbear assassins that seemed to have been sent for the three of us specifically. I suppose I agreed. That Pauled had killed 'my' bugbear was a comfort, but I suspected the last survivor wouldn't be overly picky in selecting targets.
At any rate, they were not overly woods crafty. I may be developing a reputation for being able to track small parties over great distances. This would be gratifying except they will likely expect me to do so again. At any rate, after hours of examining dents in moss and slightly displaced rocks, we came upon a marsh oft interrupted by streams and pools. Upon a small island in the marsh we found a tiny settlement. A hut. A small ugly sort of statue. A fire. Not much, but for someone it looked like home. For us, it looked like a target.
No one was immediately visible. We skulked up, intending to get close before getting rude. Three then exited the hut. The bugbear, looking healed from the previous day's encounter, exited, expressed hatred, outrage and personal dislike, then turned and fled. The off key bard reprised the bugbear's action. This seemed a bit off. They did want to kill us, but ran instead. Were we that fearsome? The third, though, a female lizard person, did confront us, waving a staff above hear head and grunting inarticulately.
Tiberius responded in a clear and perfectly understandable fashion. He put an arrow in her shoulder. It seemed this was the wrong thing to do, at least in the opinion of the lizard person. Outrage. Indignity. Fog. It seemed that we were improperly disrupting the poor lizard's day.
It also seemed that she had not spent sufficient energy keeping her bridge in repair. As I tried crossing the stick, bone and twine structure, I found myself dangling with wet feet, unsure if I should try to climb back up on the bridge or deliberately fall the rest of the way through to the brackish water. I eventually decided on climbing, though the others rushed by as I struggled. It took me a bit go get up. By the time I made it up, I had a theory. The island was some sort of healing sanctuary. The lizard had healed our enemies, and thought us rather rude to use violence upon her body and her guests. I alternated between sharing this theory with my companions and finding a common language with the lizard. Sylvan didn't work. Aquan did... Sort of. Almost. Kind of. I was able to confirm the theory while Tiberius, Paulded and Gruel chased off our two enemies.
Alas, using violence in or upon the sanctuary, within the influence of that stone idol, seemed to curse Tiberius and Pauled. Their healing powers were reversed, causing harm instead. This lead to some discussion. Could we reasonably continue pursuit without healing? Fortunately we had a healing wand which hadn't been effected by the curse. After a bit more gurgling Aquan at the lizard, neither side being satisfied by the proceedings, we pursued the two.
Their next refuge was an ogre lair. We got to hear them telling the ogre their sad tale of being pursued by this awful paladin, hateful cleric, and potentially tasty elf. They somehow neglected to mention why we were in pursuit, the minor detail of their attack on the town. I scouted the cavern, briefly. I learned that goblin tactical discussions make great distraction when one is trying to move quietly. After getting the lay of the cavern, we decided the debates weren't quite loud enough to cover an approach by the armor encumbered Pauled. We set up to launch arrows into the cave and threw a light spelled rock into the cavern. Not subtle, but it achieved the desired effect. They straggled out one at a time and got shot. This didn't last long. Pauled, as is his way, followed up javelin with sword. Before long we had a small battle line formed near the mouth of the cave. The anti-bard took the early arrows and first blows. The bugbear came up in support, and the anti-bard's place in the battle line was soon taken up by the ogre.
Note to self. Avoid fighting ogres. He carried a really big stick. The guys provided their usual helpful service. In seeking glory, goodness and opportunity to insult their enemies, they drew attention away from us ladies. Gruel got several good shots into the ogre. I managed, with help, to dispatch both the bugbear and the goblin. Pauled was soon a bloody mess, the contest being whether Tiberius could heal him faster than the ogre could flatten him. Fortunately, Pauled was able to dispatch the ogre. I was almost embarrassed by not taking a blow through the entire fight. Oh, each of the three enemies tried once, but between quickness and the mithril armor, all three failed.
Then came the supposedly fun part, the division of the ogre's treasure. He had a warm cloak, a sharp dagger, quite a lot of coins, and a naked male elf dangling upside down. I decided not to claim the elf, Eldrian of the Woods. I did take custody of the anti-bard's lute. It turned out to be quite the lute, well made and enchanted, if too small for my hands. It seems to be made for a hobbit. I intend to clean it up and seek out the tale of its prior owner. It might, if nothing else, provide an excuse to meet the hobbits of Cranberry.
Eldrian confirmed a suspicion. He was part of a small expedition of elves on a mission assigned by their princess, a secret mission of which he will say little. We know at least four of his companions have met bad ends. I hinted that I might know more of his mission than he would like, but he clung to his secrecy so I decided to cling to mine. If the story staff his sister carried is correct, I shall meet at least two more of his companions.
We stopped at the healer's bog on the way back to Gris, correcting misunderstandings. I am not sure if diplomacy won out or bribes, but the guy's healing powers were restored at the cost of a warm cloak, a sharp dagger and many polite words.
We made it back to Gris without further incident, though not without misunderstanding. I am grown almost accustomed to cheering crowds. This time, however, my fellow warriors decided to display trophies, the severed heads of our enemies. I was content displaying the hobbit lute, though it lacked the effect achieved by the others. I find I'd rather make my place in Gris with song rather than severed heads. The procession ended at the legate's fortress. We got a mixed reaction. It was good that we had killed the ogre. It was bad that there are ogres on the island. The legate managed not to feint, and even offered Pauled a place at a celebratory feast. It was then that Pauled made his social gaffe. He seemed to presume that the rest of us would feel snubbed that we had not been invited to share a meal with the island's nobility. I at least felt relieved, not snubbed. Alas, Pauled managed to get us included in the invitation.
I feel I should offer a song or two as part of the evening's proceedings. I shall have to select the songs carefully.
Mithril
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Post by blantyr on Nov 10, 2014 9:02:39 GMT -5
Mother Dearest
Every once in a while, even brave adventurers get a day off. I decided to take three. Only three. We’re due to sail back to Regium. We have to get back if we’re going to make the ship. Still, I had heard so much of the peaceful protected hobbit town of Cranberry. I’d been wanting to visit for a while, and the chance had come. I’d forcefully acquired a hobbit made and well made lute, and a party of halflings was heading home to Cranberry anyway.
Just out of town we got to observe Mother Nature at play. It was a wrestling match of sorts, two youngsters testing their strength against one another. Alas, the youngsters were air elementals. It’s kind of hard to observe a wrestling match when one is hanging on to a tree for dear life and the participants are sorta kinda mostly invisible. One had to sort of guess the state of the game from the pattern of tree trunks falling and leaves swirling about. There were several upsides to the game. Lots of free firewood to be had afterwards. The forest in the area was kind of dark and creepy before the match, and was now just flattened. Gris’ population is growing. We might need to expand. The youngsters did clear a good bit of land for farming. Perhaps the area might become “Windy Fields.”
A fine day off, traveling through the countryside, watching the countryside flying about. Love the taste of dirt in the morning.
Stopping to watch the game did delay us, though. We settled in for the night about half way to Cranberry in as fine a bit of dark creepy woods as you could ask for. We even had a tourist feature, an ancient staircase reputed to lead to a haunted hilltop circled by standing stones. One problem sinister woods, though, is disturbing noises that tend to interrupt one’s rest. You know, creaking tree branches, wolves howling in the distance, owls asking who one is, and… hobbit females crying for help. Well, we are now experience travelers and fighters. We’ve learned to ignore most of these meaningless distractions. Alas, traveling with a paladin and a cleric, we’re still suckers for damsels in distress. Alas, too, as the others travel in heavy iron overcoats, I move the fastest and thus have the opportunity to be the biggest sucker.
Up the stairs we went. Of course the damsel in distress was visiting the tourist trap. We found her running down the stairs as fast as her little legs could carry her, screaming for help, then jumping into her flying caldron and zipping away. Suddenly, she didn’t need help anymore. Suddenly, the pursuing wargs didn’t have a potential meal available. They tried to make do with the rescue party. Our response? Of course we cried for help. To our rescue and respite came one Terry the hobbit.
