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Messages - LightlyFrosted
1
« on: May 08, 2017, 01:21:27 am »
While strict silence need not be necessarily observed in the Great Library, it is customary that the needs of other visitors be given some consideration when one is within; as many cannot read silently, the idea of raising one's voice to the level at which one is likely to interfere with the concentration of others is somewhat discourteous. If an unseen observer were tracking incidents of song around the world, they might be surprised that this isbeing observed, for the singer is surely here.
Still, one Does Not Disrupt Other Readers within the library. Instead, a small pile of tomes and scrolls, ranging in subject from merchantman and war ship designs, to siege enginery, legends and accounts of golems, and finally folk stories and ghost tales, await shelving near where the singer spent time in study. A loose scrap of foolscap offers some insight into the mindset of the one who too recently studied those books. The contents are, by and large, predictable. Sketches, in charcoal and ink, of designs for weapons of war and ships, clearly copied and then improvised upon, although to no useful end. Ball joints, and rouch sketches of metalwork designs - some of which appear to have been copied from another work, not belonging to the library. And a bit of poetry that might be a draft for a new song. "A quiet wizard sat alone,
In tower dark and tall,
And sought to make some company,
To liven up his hall.
He animated chair and stool,
Brought life to one and all,
But this imperfect artistry,
Was pride before the fall.
Sing again of lonely glen,
And lonely wizard's ghost,
He thought his plans so needful when,
He needed hope the most. Too long he laboured, tired, too,
That when his work was done,
And stood before him, golem, proud,
Days since he'd seen the sun,
He thought that he could order it
To be all life, in one;
It simply could not understand,
That he needed someone.
Sing again of lonely glen,
And lonely wizard's ghost,
He thought his plans so needful when,
He needed hope the most.
Surrounded by his artifice,
The wizard, still alone,
No friends, nor any company,
More lively than a stone.
He grew fearful and paranoid,
His jealousy had grown,
Of artistry, unparalleled,
Of skills he'd trained to hone.
Sing again of lonely glen,
And lonely wizard's ghost,
He thought his plans so needful when,
He needed hope the most.
Creations set to home defense
Made sorry company,
And Wizard's meager social skills
Began to atrophy.
He told his artifice to slay
His final, bold decree;
But he forgot himself to say
'Except, of course, for me'.
Sing again of lonely glen,
And lonely wizard's ghost,
He thought his plans so needful when,
He needed hope the most.
The tale of haunted, tower came
And reached my ear one day,
Of noises strange and fearful, out
Where ruined tower lay.
The tower, long since crumbled was
Upon a field of clay,
But through a cellar door we went,
To learn what went astray.
Sing again of lonely glen,
And lonely wizard's ghost,
He thought his plans so needful when,
He needed hope the most.
His artifice still lingered there,
No ghosts but constructs true,
And so we battled mightily,
And so we made it through.
Where weeping golem over him,
Our motives did construe,
And told the tale I tell today,
And told all that it knew.
Sing again of lonely glen,
And lonely wizard's ghost,
He thought his plans so needful when,
He needed hope the most.
It wasn't pride that slew him,
Though that's how I tell the tale.
Ambition not the culprit,
For in goals he did not fail.
But as we stood there, listening,
Our good air going stale,
I saw what I might have become,
And I grew wan and pale.
Sing again of lonely glen,
And lonely wizard's ghost,
He thought his plans so needful when,
He needed hope the most.
Our moral then, we must now reach,
So that this song might end.
Pursue your virtue, seek your ends,
But take care to amend
Those aims which might more readily
Be solved to have a friend,
For lonely master's jealousy
May lonely masters rend.
Sing again of lonely glen,
And lonely wizard's ghost,
He thought his plans so needful when,
He needed hope the most.
If there is any more to this posey, it is obscured by a large ink blot. Notations nearby suggest tht this song is unlikely to be sung, for the story takes too many creative liberties... and the journal suggested that the man deserved more than to be a simple morality tale.
