///That time of the year again. Remember to keep story's PG 13. Crative storys may be rewared with XP.
Tales by the fire (2014)
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DM Setanta
- Posts: 778
- Joined: Fri Mar 23, 2012 11:53 pm
Tales by the fire (2014)
It is the time for leaves to fall once more and an old man with an old leather tome is seen at the campfires of the sword coast. He sits and reads story's of horror from his tome. After reading a story or two he turns to the others of the fire and asks "Do you know any dark story's to add to my collection?"
///That time of the year again. Remember to keep story's PG 13. Crative storys may be rewared with XP.
///That time of the year again. Remember to keep story's PG 13. Crative storys may be rewared with XP.
“Knowledge is knowing the tomato is a fruit, wisdom is not putting in your fruit salad.”
-
DM Setanta
- Posts: 778
- Joined: Fri Mar 23, 2012 11:53 pm
Re: Tales by the fire (2014)
The storyteller opens his book and tells a tale he has told before.
"In Ulthar, before ever the burgesses forbade the killing of cats, there dwelt an old cotter and his wife who delighted to trap and slay the cats of their neighbors. Why they did this I know not; save that many hate the voice of the cat in the night, and take it ill that cats should run stealthily about yards and gardens at twilight. But whatever the reason, this old man and woman took pleasure in trapping and slaying every cat which came near to their hovel; and from some of the sounds heard after dark, many villagers fancied that the manner of slaying was exceedingly peculiar. But the villagers did not discuss such things with the old man and his wife; because of the habitual expression on the withered faces of the two, and because their cottage was so small and so darkly hidden under spreading oaks at the back of a neglected yard. In truth, much as the owners of cats hated these odd folk, they feared them more; and instead of berating them as brutal assassins, merely took care that no cherished pet or mouser should stray toward the remote hovel under the dark trees. When through some unavoidable oversight a cat was missed, and sounds heard after dark, the loser would lament impotently; or console himself by thanking Fate that it was not one of his children who had thus vanished. For the people of Ulthar were simple, and knew not whence it is all cats first came.
One day a caravan of strange wanderers from the South entered the narrow cobbled streets of Ulthar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike the other roving folk who passed through the village twice every year. In the market-place they told fortunes for silver, and bought gay beads from the merchants. What was the land of these wanderers none could tell; but it was seen that they were given to strange prayers, and that they had painted on the sides of their wagons strange figures with human bodies and the heads of cats, hawks, rams and lions. And the leader of the caravan wore a headdress with two horns and a curious disk betwixt the horns.
There was in this singular caravan a little boy with no father or mother, but only a tiny black kitten to cherish. The plague had not been kind to him, yet had left him this small furry thing to mitigate his sorrow; and when one is very young, one can find great relief in the lively antics of a black kitten. So the boy whom the dark people called Menes smiled more often than he wept as he sat playing with his graceful kitten on the steps of an oddly painted wagon.
On the third morning of the wanderers’ stay in Ulthar, Menes could not find his kitten; and as he sobbed aloud in the market-place certain villagers told him of the old man and his wife, and of sounds heard in the night. And when he heard these things his sobbing gave place to meditation, and finally to prayer. He stretched out his arms toward the sun and prayed in a tongue no villager could understand; though indeed the villagers did not try very hard to understand, since their attention was mostly taken up by the sky and the odd shapes the clouds were assuming. It was very peculiar, but as the little boy uttered his petition there seemed to form overhead the shadowy, nebulous figures of exotic things; of hybrid creatures crowned with horn-flanked disks. Nature is full of such illusions to impress the imaginative.
That night the wanderers left Ulthar, and were never seen again. And the householders were troubled when they noticed that in all the village there was not a cat to be found. From each hearth the familiar cat had vanished; cats large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow and white. Old Kranon, the burgomaster, swore that the dark folk had taken the cats away in revenge for the killing of Menes’ kitten; and cursed the caravan and the little boy. But Nith, the lean notary, declared that the old cotter and his wife were more likely persons to suspect; for their hatred of cats was notorious and increasingly bold. Still, no one durst complain to the sinister couple; even when little Atal, the innkeeper’s son, vowed that he had at twilight seen all the cats of Ulthar in that accursed yard under the trees, pacing very slowly and solemnly in a circle around the cottage, two abreast, as if in performance of some unheard-of rite of beasts. The villagers did not know how much to believe from so small a boy; and though they feared that the evil pair had charmed the cats to their death, they preferred not to chide the old cotter till they met him outside his dark and repellent yard.
So Ulthar went to sleep in vain anger; and when the people awakened at dawn—behold! every cat was back at his accustomed hearth! Large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow and white, none was missing. Very sleek and fat did the cats appear, and sonorous with purring content. The citizens talked with one another of the affair, and marveled not a little. Old Kranon again insisted that it was the dark folk who had taken them, since cats did not return alive from the cottage of the ancient man and his wife. But all agreed on one thing: that the refusal of all the cats to eat their portions of meat or drink their saucers of milk was exceedingly curious. And for two whole days the sleek, lazy cats of Ulthar would touch no food, but only doze by the fire or in the sun.
It was fully a week before the villagers noticed that no lights were appearing at dusk in the windows of the cottage under the trees. Then the lean Nith remarked that no one had seen the old man or his wife since the night the cats were away. In another week the burgomaster decided to overcome his fears and call at the strangely silent dwelling as a matter of duty, though in so doing he was careful to take with him Shang the blacksmith and Thul the cutter of stone as witnesses. And when they had broken down the frail door they found only this: two cleanly picked human skeletons on the earthen floor, and a number of singular beetles crawling in the shadowy corners.
There was subsequently much talk among the burgesses of Ulthar. Zath, the coroner, disputed at length with Nith, the lean notary; and Kranon and Shang and Thul were overwhelmed with questions. Even little Atal, the innkeeper’s son, was closely questioned and given a sweetmeat as reward. They talked of the old cotter and his wife, of the caravan of dark wanderers, of small Menes and his black kitten, of the prayer of Menes and of the sky during that prayer, of the doings of the cats on the night the caravan left, and of what was later found in the cottage under the dark trees in the repellent yard.
And in the end the burgesses passed that remarkable law which is told of by traders in Hatheg and discussed by travelers in Nir; namely, that in Ulthar no man may kill a cat."