He very nearly came too late. These wargs died rather easily. Terry did manage to get a few shots off before they all died. I almost apologized for making him leave his post with the other hobbits.
Victory was ours, but not the loot. Terry recognized the equipment left behind by the damsel in distress as belonging to a well known and respected hobbit witch from Cranberry. Besides, looting the damsel in distress just isn’t done.
The end of the battle didn’t bring silence, though. The woods continued being the woods, the moans, creaks and wind through the branches becoming even more intense with the fall of the wargs. Unusually intense. I never really understood this. I figure haunted circles and fell beasts exist to feast on unwary travelers. Why do they go out of their way to warn away their rightful prey? Finally, I understood. The noises weren’t a warning. They were paladin bait. What passing goody goody type could pass by without investigating obvious symptoms of pervading evil?
The rumors were correct. Hilltop. Standing stones. Haunted. Dangerous. At least haunted enchanted circles were more Pauld's and Tiberius’ department, rather than mine. I decided I was allowed to go second rather than first.
The wight felt very wrong. Another rumor proved correct. I put several arrows through it, apparently to absolutely no effect. I finally discovered why selling or giving away enchanted daggers might not be entirely a good idea. I couldn’t do a thing to the thing. Can’t say that I’ve been useless in a fight before. Maybe we keep the next enchanted blade we run across. Well, I knew enchanted circles were more Pauld’s and Tiberius’ thing. I watched the paladin’s blade and the cleric’s holy bow at work. No, I was not jealous. I was kind of happy to be judged as a non-threat. Thus drew no attention at all from the wight.
My companions’ enchanted weapons did work. Not quickly enough, I think. In the end Pauld seemed more undead than alive. I had a feeling, though, that the wight was bound to the circle. If we had retreated out of the circle we could have just walked away. Still, I felt asking Pauld to retreat was about as likely to work as shooting ordinary arrows at the wight. Not bloody likely. Pauled doesn’t seem to do ‘retreat’. Still, if Pauld was too stubborn to retreat, perhaps I could pick up his blade after he fell, and finish the battle. That seemed like a good idea, but perhaps not as good as just walking away.
Fortunately, Pauld scored a telling blow, making my own choice irrelevant.
At least it is allowed to loot a wight. We did reasonably well. Still, perhaps the hobbit witch’s stuff would prove the more valuable. I doubted the gatekeeper at Cranberry would turn us away when we had stuff to return.
So, that’s the tale of my first day off.
Mithril
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Post by blantyr on Jan 1, 2015 1:41:33 GMT -5
Siren’s Song Father’s song was never his. The Bardic College at Regium gave me his notes. There a were several songs there, some known, several of his own works, some complete, some not. One drew the eye, though, or the ear. It seems one of the Grey Isles’ moors sang a sad tale, one that drew him, haunted him, and to some extent came to haunt me. At first I didn’t understand. He was in love with an echo? I came to call the singer his paramoor. Still, the song was not one of love, but of sadness, a long and sundered sadness. It was Desna that led me to the singer, over an unusual and mystic path. I have long danced my dances to the stars. This once and once only the dance ended far from where it began, a relatively short distance in space, but many years in time. How far in the past I am even now not sure, though I am guessing I visited the eventful time or my birth, Tiberius’s and Auld’s. I visited father’s last days, and spoke with a siren carrying a bauble that was a burden. The sadness was for the siren’s daughter. Enchanted beings of her power bear children seldom, and form deep bonds when they do. In this case, the daughter had not the strength within her to bear immortality. The mother knew this, but never the less could not let her go. The Siren’s Song was a song of mourning for a love that was supposed to last forever. The song filled him, yet he couldn’t sing it properly, long though he tried. The siren said this was because he was male. No male can feel the love a mother feels for a child. He was pretentious even to listen, let alone to try to sing it. If it is any consolation, there was at least one female that father never charmed. He ended up fleeing from her, splashing across the moor, losing his lute in the journey. She told me where it lies. Someday I may try to retrieve it. Surely, a more glorious song is worth some mud and some wet? But the siren left me a larger and more urgent quest. In her youth… Nay, when she was an avian equivalent of a toddler, she was fascinated by an earring. I can’t blame her. I have held the earring, and it fascinates me. Oh, does it fascinate me. The earring is part of a royal regalia. It is meant to be worn by a queen of fey, to attract, to draw a following, and to do other things. How could a mystical infant not be drawn to such a thing? It is the queen’s action that surprised. She gave one earring to the little siren, separating the pair, rendering a major piece of the regalia useless. How does one knows how great queens think? Still, the gift was given at a feast ending a conflict between elves and sirens. For many centuries the alliance that grew from said peace has held, and not because of a royal beguilement. It held out of a true trust, so much more real than a spell trust. The infant grew up, became a mother, the mother who watched her daughter slowly die. I may have been the last to speak to her. Desna brought me to her as her time of mourning neared completeness, when all that was left was her death. I was given the earring, and asked to return it to its owners. I was told it should be freely given. As I danced my way to the past, I danced my way home. I’d like to claim some credit for the dance. I couldn’t begin to repeat it. I am no mistress of time. I found myself back on the beach, enchanted by a gem and a bit of twisted metal. Why to people think I’m a questing beast? Sink that pirate ship! Slay the fey-demon! Free the shrine! The thing was useless, and likely priceless. If I happened to be of the correct royal blood, and I happened to have the other one as well, perhaps then I could rule with grace and wisdom. If if if if if. So, the quest was to get rid of the thing, the sooner the better, but with respect to the siren, the queen, and the daughter. If there was one consolation, it was useful in sedating small fey. Littlefey was eager to stare at it four hours, half tranced, half high and half dizzy. (I must admit not being much better, perhaps a third tranced, a third high, a third dizzy.) Fortunately, I had two possible paths to getting rid of the thing. First, there was a group of elves on the island, wandering the wild near Gris, stumbling into various types of trouble. In our travels, we had encountered the remnants of their gear, their corpses, and one survivor. They seemed to be looking for something. I guessed it was the earring they were pursuing. If so, perhaps I would not have to sail three of the seven seas in order to get The Thing home. Second, I had a story staff, a piece of gear the elves had lost in one of their skirmishes. I don’t know, perhaps it was as old as the earrings, but it wrote upon itself the earring’s story. Alas, it wrote upon itself in an archaic script. While Tiberius and I attempted translation, the work was never complete and never entirely certain. Never the less, the last bit of the staff’s prophecy (or preemptive history) seemed real enough. An elf maiden was to be given the earring by the siren. She would encounter three elves. One would try to take the earring. One would try to kill her for the earring. The third was the proper keeper of the earring, the one who should properly bear it. OK. Wonderful. Why couldn’t that somebody try to kill Auld? I mean, he’s built for that sort of thing. He’e be all enthusiastic about trying to return the favor. Why me? But that sort of doom wasn’t to be passed away so easily. Promptly enough, one came to take the earring, a sorceress, a potent one by local standards, who stole the staff easily enough, though not the earring. I went into pursuit, chasing down the staff stealer in a mild comedy of errors. I thought I was pursuing though darkness and wild a friend turned thief. He turned out to be a kidnapping victim, so I rescued him instead of accusing him. Anyway, I never had to confront the sorceress. Auld and Tiberius were so certain that she was an agent sent by the old legate that they confronted her for me. She teleported away in frustration rather than try to explain that she was pursuing an entirely different nefarious plot. I almost didn’t have the heart to explain it to Auld and Tiberius. With the one trying to take the ear ring gone, that left the one who would try to kill me for it. No sweat. I would just be full time fearful and paranoid. I checked for him hiding behind the nearest tree, then cautiously approached the next nearest tree… But it turned into me going to him rather than him to me. We knew the elves had landed near Cranberry. This was one of several reasons to visit Cranberry. Of course, we learned our fathers had been there before us, and got to see the small cage where the grey witch had imprisoned