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Glim
 
PostPosted: Mon, Nov 12 2012, 6:01 AM 

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Location: British Columbia

Somewhere, in a void of blackness, a voice begins to speak, unheard by any corporeal ears.

Explain yourself.

The command is met with silence. A new voice joins the first.

Why have you kept this from us? How have you kept this from us?

The question is met with silence. A third voice speaks.

Why should we not now assume that you intend to follow in his footsteps? How can we be sure you have not now become a threat to us?

Finally, a reply.

Have you ever known me to be as low, as he? As basic as he? There is a pause. I have not explained myself, because there are some things that must be kept even from you, in order to ensure our continued existence. As ever, I work for the betterment of the whole, and if you did not trust in that, you should never have included me in this lesser whole.

The voices, for the time being, fall silent...


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Fri, Jan 11 2013, 19:29 PM 

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Moments ago, a dark green, almost black orb of roiling energy, only the size of a man's torso at most, would have been seen streaking across the sky of the Amia isle, crossing from a generally westerly direction, heading generally east. It would have appeared to be moving at a great speed.


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Fri, Jan 11 2013, 20:28 PM 

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Only an hour later, the same orb of green-black energy could be seen streaking across the skies over Ruathym, first crossing over Wiltun, Caraigh and then the main Ruathym isle itself.


 
      
Nivo
 
PostPosted: Fri, Jan 11 2013, 20:38 PM 

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Location: East of Elsewhere, West of Sometime

The denizens of Wiltun and Caraigh behold the celestial orb streaking through the skies. A superstitious lot, the colors of the lord of all Wiltun and Caraigh streaking through the skies can mean only one thing.

The royalty and nobility of Caraigh hoist their green and black banners high in impromptu celebration. The people speak in whispers of this good omen as they go about their day-to-day lives. Perhaps a few jaded whispers of dissent are spoken. But none so loud as praise for the jarl. On Wiltun's main-holdings, four Luskan prisoners-of-war are hauled out by the house of Sir Gregori Herlecht. They are summarily hung in honor of his Grace, Lord Arsant Wiltun.

Lord Arsant himself is rumored to have taken this omen as a blessing on the direction of his leadership. And has resolved "stern command and leadership for the future."

_________________
Playing:
Marcus Valis
Norendir


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Sat, Jan 12 2013, 6:21 AM 

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Later that night, in the city of Waterdeep...

Though the famed docks of Waterdeep and other areas that boasted taverns or "late night activities" were still going strong in the first few hours after midnight, no one would notice the small roiling orb of energy that was a mere inky spot of near-blackness, on an equally black night sky.

Slowing as it grew closer to the city itself, it began to descend, gently dodging and weaving between the rooftops and upper stories of some of the larger houses.

Silent as a shadow it slipped on into one of the quieter districts, nary a lamp showed in window or candle behind curtain, most eyelids long since closed. Slowing further, the orb would stop to hover before one of those windows before silently slipping in, having been guided unerringly to its target.

It was a modest home, that of a family neither rich nor poor, the bed in good repair if a little small for its two occupants and no children sleeping in the next room. The orb hovered over a man and woman who were neither great arcanist nor stalwart warrior in their waking hours, owners of a small but relatively successful bread shop. Humble and unassuming.

As silently as the orb had slipped through the glass of the window, it slid under the covers at the foot of the bed, slowly shrinking to the size of a small melon or ball of twine. Its incorporeal substance did not disturb the husband or wife from their pleasant dreams or the peace of their slumber as it slid further up one side of the bed... before absorbing itself into the abdomen of the young woman.

A brow crinkled for only a moment as her dreams took on a strange and perhaps uncomfortable twist, but the feeling soon subsided and with a small sigh and tug of the covers, all was at ease once again...


 
      
P Three
 
PostPosted: Sat, Jan 12 2013, 20:21 PM 

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A Jarl-Warden of dark hair and intense violet eyes watches the orb. Silent, her brow furrows and she frowns. However, she doesn't speak, keeping her counsel to herself, uneasy.

_________________
Bobo_Underhill wrote:
Ley lines, y'all. Just let me go wrangle up my cowboy boots and lasso us up some magic.

Yee-haw!


Aly'dra Zau'ana: Priestessish Of Eilistraee
Danika Nefzen: Druid of the Earthmother
Delia Am'Anodel: Paladin of Torm


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Tue, May 14 2013, 2:43 AM 

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Somewhere, in a void of blackness, a voice begins to speak, unheard by any corporeal ears...