///credit to H.P Lovecraft
"In Ulthar, before ever the burgesses forbade the killing of cats, there dwelt an old cotter and his wife who delighted to trap and slay the cats of their neighbors. Why they did this I know not; save that many hate the voice of the cat in the night, and take it ill that cats should run stealthily about yards and gardens at twilight. But whatever the reason, this old man and woman took pleasure in trapping and slaying every cat which came near to their hovel; and from some of the sounds heard after dark, many villagers fancied that the manner of slaying was exceedingly peculiar. But the villagers did not discuss such things with the old man and his wife; because of the habitual expression on the withered faces of the two, and because their cottage was so small and so darkly hidden under spreading oaks at the back of a neglected yard. In truth, much as the owners of cats hated these odd folk, they feared them more; and instead of berating them as brutal assassins, merely took care that no cherished pet or mouser should stray toward the remote hovel under the dark trees. When through some unavoidable oversight a cat was missed, and sounds heard after dark, the loser would lament impotently; or console himself by thanking Fate that it was not one of his children who had thus vanished. For the people of Ulthar were simple, and knew not whence it is all cats first came.
One day a caravan of strange wanderers from the South entered the narrow cobbled streets of Ulthar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike the other roving folk who passed through the village twice every year. In the market-place they told fortunes for silver, and bought gay beads from the merchants. What was the land of these wanderers none could tell; but it was seen that they were given to strange prayers, and that they had painted on the sides of their wagons strange figures with human bodies and the heads of cats, hawks, rams and lions. And the leader of the caravan wore a headdress with two horns and a curious disk betwixt the horns.
There was in this singular caravan a little boy with no father or mother, but only a tiny black kitten to cherish. The plague had not been kind to him, yet had left him this small furry thing to mitigate his sorrow; and when one is very young, one can find great relief in the lively antics of a black kitten. So the boy whom the dark people called Menes smiled more often than he wept as he sat playing with his graceful kitten on the steps of an oddly painted wagon.
On the third morning of the wanderers’ stay in Ulthar, Menes could not find his kitten; and as he sobbed aloud in the market-place certain villagers told him of the old man and his wife, and of sounds heard in the night. And when he heard these things his sobbing gave place to meditation, and finally to prayer. He stretched out his arms toward the sun and prayed in a tongue no villager could understand; though indeed the villagers did not try very hard to understand, since their attention was mostly taken up by the sky and the odd shapes the clouds were assuming. It was very peculiar, but as the little boy uttered his petition there seemed to form overhead the shadowy, nebulous figures of exotic things; of hybrid creatures crowned with horn-flanked disks. Nature is full of such illusions to impress the imaginative.
That night the wanderers left Ulthar, and were never seen again. And the householders were troubled when they noticed that in all the village there was not a cat to be found. From each hearth the familiar cat had vanished; cats large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow and white. Old Kranon, the burgomaster, swore that the dark folk had taken the cats away in revenge for the killing of Menes’ kitten; and cursed the caravan and the little boy. But Nith, the lean notary, declared that the old cotter and his wife were more likely persons to suspect; for their hatred of cats was notorious and increasingly bold. Still, no one durst complain to the sinister couple; even when little Atal, the innkeeper’s son, vowed that he had at twilight seen all the cats of Ulthar in that accursed yard under the trees, pacing very slowly and solemnly in a circle around the cottage, two abreast, as if in performance of some unheard-of rite of beasts. The villagers did not know how much to believe from so small a boy; and though they feared that the evil pair had charmed the cats to their death, they preferred not to chide the old cotter till they met him outside his dark and repellent yard.
So Ulthar went to sleep in vain anger; and when the people awakened at dawn—behold! every cat was back at his accustomed hearth! Large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow and white, none was missing. Very sleek and fat did the cats appear, and sonorous with purring content. The citizens talked with one another of the affair, and marveled not a little. Old Kranon again insisted that it was the dark folk who had taken them, since cats did not return alive from the cottage of the ancient man and his wife. But all agreed on one thing: that the refusal of all the cats to eat their portions of meat or drink their saucers of milk was exceedingly curious. And for two whole days the sleek, lazy cats of Ulthar would touch no food, but only doze by the fire or in the sun.
It was fully a week before the villagers noticed that no lights were appearing at dusk in the windows of the cottage under the trees. Then the lean Nith remarked that no one had seen the old man or his wife since the night the cats were away. In another week the burgomaster decided to overcome his fears and call at the strangely silent dwelling as a matter of duty, though in so doing he was careful to take with him Shang the blacksmith and Thul the cutter of stone as witnesses. And when they had broken down the frail door they found only this: two cleanly picked human skeletons on the earthen floor, and a number of singular beetles crawling in the shadowy corners.
There was subsequently much talk among the burgesses of Ulthar. Zath, the coroner, disputed at length with Nith, the lean notary; and Kranon and Shang and Thul were overwhelmed with questions. Even little Atal, the innkeeper’s son, was closely questioned and given a sweetmeat as reward. They talked of the old cotter and his wife, of the caravan of dark wanderers, of small Menes and his black kitten, of the prayer of Menes and of the sky during that prayer, of the doings of the cats on the night the caravan left, and of what was later found in the cottage under the dark trees in the repellent yard.
And in the end the burgesses passed that remarkable law which is told of by traders in Hatheg and discussed by travelers in Nir; namely, that in Ulthar no man may kill a cat."
///credit to H.P Lovecraft
“Knowledge is knowing the tomato is a fruit, wisdom is not putting in your fruit salad.”
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SanDstorM
- Posts: 1
- Joined: Sat Oct 25, 2014 9:36 pm
Re: Tales by the fire (2014)
Poem is based on what transpired during Legebrils exploration of cloakwood.
Darkness of the poep depends on how deep listener/reader can dive into transcribed experience.
Still hunted by lost dreams of becoming a legendary poet, he sponteniously combusted with a poem(english aint my first language).
-----
Darkness of the poep depends on how deep listener/reader can dive into transcribed experience.
Still hunted by lost dreams of becoming a legendary poet, he sponteniously combusted with a poem(english aint my first language).
-----
The Bor-A-ToZaur poem by Legebril Despan.
P.S Based on a real encounter
I woke up lost, confused, abandoned by my comrades
Without a hope I look around in search of light in darkness
But wait, what is that? What undulates in distance?
I come closer AND BEHOLD - the Mighty BOR-A-TO-ZAUR
The beast is twice as big as lizardman and mightier than thunder
His roar transcends all sounds around his fangs shine in a darkness.