them. The hobbits thought this funny. They had liked our fathers, but seemingly liked the grey witch more. We learned a bit more of the witch’s tale. There had been a power play in Regium at the time the witches were defeated. We had heard the version of the tale the victors had gotten to write. The witches might not have been quite so evil as we had heard. We learned Cranberry’s protectors, the witch and a powerful druid, had vanished about the same time as our fathers. We’ve begun to wonder if they all vanished trying to deal with the same threat. We also returned to Cranberry’s church a well made lute made for a small one’s hands, and received a gift in return. And we learned where the elves where, at the Red Shoals, a small island group a short sail away. Fine. The shoals were more or less on the way to Regium, which was our next stop. In the best of all possible worlds, I could return the ear ring and sail away before the guy looking to kill me could find me. We also made preliminary plans for Cranberry and Gris to work together. Trade would be established and the road patrolled. The could call on us if they discovered a threat lurking in the woods. If funds needed to be raised for defense or trade, they might resume old tax traditions. Lord Auld mentioned being Warden of the Grey Marshes, but didn’t try to push great authority. He handled it as I thought he ought, providing aid in defense and in economic matters rather that seeking authority or tax gathering rights. The hobbits of Cranberry seemed to be traditionalist. They remembered being part of a proper nation and seemed ready to return to that role. Finally, it was decided that nasty dangerous tree branches overhanging the road between Gris and Cranberry, branches hanging at the height of an elf maiden riding a horse, must certainly be cut down. They provided a hazard to life and self respect that needed to be dealt with. Very important. Branches aside, we were off the the Red Shoals. We knew much about what was to come, but the tale the prophecy staff told was incomplete. It told of a modestly sized elf maiden carrying the ear ring. It did not mention a single thing about dragon turtles. Now, I would not say why they are called dragon turtles, except they are big like a dragon and hard like a turtle. Most impressive. Fortunately the one we met on the way to the Red Shoals was more chatty than hungry. He liked music and enchanted trinkets. He had no great fondness for pirates. The encounter turned quite mellow, and we persuaded him to provide aid should the elves on the Red Shoals require it. He did not, however, specify the precise nature of the aid. Otherwise, we might not have been quite so pleased with ourselves. It turns out, the elves required aid. We approached the shoals at dusk and observed a siege in progress. The pirates had a catapult mounted on their ship. The elves were defending an old tower. The catapult seemed to be winning. With the dragon turtle no where to be seen and the captain of our own ship not eager to sail in range of the catapult, we loaded a relief party in our small boat. Our quiet plan was to row quietly up to the pirate ship and quietly take out the catapult, then consider quietly moving inland to quietly break the siege. The dragon turtle apparently doesn’t do “quietly”. He preferred quickly. As we approached the ship, the surf came up, and we found our plans speeding up considerably. Let’s just say that the reputed slowness of turtles is vastly exaggerated, or at least so it seems when one’s boat is suddenly out of the water, balancing on shell back. There was a great crash as we reached our intended destination, the starboard side of the pirate ship. There was a second slightly lesser crash as we reached the port side. There was then a splash as we reach the ocean again, a shallow part, the small gap between the pirate ship and the beach. The last crash seemed slightly less jarring than the prior three. We didn’t significantly damage the island. And so the order was given. “To the rear…. charge!” Turtles. I figured that if we pretended that everything was going exactly as planned the pirates would be impressed. At least on the shore side of the ship, the pirates had left nice convenient gangplanks for us to storm up. There was some serious swordplay. We were less disoriented and confused than they, though not by a lot. Excepting the catapult engineer, their best men were attacking the castle. In short order we had ourselves a ship and a catapult. We couldn’t resist playing with the catapult. We divided our meager forces, myself among a group moving quickly inland while several thought to lob a few stones inland before joining us. As it turned out, they did rather well with one of the three shots they got off. One stone landed squarely in the middle of the enemy’s left flank. Somehow, perhaps because I am a little faster than the others, I was the first to reach the enemy rear. Where to go? The left had been catapulted. The center seemed to have their best people, including a cleric, a mage and a drow. The right seemed to have one swordsman who could afford better clothing than the rest, but was mostly ordinary seamen. I figured I wasn’t up to charging solo into their central command group, so I went right. The rest of our merry gang seemingly decided I needed to be rescued. Everybody went right, following me, leaving their main body unengaged. It worked. Sort of. Tiberius won a spell duel with their mage. We were able to significantly weaken their right flank before reinforcements came in from their center. They couldn’t seem to get through Lord Auld’s armor. With everyone clumped together, the catapult had no target. Thus, our detached catapult crew soon joined the melee. I resolved to cut down as many as I could while keeping my mouth shut. I didn’t care for the prophecy that someone would try to kill me and take the ear ring. I had deduced that the drow was the one who had this role. In a true Great Tale I would announce that I had the ear ring, we would exchange dire words, then there would be a great sword duel decided by a final clever twist of a blade. Fortunately this wasn’t a Great Tale. The drow seemed to be having as much trouble as every one else getting through Auld’s armor. Things seemed rather nice from my perspective with the drow blissfully ignorant of the ear ring’s location. I’m confident that one day I’ll have another opportunity to sing of a Great Tale, preferably one where someone else is the center of the prophecy and the swordplay. It turned out to be the oracle’s prophecy, the leader of the elven band. While in the end we triumphed, it was not before the elven leader took an arrow that couldn’t be healed. The elven way seems different from the human. After a human triumph, there seems to be much great cheering, a feast, and perhaps they try to knock themselves off horses with sticks. We elves seem to shed tears as a great one dies. I was able to giver her the ear ring. My quest was complete. I told her the siren’s tale, and sang her the Siren’s Song. Three deaths. The siren mother, the siren daughter and the elven oracle who had given the ear ring away ever so long ago. I had not thought to complete the Siren’s Song, or at least a lesser shadow of it that a lesser being might almost sing. Now I will have to. The prophecy staff crumbled to dust on the ear ring’s return. It can no longer tell that tale. I think I must. The elves took custody of the drow, one of the few pirates that survived the battle. I thought briefly to gloat, to tell him how and why he failed. I wasn’t in the mood. Of what import was he? I had a song to write, to be set loose upon the world. This seemed more important than glory or taunting. They gave me a blade, a blade that had been carried by one who had fallen. I suppose I must now do it honor. For now, though, it seems of less import than the ashes of prophecy and a song not yet sung.
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Post by blantyr on Feb 19, 2015 23:52:49 GMT -5
Mother Dearest
Did I write to you of missing gems? Lord Sir Pauled The Great, Champion of Regium, Warder of the Grey Mashes, and Knocker of Knights Off Horses has a scabbard. A fancy scabbard. A fancy scabbard with place holder where three gems ought to be. Alas, in the Time of Our Fathers these gems were removed by assorted scum and rivals. According to the tales, if all three gems are restored to their proper place, the Sword of Auled will be summoned to its scabbard. In pursuing these tales, we had recovered the first of the three gems some time ago.
Today we went after the second.
But did the Troll holding the gem live conveniently just out of town? No. Of course not. He had to live at the end of the East Road, the hazardous road, The-Road-Not-Taken.
What sort of hazards? Well, the greatest of hazards is the Dragon who lives in the Marsh. Old. Not friendly. Knocks down towers just to make a point. Well, the point might be considered important from a dragon’s point of view. “Thou shalt not attempt to slay dragons.” Anyway, she might or might not care that much if people do or do not throw copper pieces in the marsh to appease her, but does care if someone starts systematically dredging for said coppers. She is said to be bigger than a breadbox. We decided to take no chances and throw our copper pieces in her honor. Actually, I decided to splurge, and threw a silver.
But the other hazards were undetermined. You know. Lions and tigers and bears. The usual sort of haunted forest stuff.