2
« on: April 30, 2017, 02:25:44 am »
The merchant district of Hempstead is home to symphonies of discordant sound, with merchants and tradesmen plying their business in an effort to bring greater prosperity to all - at least, that's what they say. While there is something musical to the sound of coins falling into a chest however, it is rarer that more literal music should be heard. Still, a strident voice carries far over the hurly burly of the madding crowd, singing a strangely jolly song that might have been appropriate had the Tower Academy taken off - or, indeed, ever had a sports team. "Fight fiercely, Tower,
Show your speed,
Your courage and your strength:
No wilting flower,
Nor a weed,
We shall triumph at length!
Whether on the field of honour or,
Conversing with a minotaur,
We know that you will give your all
For school and for pride;
They may be stronger, tougher too,
And better at the things we do,
But we won't be so swift to fall,
To rampant magicide.
Fight fiercely, Tower,
Play the game,
And never think to cheat;
To use one's power
Is the same
As skill with hands and feet!
(We mean it!)
Fight because they're going to try
(Go fight them)
To make us bleed and make us cry,
(And win it!)
Fight, fight, fight!"
The song fades out with a vaguery of what might have been if things had happened other than they had lingering in the background.
3
« on: April 24, 2017, 11:42:09 pm »
Raucous good cheer sits heavy in the Scamp's Mug like the smell of the Chef's Special and flatbottom pipeweed, cloying in its intensity. It's difficult to determine where the first voice comes from, but before long the hearthside is filled by songs of great and terrible achievement, and it's not long beyond that when the first ghost story song begins. As the rain pounds down out-of-doors, a ghost story serves well to offer a bit of chill - relief from the fire - without actually getting wet. "Down upon Alindor's coast,
The Scarlet Dawn descended,
The crew comprised a murd'rous host,
And many lives they'd ended.
And on horizon, far away,
They spotted one more prize to slay,
Not knowing that e'er break of day,
Their many sins be mended. Sing now with me of Scarlet Dawn,
Their souls the Mother claim;
A pirate crew that isn't gone,
But isn't quite the same.
And as the mist rolls off the bay,
Their cries you may hear to this day.
The merchanter was fat and low,
The die of fates was cast,
Its weighty cargo made it slow,
The Dawn was lean and fast,
And as it sailed around the cape,
The merchanter could not escape,
But their fate held a different shape,
Dawn's fortune didn't last. Sing now with me of Scarlet Dawn,
Their souls the Mother claim;
A pirate crew that isn't gone,
But isn't quite the same.
And as the mist rolls off the bay,
Their cries you may hear to this day. Around the coast a Starphire came,
Its captain did not slow,
And through the Dawn it seemed to aim,
And through her did it go.
And down the dawn to briney deep,
Where drowned sailors ever-sleep,
Though none would for these pirates weep,
As they were dragged below. Sing now with me of Scarlet Dawn,
Their souls the Mother claim;
A pirate crew that isn't gone,
But isn't quite the same.
And as the mist rolls off the bay,
Their cries you may hear to this day. The tale was swift forgotten 'till
The mists did next descend,
Reminding all who drink their fill,
Tales never truly end.
For in the fog and in the night,
There came a red unearthly light,
The Scarlet Dawn, a ghostly sight,
The living souls to rend. Sing now with me of Scarlet Dawn,
Their souls the Mother claim;
A pirate crew that isn't gone,
But isn't quite the same.
And as the mist rolls off the bay,
Their cries you may hear to this day." The door to the Scamp opens and closes quickly, as someone departs, leaving into a night fit for neither man nor beast.
4
« on: April 22, 2017, 07:34:03 pm »
Excepting an anvil chorus, the Hlint Smithy isn't frequently the source of song these days, as Center, Hempstead and Vehl long ago drew away the most fervent of the adventuring masses. Still, with time kept by the ringing of a hammer, a melody is ground out in strained bass and falsetto alike, as a song intended for two voices is managed by one. "Sing a song of Silverbeard,
His legend to engorge,
A master smith whose story ends
With the Golem of the Forge!
Long ago there lived a smith,
Who honed a weapon's edge.