This mighty creature brings peace to me, protection from all sorts of danger
Such wondrous encounter blinds my soul and I am speechless for that moment
What would have happened to me that night, if not this glorious creature?
All rights reserverd by Legebril Despan, future distribution of this content is free of charge under condition that poets name remains intact.
Special thanks goes to Sophie and Sadra whom is sole master of Bor-A-TOzaur.
P.S Based on a real encounter
I woke up lost, confused, abandoned by my comrades
Without a hope I look around in search of light in darkness
But wait, what is that? What undulates in distance?
I come closer AND BEHOLD - the Mighty BOR-A-TO-ZAUR
The beast is twice as big as lizardman and mightier than thunder
His roar transcends all sounds around his fangs shine in a darkness.
This mighty creature brings peace to me, protection from all sorts of danger
Such wondrous encounter blinds my soul and I am speechless for that moment
What would have happened to me that night, if not this glorious creature?
All rights reserverd by Legebril Despan, future distribution of this content is free of charge under condition that poets name remains intact.
Special thanks goes to Sophie and Sadra whom is sole master of Bor-A-TOzaur.
Last edited by SanDstorM on Sun Nov 02, 2014 3:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.
~~Today is yesterdays tomorrow.~~
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TheKai
- Recognized Donor
- Posts: 1089
- Joined: Wed Oct 30, 2013 12:53 pm
- Location: Paradise
Re: Tales by the fire (2014)
Dark whispers speak,
Of the Wood in the north,
Should you find that Wood,
STOP! Do not venture forth.
For as far as the eye can see,
The outside so serene,
The forest stretches majestically,
With boughs of the deepest green.
But the whispers speak true,
Of the dread that lies in the Wood,
Whispers in the fog,
And feelings of tugging at your hood.
Step by step he went,
Sun bright over his head,
Step by step he went,
With a creeping feeling of dread.
The fog it gathered around him,
With a life of it’s own,
Tendrils of mist swirl,
He heard in earshot, a moan.
Stumbling through the forest,
Easy prey for the hunter,
He saw lights in the distance,
The frightened, have chased that blunder.
The lights they danced,
Always beyond his goal,
Deeper into the heart he went,
And then lost his role.
The whispers surrounded him,
Madness crept in,
Terror gripped him,
His life looked thin.
He ran for his life,
The whispers were right.
Gasping, he looked up,
The sun was nowhere in sight.
Through bushel and bramble,
He burst and bashed through,
Tears on his face,
His hope less than few.
He thought of his family,
Back in Baldur’s Gate,
He laughed when they warned him,
To stay away from this fate.
How he missed his mother so,
And his wife he held dear,
He broke down in stride,
His mind filled with fear.
He stopped in his tracks,
Whimpering with snoot.
Nothing was ever found,
But one....lone.....boot.
The boughs they hide the mystery
Of what sends heroes running in fright,
Of terrors within it’s fold,
Of the Misty’s haunted might.
Of the Wood in the north,
Should you find that Wood,
STOP! Do not venture forth.
For as far as the eye can see,
The outside so serene,
The forest stretches majestically,
With boughs of the deepest green.
But the whispers speak true,
Of the dread that lies in the Wood,
Whispers in the fog,
And feelings of tugging at your hood.
Step by step he went,
Sun bright over his head,
Step by step he went,
With a creeping feeling of dread.
The fog it gathered around him,
With a life of it’s own,
Tendrils of mist swirl,
He heard in earshot, a moan.
Stumbling through the forest,
Easy prey for the hunter,
He saw lights in the distance,
The frightened, have chased that blunder.
The lights they danced,
Always beyond his goal,
Deeper into the heart he went,
And then lost his role.
The whispers surrounded him,
Madness crept in,
Terror gripped him,
His life looked thin.
He ran for his life,
The whispers were right.
Gasping, he looked up,
The sun was nowhere in sight.
Through bushel and bramble,
He burst and bashed through,
Tears on his face,
His hope less than few.
He thought of his family,
Back in Baldur’s Gate,
He laughed when they warned him,
To stay away from this fate.
How he missed his mother so,
And his wife he held dear,
He broke down in stride,
His mind filled with fear.
He stopped in his tracks,
Whimpering with snoot.
Nothing was ever found,
But one....lone.....boot.
The boughs they hide the mystery
Of what sends heroes running in fright,
Of terrors within it’s fold,
Of the Misty’s haunted might.
"Are you Thor? God of Hammers?"
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DM Setanta
- Posts: 778
- Joined: Fri Mar 23, 2012 11:53 pm
Re: Tales by the fire (2014)
The storyteller smiles as he takes notes of each story. An inkless quill scribes each word said into the tome at a speed only magic could provide. Each word weaved into the page with the glow of the art.
“Knowledge is knowing the tomato is a fruit, wisdom is not putting in your fruit salad.”
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paw
- Posts: 1073
- Joined: Sun Jan 01, 2012 10:48 am
Re: Tales by the fire (2014)
Herran stops by, and after an exchange of pleasantries and general satiation of curiosities, Herran declares Well sir, I may just have a tale which may interest. Tis the true tale as to how it was I arrived here in Baldurs Gate. Or is it? he smiles playfully.
One day while out exploring a valley. I came upon a clearing.
In this clearing was a small cottage. Quite a lovely place to look upon, so I went up to see who lived there.
I knocked on the door and heard no answer so I decided to leave and come back at a later date, but, as I was coming around the corner of the cottage, I froze in my tracks.
Suddenly pauses in motion and sound ... long enough for any near to come to a deafening silence.
My skin began to crawl with the feel of evil as someone else entered the clearing.
His eyes open wide and he looks side to side
I quickly ran back around front and entered the door, hoping to hide.
Runs in a quick circle, half crouched
But, what I saw inside was absolutely horrifying.
He pauses once more, his mouth dropping open as he stares
I knew at once that the one who had just entered the clearing must surely be the one who lived here, so I quickly found a closet in which to hide.
His look turns to one of near panic as he slides side to side
It was my plan to just hide there for the briefest of moments and slip away when the evil one had passed and gone into another room.
So I waited ... quietly ... for what seemed an eternity ... but then ... I started to hear voices ... from within the closet!
His eyes widen once again as he nears the end of his sentence
They were not loud boisterous voices shouting out warnings, but, hushed voices obviously not wishing to be heard by the one outside.
Furrows his brows and looks around as if trying to see into darkness.