You seek to cheat us. We are all here, together, to correct our failures to this great city before we allow ourselves to rest.

You, we, are far less in this state than we were in life. How do you propose we accomplish now what we could not then?

We have made great progress and continue to grow.

No, we do not grow. We rebuild, we restore, we progress towards what was, but that is not enough. To grow we need to stretch beyond the boundaries of what has been and stride purposefully into the world we now inhabit, to forge our place within it.

True as that may be, your actions have drawn a great deal more attention to us, when we are weakened as you say. We must tread carefully not blunder about and expose ourselves as you have.

An insignificant girl and a handful of what passes for arcanists and warriors in this age do not constitute any true threat to us. You alone would have made short work of them once. Far greater threats loom on the horizon as we continue on our path, and we will be ill prepared for them if we continue to be mired in the past.

Turning our Enclave into a madhouse of experimentation and negligent spell casting is no way to see it flourish. That is a formula for decay and destruction only. You never did understand the need for grounded discipline, always prodding at the latest concept like a child at a jellyfish on the sand. Like Karsus.

Discoveries of any great importance require forward thinking and a willingness to accept certain losses as inevitable in the face of progress and growth, something that you have never had the stomach for. Karsus' Folly was not in his drive to learn and "prod" as you say, but in his hubris.

You have never shown such hubris, but you should not have kept this from us for so long. You placed these contingencies an age ago and yet you did not trust us with the knowledge, the possibility, that you might one day rise again.

There is no immediate reply from the "defender".

What would we have done with that knowledge? We could not trigger these contingencies ourselves any more than we can affect the outcome of the one that the High Arcanist unknowingly released. Have the Betrayer's actions damaged our faith in each other so greatly that we must spurn one of our comrades for having foresight that we lacked, for ensuring that he could return to bring us a greater presence in the living world? Why do you strike out at him even now, when all that he has done has been for the good of the Enclave and for us all? How much stronger might we be, how much more prepared to face the inevitable return of the Betrayer, with one of us present in flesh and blood and bone once more?

This seems to quiet much of the dissent, though one voice remains resolute.

How much more damned might we be for the horrors he will release? Horrors that even now we must bend a portion of our will to containing?

They are contained and a solution to their presence has already been devised, as you are well aware. You belabor issues that have no meaning in the grander scheme of the Realms, you speak of enemies that pale in comparison to those that beset the other remnants of the Empire and as ever you look behind you instead of ahead. Was that not how you were bound with us to begin with? Have you not learned from your mistakes?

You w-

Enough. We will continue this if once the success or failure of the contingency becomes apparent. This Voice, this City, will not fracture so.

A heavy silence follows...


 
      
Nivo
 
PostPosted: Fri, Jun 07 2013, 18:54 PM 

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From the Tower of Mysteries of Dragonstone Keep in Kohlingen, six messengers depart for various locales on the isle of Amia and beyond. Each bears a message, contained in a heavy envelope adorned with a blue waxen seal. Of high importance, these are delivered directly to various leaders of local powers and municipalities.

_________________
Playing:
Marcus Valis
Norendir


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Mon, Jun 10 2013, 10:10 AM 

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Late one evening, four individuals would find themselves the recipients of a Sending, one after the other, each spell imparting the same, unbidden message.

What answers can be given will be offered to you freely, should you choose to seek me out.

Through whatever strange connection might exist between the four who were present to bear witness on the night before last, and the one they bore witness to, they would know precisely who had sent the message. And they would be afforded an immediate reply, should they desire it.


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Tue, Jul 30 2013, 18:45 PM 

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Pages of parchment precisely the size required to hold the amount of writing found on each, begin to appear in various places of public congregation around the Amia isle, in pubs, temples, city centers and generally anywhere that doesn't boast magical protection from teleportation. Oddly enough, a small pile of ash or perhaps dust would accompany each set of parchments wherever they appear.


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Mon, Aug 05 2013, 0:37 AM 

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As promised in the previous letters which had been circulated throughout the more populated regions of Amia nearly a week prior, new pages begin to appear. These too are written on precisely and painstakingly sized pieces of plain parchment and the text appears again to be identical in all respects from one copy to the next. The same faint piles of dust or ash are found at each location where stacks of these pages appear.


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Sat, Nov 09 2013, 20:01 PM 

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"I've a feelin' it's a fine catch this mornin'!"

"May be, may be."

"We might not've been spared Talona's wrath lately, but at least the Bitch Queen's not turned her gaze on us."