Our other hazard, or at least project, was a goat. Our research in hunting trolls suggested they have a culinary fondness for the toughest of all goats. As I understand it, these goats are so tough that one can chew on them for a month and they will still have body and flavor. I don’t know. I haven’t tried it. I value my molars. Still, off we went with an extra mule towing a goat in a cage. I was just glad that for once our opponent didn’t consider the finest of all meats to be maiden elf.
In addition to the goat, we had another new being with us, a spice merchant and mage, Caleb North. We had met in Regium, where it seemed he had undisclosed reasons to be somewhere else. Even Gris seemed a plausible destination. Well, he has a valid excuse for visiting the island. The hobbits specialize in eating, which implies an interest in herbs, spices and whatnot. However, I expect he is not purely a spice merchant, or not entirely so. He may be one of those urban rangers, an adventurer whose abilities are based more on quickness than strength, though more on dark alleys than forests.
At least he was not too dismayed when it turned out we weren’t heading west towards hobbits and spices, but east towards dragons and trolls. Well, one dragon and one troll, anyway.
The Road-Not-Taken isn’t much worth taking. To the left, a magnificent view of a haunted forest. To the right, a desolate cold and miserable salt marsh. Ahead, a troll bridge. This tourist unfriendly expanse was interrupted eventually by a shrine. An old shrine. It is currently a shrine to the dragon, though who, when and why it was originally build, I don’t know. The old tradition - from way back once upon a time when the Road-Not-Taken was taken - one presented coin, some similar token of appeasement or a willingness to grovel. We opted for the coin. This would hopefully be sufficient to satisfy Her. This appeared sufficient. The marsh did not rise in a torrent of acidic mud.
We did have a discussion on the propriety of looting non-gifts. One poor pilgrim had died at the shrine many many years prior. What was still on the body hadn’t been given to the dragon formally and was therefore open to being looted, right? On the other hand, the spear sticking up in the mud a bit out in the marsh had been given to the dragon? Well, it might have been thrown at something, but did we know it was a gift to dragon? Anyway, we decided to loot the body but not the spear. Ah, the subtle and unexpected moral problems one encounters in the Wild.
I have trouble imaging the dragon rolling over in her sleep, dreaming of looters, with the possibility of wakefulness depending on how disrespectful the dream looters are. There doesn’t seem to be a song in it.
There was a basilisk, though. We debated the morality and prudence of looting a bit too long. The basilisk decided we would make a nice crunchy snack. We handled things in our usual manner. Sir Pauled directly confronted with Tiberius in support. Caleb contributed with his bow. I considered a novel new approach… running away and leaving the poor critter alone. Alas, the rest of the gang didn’t like my plan, and I ended up being more than a little stiff for a while.
Which provided a distraction for Littlefey.
It seems I haven’t been keeping the poor dear entertained enough lately. She has been seeking out animals to converse with. In this case, she befriended a goat, the toughest of all goats, and explained that these big nasty humans were using him as troll bait. He didn’t seem to appreciate the idea. Littlefey implemented a simple little escape plan. If the size of the goat was made much smaller, and the distance between bars in the cage remained the same, the cage wouldn’t work very well, would it?
We soon found ourselves in pursuit of the island’s smallest goat.
I say we, but I was in the lead. The others a good at this thing or that, but I was the only one who could follow tiny little hoof prints. I found the nay sayer, signaled the others to hold back, then circled around to try to drive the goat into ambush. Nice plan. I was very quiet. I worked myself around into driving position. A voice spoke in my mind.
“Who are you?”
It was an owl. A big owl. Owls have this reputation for wisdom. It might well be this guy’s fault. He was rather impressive. I explained that I was Mithril of nowhere-in-particular, called up the others, and began a curious conversation. Pauled explain in his persuasive well thought out manner that he owned the goat and was using it in the hunting of a troll.
The owl, not nearly as wise as he outwardly seemed, could not seem to comprehend the idea that animals can be ‘owned’. While he was apparently neutral, taking the side of the wild, standing apart from the quarrels between Good and Evil, he was sympathetic with the idea of hunting trolls. Neutral or not, it is easy to dislike trolls. Still, how could we ask our goat companion to give up his life for our quest?
“Well,” I answered. “If the troll wants to take the goat’s life, he will have to go through us first.”
This, Pauled’s diplomatic manners and the goat’s agreement allowed us to go on. The owl did know of the troll, and gave us warning of several tricks and traps we might expect. I resolved that we would have to protect the goat, and we parted company with the owl.
The troll’s place was as the owl described it. There was a ravine centered on a stream that led to the nearby sea. There was a half ruined bridge to be crossed, a battle plain, then a cavern that would be the troll’s lair. We thought to use the goat to draw the troll away from the lair. Otherwise he had a habit of leaping upon visitors from above. I scouted briefly, confirmed that the plan looked good. Forward the goat. At this time, as the plan made first contact with the enemy, the plan died.
Would the world’s toughest goat taunt a troll from a nice safe distance then skip behind its human protectors? Naaay. The world’s toughest goat would charge the troll.
How does one explain this to a large owl? If this owl was oh so wise, would he not have warned us?
Fortunately, amazingly, totally unexpectedly, Littlefay did something useful. Her self assigned role in this little adventure was that of goat rider. She thought goat rider a fine role, but was less pleased as goat cavalry. While I could see the goat impacting the troll’s stomach with great vigor, I would not expect a rookie goat rider to hold her seat. Whether in concern for the goat or for herself, Littlefey convinced the goat that charging a troll was not a good idea, at least not with his support waiting back in the rear at ambush.
So, the goat retreated, the ambush charged, the troll counter charged, and the usual sort of mayhem and bloodshed commenced. Pauld did his best to hold the troll’s attention, but I got clobbered anyway. I am very pleased that the troll didn’t decide to clobber me twice, at least not until Tiberius provided healing.
I provided a few little blows, Pauld a few larger ones, Caleb contributed arrows. Eventually the troll went down for the first time. We all knew about this “first time” thing. What had to be done was obvious. One of use would keep hacking, and hopefully keep him down for a while. Another would remove his armor, armor that featured a gem of fire resistance, a gem whose proper place was upon Pauld’s scabbard. I figure that as Pauld was best at bashing things, I would go for the gem. Once the gem was removed it would be time for Tiberius, Caleb, oil and fire.
But, no. That was Pauld’s gem. Pauld would recover Pauld’s gem. I would do the hack and slash part.
I have mentioned I received a new sword? It doesn’t have a bejeweled scabbard, nor is it the blade of my father, but I was told that every once in a while it would provide the skill and energy to perform a truly telling series of blows. I sort of knew this intellectually, but had no clue as to when and how it might happen. Then it happened. One moment, there was a troll there. The next, there were many severed bits of scrambled goat feed.
They also mentioned that one might get tired after such a bust of energy happens. I didn’t know how that would feel, either. You know, we rangers are supposed to be able to run great distances, swim wide rivers and otherwise endure more than your typical every day adventurer. We’re supposed to be as tough as certain goats. Perhaps so. However, not after making goat feed. While the others went for their flasks of oil, I took a little time out to, you know, breath.
So, OK, the goat was saved, the owl would be pleased, Pauld had his gem, and there was one less troll around. Time to go home. Write a song. Sing it while drinking wine at a place of honor near the Old Hiss’s fireplace. We might clog dance with hobbits, right?
Not quite. While righting the wrongs of the Time of Our Fathers, we seem to be accidentally restoring civilization to the island. The town at the end of the Road-not-Travelled was part of the island. We might have to clear it out some day.
Perhaps we ought to look the place over, see how it is populated, and maybe do a little preliminary cleansing?
Or maybe we’ll find an old inn with a usable fireplace and a dance floor.
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Post by blantyr on Apr 27, 2015 7:56:05 GMT -5
Mommy Dearest
Yeoowww…
Is my room at home still free?