So, out of my own curiosity, I inquired as to who they might be.
said in a very raspy stage whisper
I was truly amazed as to who I found ... or mayhaps I should say ... -what- I found.
For the voices came from brooms ... -witches- brooms.
his eyes open in a shocked expression
We introduced ourselves and continued to talk in hushed tones.
I found that the two brooms, though only recently acquainted, were falling very much in love.
They were making plans together as Bridebroom and Groombroom.
he grins amusedly
We all talked for a long while, almost forgetting where we were and who was just outside the door in the other room.
Things started going awry, however, when we began talking of their wedding plans.
looks around fearfully
The Bridebroom told me of her beautiful dress and the Groombroom of his tuxedo.
smiles jovially
But then the conversation began to grow louder as the Grombroom started to become agitated when the Bridebroom began talking about the need for a bigger closet.
extends his arms and hands in a "please hush" motion
The Bridebroom stating that the need would be so as to make room for the immanent arrival of the little Whiskbrooms.
At that the Groombroom completely lost it and began shouting at the top of his voice
... -THAT- IS -NOT- POSSIBLE ... WE HAVE NEVER EVEN -SWEPT- TOGETHER!!
his eyes open wide and his jaw drops open as he spins around confusedly
At that very instant the witch flung open the door to see what all the commotion was about.
The Groombroom took to flight, and me of course not wanting to face the witch myself grabbed a hold with every bit of strength I could muster.
makes a hand gripping, arm wrapping motion
Off we flew, out of the closet, smashing through the front window and soaring up into the sky, the witch behind us flinging curses and casting spells and me singing and holding on for dear life!
weaves and waves his arms around as if he is being dragged around through the air by the broom
We flew up over the trees ... the mountains ... and finally out over the sea, until finally just as I felt I could hold on no longer ... we landed ... just outside of Baldurs Gate.
he goes limp all but collapsing onto the ground
For those of you who have asked where I come from, and never received a truly reasonable answer ... all I can say is I am from Amia
And while I can describe it and remember it well ... I truly have no recollection of where it is, or how to return.
has a bit of a bewildered look
It would seem one of the curses flung was to never be able to find a way back.
The Groombroom itself flew off not long after depositing me here, so I know not if it ever returned and made up with the Bridebroom
he shrugs
But, aside from my wish to have the one who raised me also perform my wedding ceremony someday... I have no regrets of leaving ... nor real desire to return.
Thank you for listening to this bards tale of one of lifes many adventures
he smiles and bows in a grand theatrical manner to those at the fire
One day while out exploring a valley. I came upon a clearing.
In this clearing was a small cottage. Quite a lovely place to look upon, so I went up to see who lived there.
I knocked on the door and heard no answer so I decided to leave and come back at a later date, but, as I was coming around the corner of the cottage, I froze in my tracks.
Suddenly pauses in motion and sound ... long enough for any near to come to a deafening silence.
My skin began to crawl with the feel of evil as someone else entered the clearing.
His eyes open wide and he looks side to side
I quickly ran back around front and entered the door, hoping to hide.
Runs in a quick circle, half crouched
But, what I saw inside was absolutely horrifying.
He pauses once more, his mouth dropping open as he stares
I knew at once that the one who had just entered the clearing must surely be the one who lived here, so I quickly found a closet in which to hide.
His look turns to one of near panic as he slides side to side
It was my plan to just hide there for the briefest of moments and slip away when the evil one had passed and gone into another room.
So I waited ... quietly ... for what seemed an eternity ... but then ... I started to hear voices ... from within the closet!
His eyes widen once again as he nears the end of his sentence
They were not loud boisterous voices shouting out warnings, but, hushed voices obviously not wishing to be heard by the one outside.
Furrows his brows and looks around as if trying to see into darkness.
So, out of my own curiosity, I inquired as to who they might be.
said in a very raspy stage whisper
I was truly amazed as to who I found ... or mayhaps I should say ... -what- I found.
For the voices came from brooms ... -witches- brooms.
his eyes open in a shocked expression
We introduced ourselves and continued to talk in hushed tones.
I found that the two brooms, though only recently acquainted, were falling very much in love.
They were making plans together as Bridebroom and Groombroom.
he grins amusedly
We all talked for a long while, almost forgetting where we were and who was just outside the door in the other room.
Things started going awry, however, when we began talking of their wedding plans.
looks around fearfully
The Bridebroom told me of her beautiful dress and the Groombroom of his tuxedo.
smiles jovially
But then the conversation began to grow louder as the Grombroom started to become agitated when the Bridebroom began talking about the need for a bigger closet.
extends his arms and hands in a "please hush" motion
The Bridebroom stating that the need would be so as to make room for the immanent arrival of the little Whiskbrooms.
At that the Groombroom completely lost it and began shouting at the top of his voice
... -THAT- IS -NOT- POSSIBLE ... WE HAVE NEVER EVEN -SWEPT- TOGETHER!!
his eyes open wide and his jaw drops open as he spins around confusedly
At that very instant the witch flung open the door to see what all the commotion was about.
The Groombroom took to flight, and me of course not wanting to face the witch myself grabbed a hold with every bit of strength I could muster.
makes a hand gripping, arm wrapping motion
Off we flew, out of the closet, smashing through the front window and soaring up into the sky, the witch behind us flinging curses and casting spells and me singing and holding on for dear life!
weaves and waves his arms around as if he is being dragged around through the air by the broom
We flew up over the trees ... the mountains ... and finally out over the sea, until finally just as I felt I could hold on no longer ... we landed ... just outside of Baldurs Gate.
he goes limp all but collapsing onto the ground
For those of you who have asked where I come from, and never received a truly reasonable answer ... all I can say is I am from Amia
And while I can describe it and remember it well ... I truly have no recollection of where it is, or how to return.
has a bit of a bewildered look
It would seem one of the curses flung was to never be able to find a way back.
The Groombroom itself flew off not long after depositing me here, so I know not if it ever returned and made up with the Bridebroom
he shrugs
But, aside from my wish to have the one who raised me also perform my wedding ceremony someday... I have no regrets of leaving ... nor real desire to return.