He had a workshop bright and bold,
Atop a lava wedge,
The heat was great and so he bought
A golem to survive the hot,
And help him to produce a lot
Or so the tales allege! Sing a song of Silverbeard,
His legend to engorge,
A master smith whose story ends
With the Golem of the Forge! Though famous weapons he had made,
The dwarf was not content,
He swore he would create a blade,
As good as heaven sent,
With adamant he folded tight,
Three hundred times to prove his might,
And hone a blade so sharp and light,
To leave the heavens rent. Sing a song of Silverbeard,
His legend to engorge,
A master smith whose story ends
With the Golem of the Forge! But golem hands are not adroit
At delicate details,
And as it grabbed the masterpiece,
It fell over the rails,
And into lava plunged the sword,
Until the very world was cored,
And in the workshop sewed dischord,
In Silverbeard's loud wails. Sing a song of Silverbeard,
His legend to engorge,
A master smith whose story ends
With the Golem of the Forge! With practiced might the dwarf he threw
A hammer at its head,
Told golem to retrieve the sword
At least that's what is said,
And so the golem plunged into
The failing forge, the molten goo,
And brought down the whole workshop too,
And left Silverbeard dead. Sing a song of Silverbeard,
His legend to engorge,
A master smith whose story ends
With the Golem of the Forge! And what of sword and golem
The inquisitive might ask,
Was plunging into lava
Simply too great of a task?
Some say creature's destiny,
Did find the longsword "Legacy"
And merged with lava completely,
As Silverbeard did ask. Sing a song of Silverbeard,
His legend to engorge,
A master smith whose story ends
With the Golem of the Forge!" As tempered steel is plunged into water to cool, the smithy fills with steam and smoke. The singer, wherever he might have been, is long gone by the time it clears.
5
« on: April 21, 2017, 12:59:49 am »
Tracking a song on the winds of the docks of Hempstead is like attempting to catch a butterfly in a hurricane: constant movement, endless mixing and blending voices, and a thousand distractions, from the movements of ships in port to the scents of nearby public houses and shops. Nevertheless, a trained baritone carries over the din. "I learned upon my mother's knee
Of magic old as ancient rock,
The Al'noth's joy for all to see,
The secrets magic could unlock.
And so I wrote this tortured rhyme,
And thank you for your borrowed time,
To speak of the Stop Clock. Now with no attempt to trick,
Sing a song of Stop Clock,
A clock that never once will tick,
And hanged man will never talk.
I sought it out in light of day,
As day was turning into night,
And coming from the other way,
Was but myself; a dreadful fright,
He said 'I found it, yesterday',
'That's your tomorrow by the way',
'And now your job to put things right'.
Now with no attempt to trick,
Sing a song of Stop Clock,
A clock that never once will tick,
And hanged man will never talk.
I asked 'why can't you fix your mess?'
I thought myself clever to ask,
He said 'it's just that way, I guess',
Emotions hidden like a mask,
He claimed to find the clock would take
Mistakes I would now never make,
And I had to perform the task. Now with no attempt to trick,
Sing a song of Stop Clock,
A clock that never once will tick,
And hanged man will never talk. And in frustration, he stabbed me,
And so I lie before you now,
The victim of myself you see,
As time should not per se allow,
For if I'm dead my murderer can't logically exist,
But still I'm bleeding and my wounds seem inclined to persist,
If I run into him we'll have an awful bloody row.
Now with no attempt to trick,
Sing a song of Stop Clock,
A clock that never once will tick,
And hanged man will never talk."
The strange and silly song drifts off into nothing, the singer gone - or was he ever really there?
6
« on: April 20, 2017, 12:56:31 am »
The Crossroads, surrounded by forest, often serve as a fair place to sit and watch and listen to the bustling traffic through the Dapplegreen. On a good day, one can hear all the news of the world - or at least, that portion of it which concerns someone who can afford to take a day to eavesdrop out-of-doors on passers by. On one particularly slow day, someone doing so might hear but not see a voice, gaining in confidence, its owner slow and heavy in tread, emerging from the Dapplegreen, crossing the clearing, and then heading further along the path back into the forest, singing all the while. "Mighty Hempstead, home of wonder,
Gold can speak, and magic, spell,
Once the site of dark-elf plunder,
One dark night, the city fell.