You likely won’t get this for a while. Winter tiptoes south sooner here than at home, and no ships will be coming to call. I’ll likely be making more sense of what’s been going on later. Future letters may even be coherent. Still, I thought we were slowly and reasonably progressing. Pauld became a knight. Tiberius has a parish of sort. I even won my very first bardic contest tonight, defeating an unusually skilled dwarf tuba player who can buzz his lips at both ends of his digestive track!
But over the last week we’ve been taken down a notch or three.
We met a naga. A lunar naga, a student of stars and the future. I’ve been following Desna, and have done well I think with song and some with roads and luck. I haven’t been studying the stars and seeing the paths of fate as written in the sky. The naga has also been on the island a long time, knows much of its history and has lived such history for what seems to us youngsters to be a very long time. She spoke of much of that history.
First there were troglodytes, lizard people, who lived here a long time under the protection of their gods.
Then there were barbarians, followers of Odin and his clan, who claimed the troglodyte city, though not without battle. It was then that the lizard people called for help of other lizards, including a young black dragon who seems to be here still. The troglodytes were defeated. They are still here. We have spoken with one. They are but a remnant, though.
Then came the orcs. The orcs and barbarians fought hard and long, very nearly to a standstill. The no longer young dragon took the Orc’s part, opposing the descendants of those who took down her lizard kin. The gods of the north provided aid to the barbarians. The norsemen ‘won’ more or less, holding the city as their own for a time, but the humans had corrupted themselves with undeath in the taking of their victory while the orcs retreated to the highlands. Neither people were strong enough after their war to dominate the island. Both remain on the island, but only as remnants.
The weakening of the earlier races left the door open for Regium to gain influence, though they too ran afoul of the dragon, and they used the island as a dumping ground for a cult of their own witches. The isle is not in high repute now, and perhaps never was.
That’s the short version. I think I shall be spending all winter crafting the long version. The naga told us much. It was pleasant knowing there was one on the island greater than us who seemed willing to converse and speak of the history.
On the way home to Gris we discovered another of great power dwelling in the area. I saw another unicorn. OK? I am never going to be a great beauty? I will forever nothing more than shining grey, and can’t ever aspire ever to snowy glistening white? I am small, slow and clumsy? I am not pure at all.
But the unicorn is here, even if none of the males will believe me. Celevon loves me anyway, and I can out play a dwarf instrumentalist who can buzz two pairs of lips. I am not entirely without worth?
I may also have learned when to do nothing.
Hobbits… They can be both wise and foolish, brave and not so much. I have spoken to you of Tia, inn keep and prima clog dancer at the Old Hiss? She has a family recipe book, written by her grandfather, a mage and contemporary of the last Grey Witch of the island. After preparing a very good meal for her guests, she prepared an even greater one for herself. Blueberry ale. If I do nothing else over the winter, I shall have to get you the brewing instructions for blueberry ale. There were other things as well, glazed ham, pea soup, a pie… At any rate, the food as spell components anchored a ritual to acquire great wisdom that took the form of preparing a meal as perhaps only a hobbit could.
She thought that if she would eat the meal, the spell would bring her wisdom. I suspected that the meal would be the price of a wise person’s coming. I even suspected who would come. The writer of the spell was a follower of the Grey Witch after all.
Should I let Tia continue? Did we really want to meet the Grey Witch? I decided I did want to meet the witch, and raised no objections. We had conversed with the naga well enough. What problems could a witch possibly bring?
About the time the thunder shook the building, the fear spell overwhelmed all of us and the door came crashing in, I was reconsidering… I am told that the Grey Witches were not witches. They were wizards, working magic from a wizard’s theories and traditions. I may understand why the witch name might have been attached to them. It is a simple spelling error. Somebody, at some point, started writing their title with a leading “W” instead of the properly descriptive and more technically accurate leading “B”.
Did she thank Tia for freeing her from a spell prison of her own making that had held her captive for 30 years? No. Of course not. She complained of not enough pepper in the pea soup.
If she didn’t care for the meal, I would have happily have sampled the blueberry ale.
There is a big difference between the three wondrous being we’ve encountered recently. The Naga you could sit down and share a glass of wine with. Or a barrel of wine, even. In fact, we did so. We found a barrel of some really good stuff that might go at 100 gold a glass in the right royal court. In one sitting a half dozen of us knocked off a good sized chunk of the barrel. We shared a good deal of talk and fellowship. Not only did she turn out to be a regular naga, but she knew of a river, close at hand, that can cure hangovers and crypt rot.
The unicorn, however, made me feel utterly inadequate in a wonderful sort of way.
The witch? I feel like I’ve joined an army, an army of the sort where the sergeants yell at everybody and expect orders to be obeyed instantly and without question. Up to this point, Tiberius, Pauld and I have been drifting in our father’s footsteps. We kinda sorta knew where we were going, but making it up as we go along. This witch (I will stick with the W version of her title) has an agenda. It seems really hard to tell her agenda from our agenda, but she has serious presumptions about who is in charge and what comes next. As you might just maybe possibly recall, we devout loyal followers of Desna don’t much like being told what to do. (You do remember that? Is this true of just Desna followers or of all daughters?) I suspect I may have to develop a delusion that her agenda just happens to correspond with mine, and that I am manipulating her to suit my needs.
Delusions can be useful too.
I hope.
Meanwhile, I now appreciate that of the Three Fathers — why do the humans tend to speak of of four fathers? — I can now appreciated Dad as the least of idiots. The witch told the Three Fathers not to cross the river. They crossed the river anyway. She has had 30 years behind a set of tight wards to decide who to blame. I have never heard her once bless in fond memory memory the Lord Auld. In fact, she was rather firm in denouncing responsible for all disaster Pauld son of Auld. I was convinced by her, almost, that this is all Pauld’s fault, that Pauld is an idiot, that Pauld deserves to be separated from his skin through the force of verbal discourse alone. Somehow Pauld is even responsible, I do not doubt, for the lack of sufficient pepper in the pea soup.
Father too might be an idiot, but I finally feel that he is my idiot, the least of idiots, that I am thus somehow less responsible than Pauld or Tiberius for all ills of the world since the coming of the dragon. I am insignificant! Unimportant! A minor nuisance!
At last.
I do have a song to write. The people of the island, and not just the residents of Gris, know far too little of their history. I, on the other hand, know more, perhaps, than I really want to. I must share my burden. Anyway, there seems to be a need for an epic saga. I shall start with the troglodytes, I think, though there were elves here before even them. (It is not all Pauld’s fault, really. The troglodytes should have left the elves in charge way-back-when. I will likely spend all winter on it, unless my new Lady and Mistress requires a quest into the clouds or something like that.
I think I shall have no time to learn to play the Twoba. This is just as well as I need my upper lips for singing.
Mithril
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Post by blantyr on Jun 6, 2015 20:21:32 GMT -5
Mommy Dearest
I fought my very first dragon today.
I was already on my way to heaven when the fight started. Well, perhaps not strictly heaven, but the City of the Cloud Giants is close enough. It sits on an upside down mountain floating some way high up. How high does a mountain have to be so it can’t bee seen from Earth? Anyway, it’s high. Quite high enough. Further than I wanted to fall, I assure you. I was being very careful not to get close to the edge of our borrowed flying carpet.
It was a white dragon. We were flying through a white cloud. It’s breath was white. I soon felt white. The fight started… Whoosh! What? Duck! Watch out! Where did it go? Was that a dragon? By the time I figured out whether I should draw sword or ready bow, it was already gone and we were all the worse for wear.
But it wasn’t a crippling single attack. The little monster — well, little for a dragon anyway — was a youngster. Our healer managed to restore much of our health after the first time he came through. And after the second time he came through. And after the third time he came through.
About the time I started to wonder how long Tiberius could keep us going, the dragon decided he had had quite enough of poor Tiberius. Rather than breath and move away, the decided he’d fly right alongside Tiberius and end this healing nonsense.