"Well don't ye start sayin' things like that. 's just the kind o' nonsense that'll draw her attention. Just check the traps would ye."

"Fine, fine..."

*-*-*-*-*

"Hurry up would ya? How many more ye got down there?"

...

"Mar? Mar what're ye starin' at ye dolt?"

...

"MAR! Drop 'em Mar! Jus' run!"

*-*-*-*-*

Seemingly without cause, for indeed no quake was felt and nothing was seen falling from the sky, an unusually strong and high wave hits the western coast of Amia. Though not high enough to be considered a tidal wave by scholars, the inexplicable nature of it has many scratching their heads as to what might have caused it. The damage caused is mostly superficial, a few boats upturned at their mooring, many fisher's traps trashed or pulled back out to see, a few homes damaged of those fool enough to build right on the water's edge. The brunt of the damage is done to the docks of Wharftown and Uhm, though even then they are still serviceable, if a bit rocky until repaired.

Many prayers and offerings go out to the Bitch Queen on this morning.


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Thu, Nov 21 2013, 1:25 AM 

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"Come on! They aren't biting today..."

"But I'm hungry," protested the smaller of the two boys, fishing rod in hand and legs dangling off the water's edge in West Cordor.

"Lets just go home, I'd rather be hungry than get caught by a Southie."

The smaller boy wouldn't reply, staring resolutely at the water as the older boy took a nervous glance around the empty, silent streets.

"Come ooonnn!" protested the older boy, thinking the younger was simply ignoring him now and goes to tug on his companion's shoulder. "Hey, what's the matter with you? I said le-" the older boy stops mid-sentence as he catches sight of what the younger is staring at, the fishing pole all but forgotten.

There, out towards the south, a large "dot" had appeared on the horizon sitting on the water. Even as the two boys watched in puzzlement and dread, they could see that the dot was growing larger, closer, though they remained transfixed by the sight of it.

Gradually it would come into view more clearly, and the shapes of what might be buildings could be made out in the distance. Upon the tops of the three tallest shapes - towers perhaps - massive flags of a stark white would be seen flying. While it's unlikely given the state of affairs in Cordor that this means someone is looking to surrender, it is also recognizable as an intent for parley, or for truce.

As the object comes in closer still, a more clear view of it is formed and it seems to be a "tabletop" of rock, or perhaps a very small island, of a very roughly circular shape, with buildings on top of it... floating right there in the middle of the ocean.

At this point, the dumbfounded effect wears off of the two boys and they gain the good sense to run indoors, only darting back long enough to grab up the fishing pole they'd both nearly forgotten about. Had they stayed longer however they would have seen that this "moving island" seems to take station some five hundred yards, fifteen hundred feet out from the south docks of Cordor. As it reaches this position, it rotates in place, the side that now faces Cordor seeming to be choked with (or perhaps built up with) massive amounts of natural stone, the kind you'd find at the sea floor. The sections now facing out towards the open waters, would have two identical buildings that appear to have "wings" that almost seem to enfold those sections of the small island, protectively perhaps.

Image


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Wed, Apr 09 2014, 21:13 PM 

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Thick, black clouds seemed to form out of clear blue night sky over Tarkuul this night, a night already darkened by a new moon. There they hovered for near to an hour, the witching hour to be precise, before they eventually dissipated with as little fanfare as they appeared with.

*-*-*-*-*

Somewhere in that darkness, unheard by any mortal ears...

The first step has been taken, my predecessor following masterfully in my footsteps. We draw nearer.

Do not forget why we are here. HE must be brought to justice before we proceed further.

How could we forget why -we- are here, and why -you- are here. We wi-

The speaker is cut short.

What harm in the preparations, hmm? We each hold the same desire, the same goal in mind. We prepare that we not have to wait any longer than necessary once he is dealt with.

Progress is made and more shall follow, now that the way is open.

And with that, silence reigns once again...

*-*-*-*-*


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Fri, May 02 2014, 4:17 AM 

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Anyone familiar with the ominous, incorporeal undead which are commonly whispered of as the "Phantoms" in Tarkuul would find that three of these creatures have changed quite profoundly, seemingly over night.

Within the throne room, the Tower of the Damned and the Crypts, the Phantoms there have taken on a vastly different appearance.


In the throne room, standing ever vigilant...
Image

A stern visage, examining those who come seeking the arcane arts in the Tower of the Damned...
Image

Death gazes out at all those who enter the Crypts...
Image


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Thu, Jul 31 2014, 18:18 PM 

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Bits of stone fall away from the very top of the petrified tower within the Court of the Dead, revealing a small window at the tower's height.