Thank you for listening to this bards tale of one of lifes many adventures
he smiles and bows in a grand theatrical manner to those at the fire
-
DM Setanta
- Posts: 778
- Joined: Fri Mar 23, 2012 11:53 pm
Re: Tales by the fire (2014)
*The StoryTeller smiles* "This tale comes in the form of a letter, perhaps it holds some intrest due to recent events on the coast"
"Uktar 6 1348
To whom it may concern, my name is Frank Roberts. If you are reading this note then I am likely dead. If my plan succeeds then this note has been found among my possessions at my family estate. Perhaps it is selfish of me to write this note, In which I will ask you not to look for me. Know that despite its selfish nature I simply don’t want to die without anyone knowing why.
It started when I returned home for my mothers funeral. She had recently fallen off the balcony on the second floor of my childhood home. It was ruled an accident by the authorities however distasteful rumors spread of suicide. I was studying abroad at the time, rushing home at the news. Father had shut himself away, he barely spoke and barely ate. I grow worried but I was also mourning the loss of my mother, so I left him to mourn in his own way. We lived in some comfort, my family making its money off of the fish trade. A meekly built guard handed me a box of my mother's belongings. The objects she had on her the day she had died. Inside the box I found the item that would cause the calamity I would soon face.
A green soapstone. No bigger than my thumb. Shaped like a teardrop with a little hole at the end with a string big enough to fit around the neck running through it. I was Immediately fascinated by the object, perhaps the first clue to its unusual nature. This stone my mother wore at the time of her death. I felt an urge to learn more about it. I spoke to an old family friend, Chester Singleton. Chester had been the groundskeeper of the family estate since before I was born and grow close to the family in all those years. The stone was new he said. It seems my father bought the object off of one of his fishermen who astonishingly fished it up from the sea.
My curiosity settled I returned to my room to try and rest. That is when I dreamed, I dreamed not of the stress or the loss of my mother but of the amulet. I held it in my hand feeling the smoothness of the object in my palm. Then the soapstone latched to my palm digging into my flesh. Panicking I tried to rip it off but it was to no avail, I could feel it sucking my energy away. I could feel the flow of my blood change course and flow towards the amulet in my hand. I awoke in a sweat, quickly i studied my hand and was relieved to see the amulet was not there. My relief was short as I noticed blood, I had cut myself somehow in my sleep. To my horror the blood staining my bed all moved towards the amulet. I throw the object into a tin box and rushed off into the night to speak to my father.
I bursted into my fathers room without hesitation. My father sat in the corner chair by a fire. He looked pale, his skin looking closer to his white hair and beard. He only gave me a sad glance his eyes red and puffy. I hesitated to speak, but composed myself and opened the small tin box showing the necklace to him. His gaze became fixated on it. He then reached into his pocket to pull out an old pocket knife and before I even had time to step back took the knife to his hand causing a bleeding gash across his palm. He spoke softly to me and said “It’s hungry” before getting up and walking towards me. My father then opened his bleeding palm over the green soapstone raining his blood down upon it. To my horror the blood was soaked up by the stone ,like a sponge with water, vanishing without even a stain. Upon closer inspection my father’s hands and arm were covered with such scars.
Before I could say another word I felt a sharp cut across my abdomen. My father wielding the knife had slashed me right to left along my chest, cutting past my shirt and hitting flesh. Tears filled his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you, I didn't want to hurt your mother.” My eyes grow wide as adrenaline starts to pump into my bloodstream. “It’s in my head, it wants me to feed it. She understood, she heard it too.” He spoke again. As the realization my father had killed my mother my vision started to blur. Images of gushing blood rushed into my mind. Crimson red blood, there needed to be blood. I make a fist and start to swing at my father. I was much younger and stronger then him, the first blow to his face was enough to make him drop his knife and fall to the ground in pain. I did not stop swinging my fists, blow after blow.
The violence only stopped when I saw the blood. The thick red liquid filled the room. My knuckles were worn down, possibly broken. I watched as my own blood mixed with my fathers. My father...a mess on the floor. His face was destroyed, he could've been mistaken for something inhuman. But it was my father, I killed my father. The sin of patricide, the man who raised me gone. The green soapstone sat on the floor in the middle of a puddle of blood. I did not even realized I dropped it. It was feeding off my fathers blood. Soaking it up like a cloth. I did not know what it did with the blood, what sort of ritual it was meant for but I know in my heart that I should not let if feed no more.
So I write this letter, the stone is once again secured in a tin box. My father's body lies in his room, the blood the stone did not take soaks into the wooden floor. I wish to give him a proper burial but I fear time is short. I will take this stone back to where it came, the sea. I will borrow one of the boats my father owns….owned. I plan to sail as far out into the sea as I can. I have no wish to return, I will go into the water with the stone. I can not afford a suicide that allows more blood to be spilled. I can only beg of you if the stone finds its way to land once more to throw it back, do not be lured by the unknown you find.
Farewell
-Frank Roberts"
"Uktar 6 1348
To whom it may concern, my name is Frank Roberts. If you are reading this note then I am likely dead. If my plan succeeds then this note has been found among my possessions at my family estate. Perhaps it is selfish of me to write this note, In which I will ask you not to look for me. Know that despite its selfish nature I simply don’t want to die without anyone knowing why.
It started when I returned home for my mothers funeral. She had recently fallen off the balcony on the second floor of my childhood home. It was ruled an accident by the authorities however distasteful rumors spread of suicide. I was studying abroad at the time, rushing home at the news. Father had shut himself away, he barely spoke and barely ate. I grow worried but I was also mourning the loss of my mother, so I left him to mourn in his own way. We lived in some comfort, my family making its money off of the fish trade. A meekly built guard handed me a box of my mother's belongings. The objects she had on her the day she had died. Inside the box I found the item that would cause the calamity I would soon face.
A green soapstone. No bigger than my thumb. Shaped like a teardrop with a little hole at the end with a string big enough to fit around the neck running through it. I was Immediately fascinated by the object, perhaps the first clue to its unusual nature. This stone my mother wore at the time of her death. I felt an urge to learn more about it. I spoke to an old family friend, Chester Singleton. Chester had been the groundskeeper of the family estate since before I was born and grow close to the family in all those years. The stone was new he said. It seems my father bought the object off of one of his fishermen who astonishingly fished it up from the sea.
My curiosity settled I returned to my room to try and rest. That is when I dreamed, I dreamed not of the stress or the loss of my mother but of the amulet. I held it in my hand feeling the smoothness of the object in my palm. Then the soapstone latched to my palm digging into my flesh. Panicking I tried to rip it off but it was to no avail, I could feel it sucking my energy away. I could feel the flow of my blood change course and flow towards the amulet in my hand. I awoke in a sweat, quickly i studied my hand and was relieved to see the amulet was not there. My relief was short as I noticed blood, I had cut myself somehow in my sleep. To my horror the blood staining my bed all moved towards the amulet. I throw the object into a tin box and rushed off into the night to speak to my father.