Now, the rest of us hadn’t been quite idle. Celeb tried to thaw the frozen carpet and burn the dragon with a single spell. I think he even succeeded. Twice the dragon got close enough for me to swing a blade at, and twice I drew blood. I was at least contributing. Sir Pauled was doing better. Not that he was hitting more than I. He was just in full scale paladin mode, protected by spells, strengthened by spells and drawing a good deal of blood.
We must have presented a tough choice for the dragon. Would he go after Sir Pauled, the only one who was really hurting him, but a tough opponent? Or would he take out the healer?
He took out the healer. A claw and a bite and Tiberius went down hard. Celeb had to apply the practical method of force feeding a healing potion to an unconscious man.
But the choice to go after the healer might have been the wrong call for the dragon. In delivering those fell strikes, the dragon left himself open to Sir Pauled, who made the best of his chance. After that fell blow I was thinking that perhaps one more blow we might finish him. I was actually hoping for the chance, even though that would get me awfully close to those teeth.
The dragon didn’t wait for the blow to come. We never got the chance. He must have noted the fierce glint in my eye, the way I was holding my sword, the intense determination I was feeling. Or perhaps he was looking at Sir Pauled. Regardless, he just folded his wings and was gone, a white blur in a white cloud.
It became very quiet. And very cold. And very wet.
I had always thought dragon fighting would be a great thing done by great heroes. I have daydreamed about observing such great deeds, of writing songs, of singing them at feasts. It didn’t occur to me as I rehearsed drafts of such songs on the beach for the mermaids that I might feel obligated to draw sword and wade into the fight.
And how does one write a great epic song about being soggy?
We did make it to heaven, or at least the Cloud Giant City. There were Siren wings flashing in the sun, a winged bull circling, a wall of statues, and a nigh on endless plane of flowers with sentient bees tending and harvesting. It was grand. It was glorious.
I was still very soggy. It is good that heaven has hot baths.
Your feeling warmer daughter… Mithril
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Post by blantyr on Jun 14, 2015 22:58:17 GMT -5
These are essentially adventure reports, with my character Mithril writing letters back to her mother after her more interesting adventures. There is a definitely editorial slant on these. Mithril wants mother relaxed and not worrying so she emphasizes the humor.
Joe offered "brownie points" for people who do adventure write ups. I like brownie points.
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Post by blantyr on Jun 16, 2015 1:43:55 GMT -5
Mother Dearest
Back home again. Yes. This island is beginning to feel like home, especially when compared to heaven. We went up on a flying carpet, and came down on the back of a gold dragon. Therein lies a tale, a tale for another day.
At least Celevon has forgiven me for riding another mount, not that I would consider Venera the Golden to be ‘my’ mount. I don’t know if my gift of really fast horseshoes has anything to do with that. We are looking forward to a run on the beach.
But I was once again flipping through the pages of Ye Olde Trusty Ranger’s Guide, and noted an option. An interesting option. A choice. Normally, one would think in the long term when choosing one’s training.
But there is only a long term if one survives tomorrow.
Mithril
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Post by blantyr on Jul 27, 2015 22:43:08 GMT -5
Mother Dearest
I shall in time stop shivering, I think. I hope. The Old Hiss has a big fire roaring away. I’ll be fine so long as shivering can’t be caused by memories.
I have been studying Minotaurs recently. The Ranger books have much to say about them, mostly bad. They have one redeeming quality not mentioned in the books. Their mazes break the wind. One is less likely to shake one’s self to death once one gets inside their maze. A redeeming feature, yes, though it does not counterbalance the rest of it.
Our various information sources, divine and otherwise, told us we had to strike at the minotaur in mid winter. You know, I’d heard of northern winters. I thought they sounded like a good time to rest up, to catch up on song writing and instrument practice, on cider drinking and clog dancing. When we returned from our visit with the troll, I sort of made a big deal of collapsing in front of the fire and relaxing. It was a good feeling… for a few hours. Minutes? Seconds? Then the Grey Witch showed up and quite promptly got us going. We wanted to visit the cloud giants, right?
Right?
We did visit, and brought her back a skien of cloud silk which she spun into the most useful spool of thread ever. If you ever need to get into the heart of a Minotaur lair, and then out again, definitely visit your friendly neighborhood Grey Witch. Make sure you really really need to get to the center of a Minotaur lair first. You might otherwise want to avoid Grey Witches.
Actually, she isn’t as bad as she pretends to be. She thinks hobbits need protecting, and has an amazing amount of patience when confronted by hobbit love. Poor thing. They are so appreciative, yet she hasn’t fried them yet, even when they don’t put enough pepper in her soup. Thirty years in prison, waiting to be served the most perfect of all possible meals… and no pepper in the pea soup.
But that’s another tale. She was in a hurry. It followed that we were in a hurry. The demon who is apparently seeking control of the island seemed to have noticed the death of the troll. He started mustering forces for battle in the spring. We were told it wasn’t prudent to wait until these forces were mustered. This seemed to be good advice, but on the other hand there was two feet of snow on the ground. I carefully measured that this was precisely one foot eleven inches too many. Still, one last preemptive warming by the Old Hiss fire, and off we went.
Did I mention it was cold?
So there I was, trundling along, following hint of a path somewhere buried in flakes, when I topped a rise and encountered a rather large bear. Nice bear, I commented, lying. He really wasn’t a very nice bear. Enjoy your wonderful venison, I commented, retreating back towards my humans. I suggested that venison ought to be far tastier than a thin scrawny elf. He was unconvinced. Apparently an elf over the rise is worth more than a deer already half consumed. I retreated, fending him off, looking for a chance to step clear and summon divine protection.
I never did get a chance to summon divine protection. I tried to step back, but Lord Pauled was behind, moving up to come to my aid. Ah well. Fine. Wonderful. Thanks for the aid. Then he leaped into the fray, and I tried to step back, only to be blocked by Father Tiberius. He was just trying to be helpful. When one is being mauled by a bear it is not politic to complain about the holy man trying to keep one alive. Anyway, with friends like this, what can one do? I seemed to have one obvious choice.
I tried to kill the bear.
I still haven’t figured out my new sword. Every once in a while it guides my hands through a dance of death that is amazing to be inside and a bane to one’s enemies. Does it happen by luck? Is it in part a matter of skill, that I must start the perfect dance such that the sword might continue it? I don’t know. I really don’t know. I love my sword. It is very very helpful, just like my friends who were firmly standing behind me. I was suddenly standing next to a shredded and bleeding bear who did not like me at all. Not one bit.
Sir Pauled tried his best to draw it’s attention. He’s normally good at that sort of thing. Six foot plus of holy wrath and dominating personality, he normally get’s the paladin’s share of the attention.
Not this time. The bear really didn’t like me.
There were, however, more of us than there were of bear. Leave Sir Pauled free and he will make you pay. It’s kind of a painful process, but Father Tiberius can heal nigh on as quickly as a really big bear can harm. At any rate, the bear in time went down and I began to notice again how cold it was.
After the bear came the wolves. Four of them. Five of us. We had numbers, right? I chose my opponent and glanced about to see how the humans were deploying.
Two of them were climbing trees.
Ah, well. I danced the dance and tried to keep track of everything going on. First thing, the wolves had a breath weapon. Yes. You guessed it. Suddenly I was a lot colder. Well, so was everybody, including those who hadn’t gotten high enough up in a tree. Caleb, our mage, started melting snow. I think he was trying to melt wolf, but they have rather big teeth and tend to make one nervous. Young John, our new fighter, thought it the right time to learn to fly. He didn’t succeed, but he came down dagger first on a wolf’s back. Sir Pauled dispatched his foe and came to the assistance of a fellow party member. Unfortunately, this time it wasn’t me. Caleb tried to find out if he could climb faster than a wolf could leap. He was doing OK until he ran out of tree. Shortly we came to each win our individual fights. Shortly, we came to hear more wolves approaching in more numbers than I cared to think about.