Some nights, a figure can now be seen peering down from that window, gazing out at the rest of the Living City...
Image


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Mon, Aug 25 2014, 9:59 AM 

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The dreams of five individuals, such as they are, would be visited by images not of their own experience, nor of their own imagining, but of something shared that lurks deep within each of them, joined by a common thread...

*-*-*-*-*


The unmistakable tang of sea air assails your senses first, the smell of the salt infusing your lungs, soon mixed with the heady smell of damp earth and the vegetation found on the edges of a beach. Soon, the smells are joined by sounds, the gentle yet insistent rolling of the surf, the chattering of small forest animals and seabirds... yet somehow you know that not all those animal sounds are as they seem.

With this realization comes a flood of taste, the salt in the air and of your own sweat - and touch, the unyielding cobbles of a city street beneath your feet, the reassuring feel of the gnarled wooden stave in your hand - and finally sight, your eyes opening as though from a mere blink, revealing the bizarre joining of cityscape and beach, flanked by thick forest.

Richest silk and velvet of black and shaded green flow around you as you step towards the edge of the cobbles, the staff in your hand providing the support that you need as the pains of old age and old wounds tries to rob you of such a simple thing as your balance, and dignity. Stopping once again to survey the fertile land in the distance, you see now that a few meters away from the cobbles, the grass and small trees which surround the cityscape ends in a sharp drop, joining with the sandy beach below that you know to mark the edge of the Enclave. You can just make out the blurry outline of the small island the Enclave seems joined with - only a few miles wide - which is surrounded by rich sea, several larger islands seeming to watch over their smaller sibling from the distance against the foreign body.

A wisp of sound prickles your ear, leather moving against leather, the only sign of another's approach and without turning you know it to be the one tasked with the defense of this, your home. He offers no greeting, not a word in comment - out of respect for you, you know - allowing you to speak first.

Your mouth forms words unfamiliar to you, carried on a voice not your own, They have marshaled, as was to be expected. Are we prepared?

A masculine velvet replies, We will die with honor, but this Enclave will fall if Benwith fails us.

You will hold until he is ready, your reply leaving no room for argument, simultaneously expressing your certainty that the loyal Kozakuran beside you will not fail you. Turning to face the city itself, you bear witness to the array of forces which have gathered to defend your home. Small squads of elite warriors clad in the same midnight armor as the Kozakuran are interspersed among the rank and file guard - numbering no more than a few score - while a handful more of the elite warriors circle above on scaly wyverns. Above and around, arcanists cling to the sides of buildings and scale rooftops with ease, gaining higher ground thanks to the Enclave's pervasive enchantments.

In the distance behind the ranks stretches a city that seems as quiet and devoid of life as a tomb at first glance, the spires of three great towers and the sterile lights of the castle and two temples providing a foreboding backdrop. Yet you know that upon those towers, thick ivy and moss clings to every stone, that within the temples, those citizens who could not contribute to the defenses knelt in prayer, and that a ring of rolling grass and bush and tree enfolds the entirety of the Enclave.

A flicker of blue catches your attention from behind the ranks of the guard and you make your way toward it, the soldiers parting before you like an opening curtain, the bird calls beginning to grow nearer. Nary a moment passes before the whistle of arrows fills the air, causing a surge of motion - not unlike that of the sea waves below - from the guardsmen all around you as they rush forward to provide cover for you and to man the crest of the Enclave, your own pace quickening.

These are however soon forgotten, pushed out of your mind as you focus on the stuffy, unimaginative man before you, swaddled in robes of blues and greys and though your enmity for such short-sighted individuals threatens to boil up, you swallow it forcefully in lieu of the task before you.

Benwith, you call to the man whose hawkish features are partially obscured beneath a thick cowl, Your work, it is completed? A cacophony of exploding earth and roaring flame drowns out any reply the blue-clad arcanist tried to offer, forcing him to close the remaining distance between you.

It is ready, Archmage. We need only the Archmage and Keeper, his voice tinged with fear born not only from the battle now raging a short distance away, but by his knowledge that it is his plan alone that might save the Enclave. Sensing this fear, you turn to view the edge of the city to see a fierce, frantic, bloody battle in full force where a mere minute before all had been calm and still.

Elves.