Gold that vanished into shadow,
Lives that fell to lives below. Hempstead Hempstead, proud and mighty,
Home of both the great and good,
Hempstead learn from your history,
Be the place you someday could. Mighty Hempstead, they were cruel,
Sacked the city, do the math;
Were they free or but a tool
Of a wicked dragon's wrath?
And yet, upon a time of old,
Did you hurt more for lives, or gold?
Hempstead Hempstead, proud and mighty,
Home of both the great and good,
Hempstead learn from your history,
Be the place you someday could.
Pious Hempstead, guards no evil,
Now their tolerance is gone,
Lost as well in the upheaval,
Now no light of kindness shone,
May they have left behind a seed?
Is evil found in face, or deed? Hempstead Hempstead, proud and mighty,
Home of both the great and good,
Hempstead learn from your history,
Be the place you someday could. Now, see Hempstead, clad in glory,
Home to heroes great and strong,
Yet this is real life, no story,
We know that goodness can go wrong,
How many throats would slit a soul,
If plundered treasures were the goal?
Hempstead Hempstead, proud and mighty,
Home of both the great and good,
Hempstead, 'ware your own history,
Gods know that somebody should."
The voice trails off into the Dapplegreen, beginning a new song about hedgehogs and the unlikeliness of their amiable amorous relations.
7
« on: April 19, 2017, 02:52:19 am »
It is not altogether uncommon for visitors to public baths in Leringard to test the accoustics, tile and ceramic being such wonderful modulators and amplifiers of the mortal voice, it is the privacy that such places allow that can really loosen songs from even the rustiest of throats. Even if one were so gauche as to break the softly-but-firmly-spoken taboos against peeking at other bathers, one could make good use of the cover of steam, to say nothing of the discretion of the proprietors. Perhaps it is simply the warm and soothing environment, the gently proffered fine spirits or pipeweed, or the already accentuated vulnerability of nudity (or bathing attire, for the modest). But many the voice that would go on to bark harsh commands, scream in agony or triumph, or make a snooty remark about the cut of that man's cloak and that lady's gown is softened to songs of innocence or experience. The song that now cuts through the steam and resounds off the walls is clearly a relaxed if unschooled one, gaining in confidence as it beats out a familiar tattoo to those of Leringard who recall too well the report of powerful wings, the chill of a frozen breath, and the steady knowledge that, with cause, today will not be recorded as a Good Day in years to come. But the song... the song is a ghost story, a tattoo for the fallen, and a call to arms in one. The Pikes of Leringard. "Once our harbour sang with glory,
Once our port was rich with fame,
Once before the darkest story
Shadows fell, and ice-wings came.
Those with will and mind withstood it,
Those with courage to their name,
Struck the blows that ne'er could hit,
That which on the ice-wings came.
Heroes stood and did not falter,
Though the path ahead was hard,
Heroes fell, to guard our harbour,
Fell the Pikes of Leringard.
In the North, the Snow-beast slumbered,
Beast of senseless greed and wrath,
Wyrm by morals unencumbered,
Ice and death along its path.
Struck us, Snow-tooth, proud and vicious,
Tried to set us all to fear,
Came to feed its greed on riches,
Winter came too hard that year.
Heroes stood, and did not falter,
Though the path ahead was hard,
Heroes fell, to guard our harbour,
Fell the Pikes of Leringard.
Though we failed and we were beaten,
Though the death toll was too high,
Though our ships and cargo eaten,
Though we look to fearful sky,
Stand we now to keep their promise,
And fulfill their destiny,
Stand we now, beneath their onus,
Keepers of their legacy.
Heroes stood, and did not falter,
Though the path ahead was hard,
Heroes fell to guard our harbour,
Fell the Pikes of Leringard."
The last notes die out, and no further reverberate among even the most exceptional spirits, pipeweed, and acoustics. Their origin is difficult to determine.