Caleb had spotted some sort of fire burning over a nearby rise. We fought a running battle, not knowing where we were running to, but knowing we couldn’t make our stand in the open, hoping for some sort of any sort of sanctuary. A sanctuary it turned out to be. It was the island of the troglodyte witch, with a bright fire surrounding her goddess’s statue. We slew a few of the wolves vanguard and gratefully slid over the frozen stream that surrounded the island.
Just so you know, crispy frog isn’t a troglodyte delicacy. It is a sign that a witch hasn’t quite forgiven one for putting an arrow into her. Troglodyte revenge can be in poor taste. Still, we were glad for the fire about the statue, and glad that the wolves didn’t try to cross the frozen stream. We talked for a time. I learned that though the witch was normally neutral, she didn’t normally take sides in the various contests for control of the island, that her gods had guided her to come to our aid. I told her of our travels, of our visit to the old Troglodyte city, of the oracle in the City of the Cloud Giants, about the pending waking of the Black Dragon. She spoke of old tales and prophecy. Yes, her people had originally called the dragon. Yes, it would waken and fight three great battles, including the one about to come.
Apparently the little skirmish that flattened the tower of the Regium tax collector doesn’t count.
We escaped the woods through a tunnel. Yes. You guessed it. It was cold. It was wet. It was muddy. It was dark. It was… just typical for this journey. It ended at a hilltop set of standing stones, a witch’s circle. These were of course defended by witchy undead, who of course commanded an aspect of… cold. Pretty little ice necklaces. Frozen claws whose cold went right though armor which proved of no use at all. Father Tiberius never stepped clear of the tunnel, casting healing spells from its protection. The rest of us danced with the various wights, I had one, most of the others drew two.
It was, of course, cold. I was really beginning to dislike cold. I am coming to appreciate Lord Kyle’s tropical island more than when I left. In the end there was a series of decisive moves. The mage, exhausted of spell, drew sword and entered close combat to support Sir Pauled. Brave of him, in his own humble opinion. Shortly after, I got a blow right, and was rewarded by my sword guiding me through several more blows. This scattered fragmented icicles all across the hilltop. Sir Pauled followed up with a spectacular double blow of his own, decisively smashing the last two wights standing.
The fireplace at the Old Hiss was very very far away. How far away can something be on a small island? You’d be surprised. It was very far away. I made do with a pitiful imitation fire in the lee of a bush. The ranger books at least teach one how to light a fire in the snow.
The next day brought us to the old battlefield. There was old equipment scattered about. The stream was frozen and hidden, it’s enchantments subdued. I found an enchanted arrow that had somehow survived all those years, and promptly broke it. Sir Pauled and Father Tiberius somehow managed to break the veil separating the living from the dead, and took knowledge from one who was long ago lost. With his help they found Lord Auld’s old battle standard, a griffon banner of Regium. Meanwhile, I knew what we were looking for from my studies… a large mound of thorns which was the Minotaur labyrinth. I announced my knowledge, declared the path we would take, strode off with confidence into the snow, only to be stopped by a tap on my shoulder.
“Isn’t that it over there?”
Sometimes, studying the enemy just doesn’t pay off as smoothly as one would like.
The grey witch’s spool of thread worked magnificently, which was just as well as my mind felt quite numb. As I said, the thorns at least stopped the bulk of the howling wind. We came in time to the heart of the maze. There, all sorts of important goals and wonders were present. The Minotaur’s table was surrounded by treasures. The tree imprisoning the Great Druid was in the center of the room. About the minotaurs neck one could see the third and final gem Sir Pauled need to summon his father’s blade. The minotaur himself was another of the slayers of our fathers, who would be avenged by his death. And glory of glories, hail and hallelujah, if we could only triumph here, we would be able to start back to the Old Hiss’s fire.
It began with words, and progressed quickly to lightning and fire. Sir Pauled and the Minotaur were properly and elegantly pompous. Sir Pauled accented the end of his speech with thunder. Caleb followed up with fire. There were three minotaurs and we had three warrior that might hope to stand against them, at least if Father Tiberius could ease our wounds. Sir Pauled, I’m not sure how, was suddenly larger than normal, and making appropriately large holes in the minotaurs. I worked to the right flank, hoping to only face one opponent at a time while presenting opportunity for others to work to my opponent’s rear. Young John stepped into the center to protect the mage and cleric. Our flanks were covered by the briars. It seemed a fairly straight forward fight, to be decided seemingly by skill with the blade rather than by maneuver.
Then Young John accepted my invitation to strike at my partner’s rear and there was a resulting hole in the middle of our skirmish line. The big bull accepted that invitation, and stepped up to where he had a choice of targeting Celeb, Tiberius or Pauled. I had my original partner between myself and our center. I had to make the double team with Young John work quickly so we could both provide aid to the center. For a while it was tense.
Sir Pauled graciously attempted to draw as much attention to himself as possible, to a great deal succeeding, drawing attention from two opponents. Father Tiberius kept him standing up, barely. Young John and myself did what we could with our opponent, yet he fought on. It was the front line mage Caleb who stepped up, felling both the leader and the right flank minotaur with spells. This freed up John and I to surround the last standing opponent. It was suddenly over.
Or almost over. We had to free and make acquaintance with the druid. Sir Pauled need to summon and make acquaintance with his father’s sword, which seems to be as strident and opinionated as its new wielder. Caleb got interested in the heaps of gold and other stuff.
And I lit a fire.
Your shivering daughter Mithril
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Post by blantyr on Aug 22, 2015 12:29:48 GMT -5
Mother Dearest
I got the Silver Flute!
I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the Sliver Flute? It’s an award for music they give out at Regium at the spring and fall fairs. The first runner up was the leader of the Bardic College. That means I’m pretty good, and have to try not to be very smug.
Sir Pauled only came in second at knocking knights of horses with sticks. I guess I can be a little smug.
The Grey Isle seems to be quite a musical place after all. Three of the final six Silver Flute contestants were from the island. One is a tuba playing dwarf who often shares the floor with me at the Old hiss. I think he would do better if he didn’t try to play a brass duet with himself using his second set of lips. The other is a hobbit of Cranberry who claimed it was time that that the Silver Flute should return to the Big Apple. Actually, when pressed, he admitted that the Silver Flute had never been to the Big Apple.
I will have to offer to bring it there, just so the locals know what a Silver Flute looks like.
But no, he’s a good friend. Can’t rub it in too much. Or is that what friends are for?
Things are not getting less interesting. It seems that all of us have been recruited to recruit an army. I’m contributing a recruiting song, at least if I can figure out a rhyme scheme. Things have been hectic enough that my compositions haven’t been coming along well. I’m also hoping to get to the Isle of the Elves and the Sirens. I did their Queen of the Earrings a favor a while back, and am hoping she can contrite some aid. I was having trouble figuring out how I was to get to her island to ask for the help, but I was recently offered a pegasus ride there. I am spending more time than I ever expected in the air. First a carpet, then a gold dragon and now a pegasus.
Celevon is a fine mount. I am quite content.
I am trying to figure out if Kyle’s Isle is vaguely between the Grey Isle and the Isle of Elves and Sirens. There is a slight chance I might be able to make a brief visit.
I am wondering if I should try to recruit the unicorn?
And I talked for quite a while with a scholar who is studying the history of the island. I told him that if he wanted to see history in the making, a chance to see the Black Dragon arise in wrath, he should return with me. Some historian he turned out to be. He didn’t even want a chance to see a Great Dragon rise in wrath! He claimed he was interested in history, and would wait to record the tale until it was history. I hope I do better recruiting elves than I do historians.
Does anyone on Kyle’s Isle have a desire to fight in a desperate battle and see a Great Dragon rise in wrath?
Just wondering Mithril.