Hundreds of the fair-folk were assaulting the Enclave from their wooded home, with many more likely hidden from view within the trees, easily outnumbering the precious few defenders of the city. The screams of those struck by feathered shafts intermixes with the screeches of enchanted blade against spell-girded armor, a cacophony of the doomed and dieing. The very ground around the Enclave seems to fight for the Elves, great gouts of sand rising from the beach to scour the defenders from the ledge, shambling mounds of thick vegetation providing living ladders for the Elves to scale the edge-wall with. Wyverns swoop down upon unsuspecting groups of the attackers, deadly stingers and riders' blades alike felling many. A crossfire of deadly spells flies between the treeline and the Enclave's own arcanists and priests, abjurative barriers shattering and whole sections of forest engulfed under the heavy barrage. Even the city itself is not spared the destruction, whole chunks of the city's structure suddenly turned to torrents of mud by Elven druids, buildings set ablaze by their arrows. The defenders of the Enclave hold the high ground, the edge of the city's surface forming a natural, backswept wall difficult for the attackers to climb; they also hold air superiority with their wyvern cavalry and greater acuity with the Ars Magica, yet you know that the defenders are still doomed to failure. The Elven forces outnumber the defenders to far too great a degree, and both sides know that it will be a matter of minutes before the Enclave is overrun in one last bloody push.

*-*-*-*-*


A fleeting thought of your own worms its way through the haze of the dream-state, Why does the Mythallar itself not fight back? Where is the might of its spells and wards, to abjure the spreading flames and destruction?

*-*-*-*-*


The thought is just as quickly subsumed again as you catch further movement from the corner of your eye, two other figures approaching you and Benwith amidst the stray spells that rebound off your personal wards to lash the cobbles instead. A petite, waspish woman clothed in what amounts to a funerary shroud - a priestess, you know - walks a step behind a taller man dressed in simple, stately robes of a dizzying array of greys, shades which seem to shift and change even as you view them.

Bowing deeply to the grey-clad man, whose face and even hands are enshrouded in darkness that his robes alone should not be able to cast, Benwith spoke once again. Each of you will need to activate your own sections, handing them each in turn a small, rune-engraved chip of metal.

Another torrential blast of sand cuts a swath through the defending line, several of the wyvern cavalry falling from the skies, their forms comprised of more shafts of wood than of flesh and blood. The first of the Elves gains ground upon the Enclave's soil and though a swift, spinning slash from the Kozakuran knight ends that lone Elf's assault a moment later, others soon gain purchase, gradually pushing back the defending line.

Quickly now, words that emit from your mouth in a gravely but firm tone and send the other three stepping quickly down the city streets in three different directions, your own stride carrying you down a fourth.

City streets rush by you, your strides hastened by your magic causing even more pain to fire through your aged frame with each new step. Here and there a few citizens bustle between buildings, using simple cantrips to frantically put out fires or tending to minor injuries from falling rubble. You cross into the Court of the Living - not over a bridge as would be in present day, but across the continuous surface of the city streets - and soon see that the attack is not confined to the beach alone. Along the rear edge of the Enclave, what few apprentices and novice priests could be spared lash out in desperation at the flurry of water elementals that seek to sweep through the city's flank. Not a thought is spared for them, there is no room for such a thought, as concern for the Enclave as a whole, for all of its residents and its most vital work, fills you to brimming.

Doors of richly carved, dark wood mark the entrance to the building you seek, its stoney "wings" stretching out to either side as though to embrace the whole of the Enclave, perched on the outermost edge of the cobbled streets. Your free hand reaches forward, clutching at the smooth chip of metal given to you by an arcanist who is barely out of apprenticeship yet shows all the exacting standards of a master, allowing you to forcibly push through the high double doors and the wards upon them.

No ounce of hesitation grips you as that same hand slaps the rune into its place upon the apparatus within, a bizarre amalgam of mirrors and colored-crystal lattice, and the central pedestal rises from the floor, bringing with it a dizzying array of light and color. Momentarily blinded by the sudden brilliance - not unexpected yet still unprepared for in haste - you reel back out the wide doors from which you entered, just in time to see the apprentice-become-master's handiwork.

A low thrumming sound fills your ears, pulses from within, without, all around you until your very heartbeat seems to match its cadence. Loross runes that were not previously visible on the smooth stone surface of the building begin to glow with crawling, green, eldritch light, starting from the base of the building and working its way slowly upward and out towards the "wings" as though a great bird taking flight.