8
« on: November 03, 2010, 02:01:45 am »
*Some thoughtful pages pass, waxing eloquent upon the state of art as it stands today; recent spell developments - a short essay on each of Brac'ar's and Alantha's magical achievements. A bit of musing later brings the topic to the idea of finding lost tomes of spellcraft.*
To be perfectly frank, although it would seem to be the best way to rediscover the past, I have only modest hopes pertaining to finding secrets of losst arts in old books; the same applies to etchings, carved walls, or any other such pictograms or puzzles. It took me years to crack the code on the one journal I had, and even then I had some trouble with the language. While the runes of the dwarves or the flowery script of elves may retain their form over the handful of generations that make up a millenium for such peoples, the common tongue has shifted remarkably in its usage over only a few hundred years. I had some problem with that when first I came to Hlint; a few hundred years as a stone statue had done little to modernize the my linguistic sensibilities, and it was at least a few months (and even then, only that because I am, modestly, smarter than many people) before my grasp of contemporary idiom was solid enough that I could safely feel that I had understood most of what my contemporaries had just said.
Some effort spent learning some of the older tongues would doubtless not go amiss; Elven, Dwarven, and even Halfling or Gnomish languages, or other, more obscure tongues. If nothing else, it would save me the risk of a mis-translation, for such a thing could be disastrous if one is attempting to discover the nuance of a new spell or technique; a hired translator might not quite comprehend that there really isn't a 'close enough'. Still, there will doubtless be a number of scripts I cannot read, tomes unperusable because the dialect or tongue in which they are written is hundreds of years out of date. What to do about such linguistic follies?
Well, what can one do? Do one's best and soldier on. Once upon a time I had thought to make my grand quest a truly impossible one; learn Floraine, and become the world's only living scholar of the tongue. Then, it occurred to me, that this was one of the stupidest things I could waste my life doing; the reason Floraine is such a dead language is that there are no existing writings in it, nor natural speakers. With nothing of the language surviving - except, if I recall correctly, a handful of tattoos upon the body of the bard Acacea Thistletongue. Frankly, I'm a trifle skeptical that she has any actual evidence that they mean what she thinks they mean, but that's somewhat beside the point. For all the effort that it would take to learn such a language, given its complete lack of usefulness, I might just as well create an entirely new tongue of my own, and claim it to be Floraine - or not even bother to do even that.
How better, then, that I instead tilt at the windmill of Higher Art; instead of hoping to learn a truly extinct language, I instead hope to master the art of truly marvellous, but no less obscure magic.
At least one cannot say I set my sights too low!
9
« on: May 26, 2010, 08:52:47 pm »
Garnet is tentatively in.
10
« on: March 28, 2010, 02:50:50 am »
Flynn
I'll take the In Honour of Shadow, mate.
- Tim
11
« on: March 07, 2010, 06:05:39 pm »
The guide that Patient Ox just posted actually seems to be a fair summation. At that level of CHA, you don't need to have ALL of those things - but one or two should be prominent. Similarly, if you find that your character is much higher in one regard than their charisma implies - say, someone with a charisma of eight or so who's the smoothest talker in all the land - there needs to be some real consideration about perhaps adopting attributes from a lower CHA rating than you have. The stat is an average of your ability to influence people; if you're stronger than you should be in one regard, chances are you're off-putting in another way.
In the end, I think the point needs to be that in an RP-intensive server like Layonara, there's really no such thing as a 'dump stat'. There's no such thing as a free lunch, and pulling points from Charisma is no exception; you aren't the most intellectual brain around if your intelligence is six, no matter what you the player are like, and you aren't going to be sweeping all the girls off their feet with a wink and a wave if your Charisma is below ten - or realistically, below twelve. Of course, you may not realise that you're so unpersonable - self-assuredness in skills or abilities you don't actually possess can certainly be off-putting - but if you're going to play yourself as smooth, it doesn't hurt to actually be smooth.
As a final note, if you're going to try to bluff your way into a heavily-armed encampment, it might help to have someone who's actually trained themselves in bluffing.. or persuading.. or has a charisma of greater than 8...