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Post by blantyr on Oct 15, 2015 17:28:35 GMT -5
Mother
Is questing supposed to be melancholy? Is there supposed to be a sense of sadness and loss when going out to awaken a holy spirit, allow a great hero to find his rest, or vanquish an evil hag?
I’ve been a bad heroine. I think I’m supposed to be brave, brash, holy and hale. I don’t know. Pauld does that so well. Why try to compete? I think I’m supposed to be dutifully worshipful towards Desna and the other deities involved. Humble. Devout. Obedient. I don’t know that I’m properly worshipful. “All right, Desna, I’ll do it, just stop troubling my dreams.” I originally started this grand quest seeking to leave nothing undone so I might get a good night’s rest.
When will it be over with? When will the path be walked so I can start writing the songs to chronicle it?
We rode the East Road again. I felt like I was reminiscing, strolling a path of the past. Ah, there is where we met the Great Owl. There a dwarf fled, running from eternity. There I saw the Unicorn. Here the goat tried to charge the troll. There was where the Naga played her enchanted instrument to sing untroubled spirits to rest. And, yes, The Spear is still there. Does it truly pierce the tail of the Great Dragon, holding her pinioned in place?
My song is a sad one, written in a minor key, slow, fragile and lost.
A big horrible battle is coming. Even at its best, so much will be past and gone after.
A great hero, servant of the gods, battler against dragons, mighty among men, cried lost and lonely for his daughter.
A valkyrie, powerful beyond the like of mortals, more fair even than elven kind, lies sleeping, standing silent guard, doing her long duty, still in sleep and forever on guard.
A student of the stars, wise beyond years, long researching the fate of this land and its people, frantic as the work of years is blown as dust before the whims of the gods.
And my sword again bloodied. Useful things, swords. It has not seemed proper, before the great battle is fought, to pursue father’s lute. The dragon might object. Will the time come when I can put music ahead of blood, song ahead of fear?
Littlefey has been a bloody nuisance. Muck on one’s face. Washing one’s hair, forever and again. Off key accompaniment in front of prestigious audiences, ruining my performances. Loosing a goat that was needed in a given time and place. Ever so helpfully pointing out my mistakes whenever I failed to notice this or that. Charming, light hearted, humorous, fun, if one can only clench one’s teeth firmly in place and stop one’s self from screaming.
It turns out she’s a queen, the little one. If the fey of this island are to stir and live again, it is she who must sing them awake. If sing she can, the island might come alive again in one way at least. If sing them she can’t, she will die. Fey queens need queendoms. Some singers need a chorus.
I have tried not to beg favors of Desna. I’ve been a resentful reluctant follower. Wait. Not a follower. I have been ahead of her. She has been behind me, pushing. OK. OK. There is stuff to be done. My father was flawed. I’ll do what I can to make it good. But… Desna knows better than I what to do. I’ve been letting her do as needs be done, me dancing along a trail of stardust, playing my song, not presuming to ask for this favor or that. I’m just a singer. Who am I to ask favors of a goddess?
Tonight I found myself standing by the edge of the sea, not singing, not dancing, but thinking of Littlefay and screaming at the stars in tears. “You shall guide her song! Her song shall be your song! She has wings now! Let her fly! Let her fly forever!”
It has been a long path. One way or another, soon it shall be over.
Your melancholy baby Mithril
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Post by blantyr on Oct 19, 2015 15:12:48 GMT -5
Mother
It seems my task for Desna is done. The demon’s head and spine have been parted from the rest of him. The dragon has flown west into the sunset. I only fell in battle twice, seemingly with no lasting damage. Desna promised victory, darkness and death, and indeed kept her promises.
There is much tale to tell, and hopefully the time to tell it. This is the short version with neither melody nor rhyme scheme. The final version may never be done.
We lost the battle three times. We knew the first to cross the stream running across the battlefield would loose the battle, yet Sir Pauled charged forward as soon as the demon dryads presented flag and issued challenge. While the local forces on either flank did well, the men of Regium faltered and were on the verge of breaking. We knew we had to slay the dryad - demon queen, to draw out her demon master that possessed her. We knew not her master was a balrog, a no nonsense huge, whip, sword, wings and flame balrog, one that we had no chance of defeating. When he manifested our entire force broke and ran. Hey, our enemy’s entire force broke and ran too.
There were only two who remained in the face of the demon, Sir Pauled the fearless, and I at close by his side.
Unfortunately, I had fainted dead away and was not very useful.
After each of our three losses, the tide turned. Rather than hold Sir Pauled back from the stream, the water elemental who personifies the island’s streams moved the stream ahead of him, out of his reach. It was the enemy who found itself across the stream. I suspect this would be considered cheating, but chose not to complain. When our center was on the edge of breaking, Sir Pauled blew a horn, a gift of the valkyrie. Two frost giants answered the call, bringing with them some semblance of both chaos and stability. Then, when the demon rose, the dragon came.
I missed that part. The demon was simply too much. I likely did a right thing. Playing dead among the many dead turned out to be a prudent course. Still, my cheerful boast that I alone stayed by Sir Pauld’s side at the moment of his ultimate confrontation would be stronger had I been conscious at the time.
I’m told the final dialogue between Balzarius and Barrett the Black went as follows.
“Hail Beelzebub, Lord of Hell, I offer you a paladin in sacrifice!”
“I am the only god that will hear you now!”
In the end only three lived on the battle field, Sir Pauled, the dragon and I. I remember nothing of the dragon's battle, but the sight of Barrett was enough to tell the tale, that and the head and spine of Balzarius laying before her. It was not an easy fight, even for Barrett. Her skin was pierced by many a demonic weapon. No word was spoken aloud, though I understand she commanded Sir Pauled to give honorable burial to a Troglodyte shaman who had served her people long and well.
In the end the dragon flew into the west, and I finally dared to stir from basic ‘face down in the mud’ position. I am glad not to live in the west. Still, the cause for which I was called was finally clear. Tiberius, Sir Pauled and I had to force Balzarius to manifest, though only Barrett the Black could finish him. I don’t know whether it was Desna using Barrett, Barrett using Desna, or whether such beings are sometimes beyond the question of who used who.
No few fell. The one I was closet to was Joor the Door. I had stood by his side in a smaller battle at the walls of Gris, not all that long ago. This time my place was beside Pauld.
Queen Littlefey of Gris has come into her own. Two other friends of hers and mine had fallen, Tia the innkeeper, and a lunar naga who had shown us much wisdom. Queen Littlefay had two Jellybeans of Power, however, and they are now again among the living.
Our family has expanded. Queen Littlefay has been calling me mother. Does this make us royalty? I am the queen mother, and you her adopted sister? Shall we practice arrogance and snootiness? I am guessing not. I suspect House Littlefey is not going to be known for high snobbish haughtiness.
I gained another title as well, Lady of the Grey Marshes, given by the King of Regium no less. Sir Pauled has become Lord of Gris, he and his heirs. I have tried to convince him that he has taken on the Legate’s powers, that he rules the town of Gris, while I have taken over his control of the rest of the island. My plan is to make light of my authority and prestige while undertaking any responsibilities as quietly as possible. The humans care so much about who gives orders to whom. I’ve no desire to play those games. Still, the island has many peoples who have for the most part stood apart from one another. Perhaps I might help bring folks together somewhat.
Celevon has given me another directive, more immediate and specific than the King’s. He thinks the island hasn’t enough bridle paths. I think he is right, but if I am to maintain my status as a stealth warden, I must avoid such things as taxes and underlings.
Much to be done. There are graves to be dug, services to be held, songs of parting to be sung, and victory celebrations. I’ve many a tale to be composed into music. Much of the island’s past had been forgotten. I shall strive that both past and present shall be remembered. I’ve some traveling to do… Regium, Lillypayan, and of course Kyle’s Isle.
I shall be coming home. Perhaps not soon. It may be that I’ve enough to do that not this spring but next will be likely. Still, I shall be coming home.
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