I bursted into my fathers room without hesitation. My father sat in the corner chair by a fire. He looked pale, his skin looking closer to his white hair and beard. He only gave me a sad glance his eyes red and puffy. I hesitated to speak, but composed myself and opened the small tin box showing the necklace to him. His gaze became fixated on it. He then reached into his pocket to pull out an old pocket knife and before I even had time to step back took the knife to his hand causing a bleeding gash across his palm. He spoke softly to me and said “It’s hungry” before getting up and walking towards me. My father then opened his bleeding palm over the green soapstone raining his blood down upon it. To my horror the blood was soaked up by the stone ,like a sponge with water, vanishing without even a stain. Upon closer inspection my father’s hands and arm were covered with such scars.
Before I could say another word I felt a sharp cut across my abdomen. My father wielding the knife had slashed me right to left along my chest, cutting past my shirt and hitting flesh. Tears filled his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you, I didn't want to hurt your mother.” My eyes grow wide as adrenaline starts to pump into my bloodstream. “It’s in my head, it wants me to feed it. She understood, she heard it too.” He spoke again. As the realization my father had killed my mother my vision started to blur. Images of gushing blood rushed into my mind. Crimson red blood, there needed to be blood. I make a fist and start to swing at my father. I was much younger and stronger then him, the first blow to his face was enough to make him drop his knife and fall to the ground in pain. I did not stop swinging my fists, blow after blow.
The violence only stopped when I saw the blood. The thick red liquid filled the room. My knuckles were worn down, possibly broken. I watched as my own blood mixed with my fathers. My father...a mess on the floor. His face was destroyed, he could've been mistaken for something inhuman. But it was my father, I killed my father. The sin of patricide, the man who raised me gone. The green soapstone sat on the floor in the middle of a puddle of blood. I did not even realized I dropped it. It was feeding off my fathers blood. Soaking it up like a cloth. I did not know what it did with the blood, what sort of ritual it was meant for but I know in my heart that I should not let if feed no more.
So I write this letter, the stone is once again secured in a tin box. My father's body lies in his room, the blood the stone did not take soaks into the wooden floor. I wish to give him a proper burial but I fear time is short. I will take this stone back to where it came, the sea. I will borrow one of the boats my father owns….owned. I plan to sail as far out into the sea as I can. I have no wish to return, I will go into the water with the stone. I can not afford a suicide that allows more blood to be spilled. I can only beg of you if the stone finds its way to land once more to throw it back, do not be lured by the unknown you find.
Farewell
-Frank Roberts"
“Knowledge is knowing the tomato is a fruit, wisdom is not putting in your fruit salad.”
-
PiaMango
- Posts: 528
- Joined: Thu Jun 27, 2013 8:45 am
- Location: New Zealand
Re: Tales by the fire (2014)
As a red sun sets over the Wyrm’s crossing a fair skinned copper elf rest her feet around the campfire just south of the bridge. She listens to any tales shared with interest, emotions visibly showing on her face throughout them. She does not speak up until the campfire falls silent.
“Although I believe life should be filled with laughter and joy. We should be reminded of the darker sides of life on occasion, so we might truly appreciate what we have and where we are now. I share with you tonight a tale gifted to me by a hardy man, he said it an old wives’ tale to scare troublesome siblings of his tribe into getting along with each other. As we will find out, there may be some truth to the tale.”
The unintroduced elf pauses for a moment, looking between the faces of her audience with a grim expression as she composes her thoughts. The last remnants of day dimly light the sky, however through it, a lone star shyly peeks.
“The man who shared this tale with me was no ordinary man. His skin was thick, weathered, scars strewed over his arms, each with its own tale of battle to tell. He was a hard man. You would have to be to live in the lands he calls home. The bitter, desolate lands of the far north. These indurated men and woman form tribes to survive its harsh winters together.
This tale takes place upon a place called Raven Rock, where two brother tribes called home. The Greywolf and the Blackwolf tribe.
It is said that the two tribes were once one, supporting off of each other’s strength. But a bitter rivalry between their chieftains caused the tribes to splinter. The two tribes became distant. No longer would they share fires with tales of battles and competitions of strength."
The copper elf pauses for a moment to brush her rich brown hair to a side to reveal a melancholic face, perhaps a foreshadowing of what is to come. Stars now claimed the skies.
“Winters came and passed.Without their brothers assistance the Blackwolf tribe struggled to survive.Their chieftain Bjern walked through his camp with a forlon face as he looked upon malnourished children, their bones showing as their mothers tried to comfort them. Hunting wolves fought over the dried bones of a kill almost a tenday old. Another night without meat, Bjern loathed the thought. The harsh call of winter was approaching and they had not even begun to stockpile food to survive through it. Something had to change.
The winds however blew more kindly to their brother tribe, the Greywolves. Their hunting wolves reaped deer, their wives birthed more children, and their warriors became renowned for their strength. Despite having all they would wish for in these harsh lands, they thirsted for more. ‘Why should I waste my time hunting for food when I could simply take what I want from the other tribes of these lands.’ It was not till when a young man, slaying the previous chieftain to claim it for himself, named appropriately, Svaglar the Brutal, did the tribe act upon this thought.”
Over the crackling of the fire a low droning hooting of an owl fills the atmosphere. Some may have noticed that the copper elf’s ears have moved, tilted downwards, their tips pointed nigh horizontally through her chocolate hair. She continues on with the story, her voice gloomy but holding clamours of emotion.
“Svaglar and his warriors marched down from Raven Rock and confronted the other tribes of the land. The tribes were helpless to stop Svaglar from taking what he wanted. Those who did show resistance to the chief and his warriors were shown why he holds the title the Brutal. Returning to camp they bellowed cheers dragging behind sacks of supplies, and sometimes young who showed promise in becoming mighty warriors. The Greywolves grew fat and complacent. No tribe dared stand up to their might.They did however hold a shred of compassion, leaving their brother tribe, the Blackwolves unmolested.