As it reaches the top and the tips of the wings, the light (though faint-seeming in the day) arcs up and out from the building soaring and spreading toward the farthest corners of the Enclave, where it is joined by three other sources of the same light, reaching to envelope the city. A moment passes in which the four sources - like petals of a nightflower closing protectively against the sun - seem to overlap one another, before dimming to the brightness of a mere candle in the dark, molding themselves into a perfect sphere around the Enclave before dimming from view entirely.

Only for a moment do you permit yourself to marvel at the apparent success of the young Benwith's work before you strike out once again for the Court of the Undying, the battlefront which may have already crumbled beneath the weight of the Elven throng. Barely have you taken a dozen steps before the ground beneath you - no, the entire Enclave itself - shudders, pitches and bucks, a great rending sound echoing eerily between the buildings. Murmuring a brief thanks to Mystryl that anyone close enough to witness your stumble and ungainly sprawl was similarly tossed as the Enclave tore itself free from the island beach it had been imbedded in, you once again step with purpose.

You near the battlefront of the city in time to see a handful of the battling figures, more concerned now with keeping their balance than swinging steel, go tumbling off the edge and it is only after a brief skip of your too-old heart that you realize they were attackers, not your citizens. Before the next moment has begun to be birthed, your eyes also register that there are far too many figures standing on the Enclave's edge as it continues to rise unerringly into the sky - for the first time in its history, attackers have gained ground upon Onyxtarashmus.

Severed from their brothers and sisters, the remaining Elves renew their press against what minimal defenders remain, and you begin bringing to mind your own incantations, stepping forward with grim determination. The Kozakuran and a mere handful of his elite force remain, joined by a mountainous man garbed in the torn and battered garb of the wyvern cavalry and swinging a stark-white greataxe of bone. Surrounded by easily a hundred Elves whose only hope of returning home rests in taking the city, the words of a spell begin to tumble from your lips with the ease of decades of repetition... but catch in your throat as a great gout of emerald light streaks down from the barrier.

More akin to flame than light alone, the thick column of churning, crackling light strikes down as would lighting, engulfing a pair of elves and seeming to replace them with smudges of blood and green-tinted ash in the space of a thrum of your heart. All movement, all sound is similarly engulfed by a profound stillness, as though all present hold their breath as one collective, before the full might of the Mythallar is brought to the fore.

Columns of emerald flame roar down from on high, Elves clutch at bleeding ears and eyes before their heads split with the same dull pop as an overripe grape - some few manage to pitch themselves over the edge, to chance the plummet back to the beach rather than stay within the throes of the Enclave's wards. By the time the defenders remember to breath, their bodies forcing them to gulp in precious air, the hundred elves comprise only a collective stain of bodily humors, ash and ground flesh which seeps along the cracks and crevices of the cobblestones.

The wind whistles through the alleys and streets as the Enclave continues to rise, shattered rubble falls, clicks and clacks down to the stonework below, but only these inanimate sounds - seeming an affront to the senses of those defenders who yet live - dare to break the stillness that otherwise reigns.

*-*-*-*-*


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Fri, Sep 12 2014, 20:16 PM 

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Location: British Columbia

Since the initial landing of the Amnish troops, the pale green light of the Enclave's half-sphere would mark its defiance of the invading presence, the wan light visible even in the day, and not unlike a glowing beacon in the depth of night.


With the morning light would come the realization that the Living City could indeed live up to its name though. In a flurry of activity, every man, woman and child of the Enclave would seem to suddenly have something to do, a simple task or one suited to their expertise. Most would go about their task gladly, even with a bit of excitement or relief in some cases, as it gives them something to take their minds off of the looming threats of the past few months and their somewhat static state within the city that is still coming to terms with their presence.

Children, the infirm, or others with no specific skillset to draw upon, seem to busy themselves with securing anything and everything that might fall or shift within the Enclave. The various libraries around the city become a bustle of activity as simple rope guards are added to the front of each shelf to prevent the books thereon from shifting overmuch. Some aid Marigath in making sure the cabinets and food store locks are secure and won't fly open of their own accord. Anything that might bump and fall in the city, is padded, roped, locked or otherwise secured. If stopped and asked what they are doing, they would reply (to varying degrees of cheer, depending on who asks) that they found a letter under their door this morning, from the Magistrate, offering an extra ten gold pieces, for every citizen who aids in securing the city, who haven't already been given tasks.