BJern knew of his brother tribe’s prosperity. Though he did not quite agree with the means to it, his tribe was in need. Along with a few of his warriors he made pace to the Greywolves camp. Within his camp Svaglar welcomed his brothers. ‘What brings you to my camp Bjern?’ Irritated Svaglar rumbled, not knowing the means to the visit. ‘To simply share battle tales like the days of old, my brother Svaglar.’ Tales of battle were told, Svaglar haughtily boasting skulls of the beasts he has faced. Bjern’s own humbler, the mood for the moment was amiable.
‘You have grown fat my brother.’ Bjern bluntly stated taking a glance down at Svaglar’s plump belly. The imposing man rose slowly, towering over Bjern and his men an aggravated look upon his face. ‘Do you come to challenge my leadership Bern?’ Saglars voice bellowed over the camp. ‘Your leathers do not hide your scrawniness Bjern, my own son could wrestle you with an arm tied behind his back’ Trying to ease the tension Bjern spoke calmly. ‘It is not the reason I have come my brother, to ask for your help is-.’ Cut off from finishing his plea Svaglar bellowed out once more over Bjern. ‘The Greywolf did not grow strong by asking for help. Leave Bjern, before I show to you why I hold the title the Brutal.’
Bjern and his warriors were shooed out of the Greywolf camp empty handed. The sight of an overflowing tent full of food churned Bjern’s stomach, he and his men could not return to their camp without some of its spoils. They waited just out of sight of the Greywolf camp as night dawned. To their dismay the night was lit bright by a full moon, it illuminated the Greywolf camp. Bjern and his shabby warriors waited anxiously as the fires of the camp died down to embers. They could see no one standing watch, it was then they snuck forward.
The complacent Greywolves did not take mind to setting a watch at night, their bellies were full of boar, and no one dared test their might. Moonlight glistened off of Bjern and his men’s battle axes as they crept forward. Their eyes set upon the overflowing tent, the food that will feed their children and let them survive the imminent winter. To their luck their footsteps were silent, the Greywolf camp slept soundly as Bjern and his men strapped their axes to their backs and took in their arms as much of the food as possible. A sigh of relief washed over Bjern as he and his men made their way over to their side of Raven Rock.
This feeling shattered as the roaring of life echoed in the night behind them. A restless young Greywolf had snuck into the food tent for a midnight snack, his cries of finding the tent empty awoke the whole camp. It was not long till Svaglar, his blood burning in a rage, set on hot pursuit of Bern. Bern and his men were not as fit as Svaglar’s, slowed down by their heavy sacks it was only a matter of time before they were to meet.
And meet they did, only a hundred yards out from his camp Bern hear a voice calling out behind him. ‘Bern you coward, come and face me you coward, you hyena.’ All sense of hope faded from Bern, he dropped the sack and held his battle axe tiredly in both hands as he watched Svaglar and his men approach. ‘Bah! That’s the way my brother, drop the supplies, bend your knee and I might consider sparing your life.’ Bern stood unwavering as Svaglar approached. Nearing close, Svaglar’s bloodshot red eyes glistened in the moonlight.”
Syvlia pauses for a moment, her face turns white. She glances down at her lap for a few seconds before looking up, eyes gazing deep into the chaos of the fire before her. She begins to sing in a solemn tone.
“And who are you, the proud chief said,
that I must bow so low?
Only a wolf of a different coat,
that's all the truth I know.
In a coat of grey or a coat of black,
a wolf still has teeth,
And mine are long and sharp, my chief,
as long and sharp as yours.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
that chief of Raven Rock,
But now the rains weep o'er his camp,
with no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep o'er his camp,
and not a soul to hear.”
She lets the distant hooting of an owl linger as she pulls her cloak in close about her arms.
“That night Raven Rock ran red with blood. Svaglar did not spare a soul of his brother tribe for their insolence. Without remorse Svaglar and his men made their way over the rock carrying gore soaked sacks of food. It is said that night the tribespeople of the rock were not the only ones witnesses to the onslaught.
Some say Malar was entertained by the bloodlust of Svaglar and his tribe. He gifted them his boon, to turn into the most horrendous, mindless, beast upon every full moon, so they might entertain him once more.
Others say Selune wept watching brother slaughter brother under her grace, so she cursed the tribe. From that night whenever the tribe laid their eyes upon her full grace they would be reminded of the mindless creatures devoid of empathy that they are. It is said also she lifts the curse from any tribespeople who are born with compassion, who recognize the tribe’s brutality and leave.”
At this she lets out an exasperated sigh. Her shoulders slumped as she speaks her final tiresome words.
“It was then the hardy man who shared the tale with me lifted his shirt. His chest and back were strewn with claw marks. He told me every full moon their tribe hid their children and kept a wary eye out for the beasts that roam the night.”
((( An update of this. Song taken from the Rains of Castamere. Coloured to set the tone of her voice, however may in turn detract from the story rather than add to it.
“Although I believe life should be filled with laughter and joy. We should be reminded of the darker sides of life on occasion, so we might truly appreciate what we have and where we are now. I share with you tonight a tale gifted to me by a hardy man, he said it an old wives’ tale to scare troublesome siblings of his tribe into getting along with each other. As we will find out, there may be some truth to the tale.”
The unintroduced elf pauses for a moment, looking between the faces of her audience with a grim expression as she composes her thoughts. The last remnants of day dimly light the sky, however through it, a lone star shyly peeks.
“The man who shared this tale with me was no ordinary man. His skin was thick, weathered, scars strewed over his arms, each with its own tale of battle to tell. He was a hard man. You would have to be to live in the lands he calls home. The bitter, desolate lands of the far north. These indurated men and woman form tribes to survive its harsh winters together.
This tale takes place upon a place called Raven Rock, where two brother tribes called home. The Greywolf and the Blackwolf tribe.
It is said that the two tribes were once one, supporting off of each other’s strength. But a bitter rivalry between their chieftains caused the tribes to splinter. The two tribes became distant. No longer would they share fires with tales of battles and competitions of strength."
The copper elf pauses for a moment to brush her rich brown hair to a side to reveal a melancholic face, perhaps a foreshadowing of what is to come. Stars now claimed the skies.
“Winters came and passed.Without their brothers assistance the Blackwolf tribe struggled to survive.Their chieftain Bjern walked through his camp with a forlon face as he looked upon malnourished children, their bones showing as their mothers tried to comfort them. Hunting wolves fought over the dried bones of a kill almost a tenday old. Another night without meat, Bjern loathed the thought. The harsh call of winter was approaching and they had not even begun to stockpile food to survive through it. Something had to change.