A handful of citizens, those who were apothecaries or any other trades even approaching the alchemical, would be gathered up by the surly, well dressed, runt of an ogre mage named Udok, and ushered up to the Tower of the Damned where Magistri Draco labors at his craft. Udok would present the tiefling with orders (much to the chagrin of many of the nervous citizens upon sighting the tiefling) that the group is to assist Draco in his work however they may, to increase the rate of production. The orders also make it clear that the well being of those citizens are Draco and Udok's responsibility... which doesn't seem to do much to reassure the nervous bunch.

In the Court of the Undying, the two dozen citizens under the supervision of Watcher Theadric continue to diligently craft barrel after barrel, getting about 45 barrels hammered out each day that they work. At the end of each day, as the citizens go home, a handful of skeletal laborers begin rolling the barrels down into the Crypts, where they are stored somewhere behind the two Sentinels which have been posted to keep all but the city's Officials out of the Crypts. Even after the other citizens have gone home, and Theadric has returned to his guard duties or to his bed for the night, the ringing of Havoc's hammer and anvil would continue to echo through the Court as he prepares ever-more barrel rings, and who knows what else.

Around mid-day, a flat skiff of moderate size would paddle its way carefully down the gap between the Court of the Dead and the Court of the Undying, stopping just beneath the heavy ballista there. A handful of Moorhound men would be seen thereon and after tieing off the skiff to the side of the Court, would be joined by a few other Moorhound men who set about rigging a simple, sturdy crane on the street above. Two Watchers, Brander and Maliana, would be waited upon to oversee the work, before whatever the Moorhounds are there for would actually begin.

A smaller group of citizens, numbering no more than fifteen - masons all - would gather in the Court of the Undying also, having been told to wait there for instructions from Centurion Kuria. With them would be carried the tools of their trade, along with a simple ring that each would have been gifted upon receiving the work order, though should any stop to ask them, they would not seem to have been given many details as of yet.

Other citizens, children mostly, run through the city streets this way and that, happy at having been told to run, even if they were told to run to specific places or people, delivering messages and further orders from the Magistrate. The fact that they are on "official business from the Magistrate" would seem to tickle them pink, though they would still avoid certain scarier areas and denizens of the Enclave when possible.

Some work on crafting more ammunition for the city's ballistae, others work on shoring up windows and doors to keep out the weather; not a single hand is idle for long within the Enclave. At day-break and day's end, the citizens stream in and out of the Kraken to collect their daily meals as promised by the Magistrate. Life, in the Living City.


Perhaps of greatest note to those not visiting the Enclave, but instead watching the small island from the city of Cordor as it rests in the Bay, would be that it begins to move as the noon hour chimes from the bells of the City of Water. It does not move terribly quickly, but certainly makes its way farther towards the West side of Cordor. Those with a knack for sighting distances would note that it maintains roughly the same distance out from shore, perhaps just a bit closer, but stops well away from the South and Eastern districts, instead sitting at the forefront of the Western district, perhaps daring the Amnish troops which landed in the Delta, to approach.


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Sat, Sep 13 2014, 20:04 PM 

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Location: British Columbia

This past night, several bells past the witching hour, one of the Moorhound cargo vessels would slip out from the floating island of a city. No lamps were lit aboard, no sound of oars nor creak of sails as the vessel seemed to simply drift towards West Cordor slowly, silent as the night, propelled as though by momentum alone.

A simple signal of hooded lanterns, call and response, would be exchanged between the vessel and the West wall as it neared, confirming the all clear and the presence of the Living Guard - ready to receive the cargo upon the orders of the Magistrate himself. All aboard and on the wall were inclined to breath a sigh of relief as the cargo ship docked without incident, knowing that the greatest opportunity for the Amnish to interfere with the operation had passed.

Under the supervision of the two Watchers, the Moorhound crew would use the crane on board to lift several tarp-covered objects, each one approximately twelve feet cubed, up off the cargo deck and onto the West wall. Waiting hands of the Living Guard would take possession of these bundles, which remain covered at all times, and sticking long poles through opposite sides of the bundles they would be lifted by no less than six men to a side, and carried to their final positions on the wall.


By morning's light, eight such hulking bundles would be visible upon the wall, each covered and guarded by three members of the Living Guard with strict instructions that none under the rank of Centurion, or the High Captain himself, are to so much as lift the coverings.


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Wed, Sep 17 2014, 21:11 PM 

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Location: British Columbia

Some eighteen hours later, a flash of white light would fill the Court of the Dead for a mere heartbeat, before gently subsiding as the Keeper falls to his knees from exhaustion. The trees which the Keeper had seemed to labor to affect, would retain their stoney, petrified state. It is not however the physical form of the tress which now draw the eye, or cause the jaw to drop open in wonderment.

Image


Any visiting the Court of the Dead would be struck by the beauty not of the physical tree, but of what seems to be the very spirit of the tree drawn forth and made manifest. Delicate tendrils of white light snake up the length of the stone, splitting and diverging into a myriad of tender branches and boughs. From each branch, rich whorls of light shaped in roughly ovoid patterns form the foliage of the breathtaking visage. Even blossoms, small spheres of intricate filigree opened gently to the misty air of the Court, grace the boughs here and there.

Every one of the eighteen remaining trees within the Court of the Dead is bathed in this spiritual light, a gentle beauty within the stark chill of the Court that otherwise lives up to its name. A truly magnificent sight.


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Sat, Sep 27 2014, 10:07 AM 

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Location: British Columbia

In the shifting darkness of an other-space, a conversation takes place, unheard by the ears of any outsiders, all but the speakers remaining blissfully unaware of the words spoken therein.

His time grows near. What say you?

It is not he that I am concerned with, but you. You say you have changed and yet you ask to be sent down the very same abhorrent path that led to the deaths of so many.

We each bear fault, bear shame for those deaths. The Betrayer used his work as tools to deal death, as he used my blade.

The work must continue, or all we have done has been for nothing. If it is not continued by Mherun, then who will take up that task? What other is as capable as he, in this age?

The voice of opposition seems to quiet, evidently having no answer to provide that will satisfy the question.

He has proven worthy.

No man is proven until the task is undertaken. Still, he has shown wisdom in action. He would have my sword.

His dedication to tradition is admirable. He has my support as well, though I will be watching.

He's shown a stiff spine, dealing with the traitor. That's good enough for me.

Respectful, collected, dedicated to his craft and his faith. Your choice bears my approval also.

A long silence follows, the other voices held in abeyance, stolen away by the weight of the anticipation held for the one yet to speak.

So shall it be.

The tension fades with the last syllables.

So shall it be, mirrors the last voice with respect and gratitude.


 
      
Glim
 
PostPosted: Fri, Oct 10 2014, 20:42 PM 

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Joined: 13 Jul 2010
Location: British Columbia

A great tearing; the first sensation the arcanist would be assailed with upon waking. In the fog of that realm between the sleeping and waking worlds, she feels again the rending of her soul and through the haze, becomes aware that her arms raise of their own accord, instinctively reaching out as though to grab hold of that which is tearing away.

It is not until the woman startles awake a mere heart's beat later, gasping for breath in a cold sweat that's soaked through the sheets tucked in around her, that she realizes it was just a dream...

Until memory begins to return with wakefulness, whispering of the horrifying truth of what she has accomplished, what sacrilege she has visited upon herself, the weight of it bearing down on her chest just as the exultation of the triumph raises her up.

Reality would intrude, and with it a thousand questions that needed answering; the odd grains of pale sand from where she'd collapsed made sense, this room she'd seen before, although it wasn't hers. She'd collapsed, and someone had brought her here. Slowly the rising tide of questions grew more abstract: Where was here? Was this even the same Tarkuul?

The iron weight in her body would make her regret standing, lumbering across the room and leaning against the mirror. The same face, the same person, all in a place she knew. The weight of the gem in her pocket confirmed that this was all real at the very least, although that everything was still the same was very small comfort.

Even the veil of that diminutive comfort would begin to slip as a slight shiver begins at her left shoulder, the chill gradually spreading outward in a spiral pattern across her skin, seeming to sink into her very core...


 
      
SamTheGiantSlayer
 
PostPosted: Mon, Jul 27 2015, 18:59 PM 

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Joined: 31 Mar 2014

While the rest of the isle was shrouded in an air of celebration and mirth, the inhereted neighbors of the Amnish War sat idle in the bay off of West Cordor. At least, idle to the naked eye of any passing denizen who would bother to acknowledge the presence of the city's blip on their horizon. Hours into the morning, a dizzying fog rolled over the banks of Cordor's waters and shrouded the Living City like a curtain.

Somehwere far off, near the grounds of the ruin that became of Uhm, catastrophic tremors rumbled through soot and stone. In mere minutes, like a dagger torn through Toril itself, Uhm was split open with a violent upheaval and flash of arcane luminosity. The pitiful town that once was lay still, devoid of life and even the ground in which it stood. All that was left was a small bank of water, a gaping crevice in the middle of the earth.


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_________________
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Thats the way it crumbles ... cookie-wise!


 
      
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