The winds however blew more kindly to their brother tribe, the Greywolves. Their hunting wolves reaped deer, their wives birthed more children, and their warriors became renowned for their strength. Despite having all they would wish for in these harsh lands, they thirsted for more. ‘Why should I waste my time hunting for food when I could simply take what I want from the other tribes of these lands.’ It was not till when a young man, slaying the previous chieftain to claim it for himself, named appropriately, Svaglar the Brutal, did the tribe act upon this thought.”
Over the crackling of the fire a low droning hooting of an owl fills the atmosphere. Some may have noticed that the copper elf’s ears have moved, tilted downwards, their tips pointed nigh horizontally through her chocolate hair. She continues on with the story, her voice gloomy but holding clamours of emotion.
“Svaglar and his warriors marched down from Raven Rock and confronted the other tribes of the land. The tribes were helpless to stop Svaglar from taking what he wanted. Those who did show resistance to the chief and his warriors were shown why he holds the title the Brutal. Returning to camp they bellowed cheers dragging behind sacks of supplies, and sometimes young who showed promise in becoming mighty warriors. The Greywolves grew fat and complacent. No tribe dared stand up to their might.They did however hold a shred of compassion, leaving their brother tribe, the Blackwolves unmolested.
BJern knew of his brother tribe’s prosperity. Though he did not quite agree with the means to it, his tribe was in need. Along with a few of his warriors he made pace to the Greywolves camp. Within his camp Svaglar welcomed his brothers. ‘What brings you to my camp Bjern?’ Irritated Svaglar rumbled, not knowing the means to the visit. ‘To simply share battle tales like the days of old, my brother Svaglar.’ Tales of battle were told, Svaglar haughtily boasting skulls of the beasts he has faced. Bjern’s own humbler, the mood for the moment was amiable.
‘You have grown fat my brother.’ Bjern bluntly stated taking a glance down at Svaglar’s plump belly. The imposing man rose slowly, towering over Bjern and his men an aggravated look upon his face. ‘Do you come to challenge my leadership Bern?’ Saglars voice bellowed over the camp. ‘Your leathers do not hide your scrawniness Bjern, my own son could wrestle you with an arm tied behind his back’ Trying to ease the tension Bjern spoke calmly. ‘It is not the reason I have come my brother, to ask for your help is-.’ Cut off from finishing his plea Svaglar bellowed out once more over Bjern. ‘The Greywolf did not grow strong by asking for help. Leave Bjern, before I show to you why I hold the title the Brutal.’
Bjern and his warriors were shooed out of the Greywolf camp empty handed. The sight of an overflowing tent full of food churned Bjern’s stomach, he and his men could not return to their camp without some of its spoils. They waited just out of sight of the Greywolf camp as night dawned. To their dismay the night was lit bright by a full moon, it illuminated the Greywolf camp. Bjern and his shabby warriors waited anxiously as the fires of the camp died down to embers. They could see no one standing watch, it was then they snuck forward.
The complacent Greywolves did not take mind to setting a watch at night, their bellies were full of boar, and no one dared test their might. Moonlight glistened off of Bjern and his men’s battle axes as they crept forward. Their eyes set upon the overflowing tent, the food that will feed their children and let them survive the imminent winter. To their luck their footsteps were silent, the Greywolf camp slept soundly as Bjern and his men strapped their axes to their backs and took in their arms as much of the food as possible. A sigh of relief washed over Bjern as he and his men made their way over to their side of Raven Rock.
This feeling shattered as the roaring of life echoed in the night behind them. A restless young Greywolf had snuck into the food tent for a midnight snack, his cries of finding the tent empty awoke the whole camp. It was not long till Svaglar, his blood burning in a rage, set on hot pursuit of Bern. Bern and his men were not as fit as Svaglar’s, slowed down by their heavy sacks it was only a matter of time before they were to meet.
And meet they did, only a hundred yards out from his camp Bern hear a voice calling out behind him. ‘Bern you coward, come and face me you coward, you hyena.’ All sense of hope faded from Bern, he dropped the sack and held his battle axe tiredly in both hands as he watched Svaglar and his men approach. ‘Bah! That’s the way my brother, drop the supplies, bend your knee and I might consider sparing your life.’ Bern stood unwavering as Svaglar approached. Nearing close, Svaglar’s bloodshot red eyes glistened in the moonlight.”
Syvlia pauses for a moment, her face turns white. She glances down at her lap for a few seconds before looking up, eyes gazing deep into the chaos of the fire before her. She begins to sing in a solemn tone.
“And who are you, the proud chief said,
that I must bow so low?
Only a wolf of a different coat,
that's all the truth I know.
In a coat of grey or a coat of black,
a wolf still has teeth,
And mine are long and sharp, my chief,
as long and sharp as yours.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
that chief of Raven Rock,
But now the rains weep o'er his camp,
with no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep o'er his camp,
and not a soul to hear.”
She lets the distant hooting of an owl linger as she pulls her cloak in close about her arms.
“That night Raven Rock ran red with blood. Svaglar did not spare a soul of his brother tribe for their insolence. Without remorse Svaglar and his men made their way over the rock carrying gore soaked sacks of food. It is said that night the tribespeople of the rock were not the only ones witnesses to the onslaught.
Some say Malar was entertained by the bloodlust of Svaglar and his tribe. He gifted them his boon, to turn into the most horrendous, mindless, beast upon every full moon, so they might entertain him once more.
Others say Selune wept watching brother slaughter brother under her grace, so she cursed the tribe. From that night whenever the tribe laid their eyes upon her full grace they would be reminded of the mindless creatures devoid of empathy that they are. It is said also she lifts the curse from any tribespeople who are born with compassion, who recognize the tribe’s brutality and leave.”
At this she lets out an exasperated sigh. Her shoulders slumped as she speaks her final tiresome words.
“It was then the hardy man who shared the tale with me lifted his shirt. His chest and back were strewn with claw marks. He told me every full moon their tribe hid their children and kept a wary eye out for the beasts that roam the night.”
((( An update of this. Song taken from the Rains of Castamere. Coloured to set the tone of her voice, however may in turn detract from the story rather than add to it.
Dawnsinger Aspen Meynolt
Bio - Song of the Morning RP - Church of Lathander
Watchknight Lysander Asperan
The Everwatch Knights
Bio - Song of the Morning RP - Church of Lathander
Watchknight Lysander Asperan
The Everwatch Knights