12
« on: February 09, 2010, 02:21:09 am »
Chapter the Third: The Spider's Web
It was not without trepidation that Elijah followed the lady-spymaster into her elabourately designed abode - the room possessed a desk, a few chairs, a bed, and walls lined with books. Looking back, once the door swung shut behind them, he was uncertain if he could point out precisely where it had been - it managed to camouflage itself perfectly into the walls of the hidden chamber. What could be seen of the bare walls, above and behind the bookcases, was a deep crimson red - the same with the carpet, with the net effect of leaving the young man with the disquieting feeling that he'd just walked into an open wound. Yet here he was, within the chambers of one of the most infamous spymasters of the realm; the Spider!
The one who appeared before the courts of Mistone, spilling precious secrets at the eleventh hour! The Spider!
The one who was said to have personally led to the poisoning of three of the most ambitious underlings of Blood's Generals, after the war had passed - underlings who had sought to carve out their own strongholds, and further tyranize the populace of Alindor. The Spider!
The head of the Twilight Society, an infamous group of secretive meddlers and investigators! The Spider!
A mysterious figure, now revealed to him to be an elf - and a woman, besides! The Spider!
Perhaps realising that her fame preceded her, the Spider crossed to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a pair of glasses made of fine crystal, as well as a decanter filled with what was for all appearances a fine dwarven brandy. She poured a lengthy splash into one glass, and then turned to her guest. "May I tempt you, Master Stick?" He seemed retiscent to answer, and she rolled her eyes. "Were I intent upon poisoning you, I could well have had you killed without taking the expense to bring you to Vehl - or, having done so, had you stabbed in some back alley without ever revealing myself. Would you care for a drink?"
The logic followed, and he nodded. Though he had thought himself difficult to impress, he was nevertheless in awe of this confident woman, and he barely maintained the presence of mind to scan the room while she poured more of the burgundy liquid into the second glass before re-capping the decanter. A pair of blades adorned the wall behind the desk - the first, of dwarven silver, a slender blade with what looked like a wicked edge, was emitting a faint smell of ozone. The second, a duelling blade, appeared to be covered in a thin layer of frost, but closing his eyes, he could feel heat rolling from the unsheathed blade. Someone less perceptive, seeking to duel the wielder of the blade might find some magical or alchemical protection from the cold enchantment apparently on the blade, only to be quite surprised when the white-hot iron tore through them. Gods, the squirrelly patterns of thought that these people went through, in order to acquire even an inch of edge.
The desk was lightly strewn with papers - but perhaps 'strewn' was the wrong word. A large inkwell littered the front of the desk, and a series of folios were spread across the blotter, a quill and a sharpening knife by the left-hand-side. Papers from the folios looked as if they had just been looked upon and not properly returned to their places, and if he strained, he could just about read what they said, even upside down-
"Not nice to read things not meant for your eyes." The brandy appeared before him, and had he been any less composed, he might have started. It was essential, when observing, to be careful that you were not yourself being observed - but everyone slipped occasionally. He took up the brandy and sniffed. The vintage was good, and so he sipped the drink, taking a moment to savour it in his mouth.
"Alas, I cannot shut out my curiosity." He turned to the elf, both hands upon the glass. "Would that I could. I might get into significantly less trouble that way." Another sip of the brandy convinced him to try laying a little charm on. "Of course, I suppose I might also find myself in the company of fewer lovely ladies."
The elf arched an eyebrow, the thin line raised upon her pale brow. "Or at the least, fewer ladies with reputations like mine." She smirked. "You would be wise to listen a little less to your friend Quill. A compliment, even a well-worded one, will only get you out of so much trouble. And some might not appreciate your pains."
He shrugged, philosophically. "Perhaps, but it's yet to hurt to try."
The elf settled at her seat at her desk, across from him, and studied his face a moment, taking a slow sip of her own brandy. Then, she looked down, setting her drink upon the desk and glancing through a few of the files upon the desk before pulling one out. The name at the top of the file was his own, and she made a show of reading it, but Elijah was thoroughly convinced that she knew enough of the file by heart to handle this discussion at the least, though he wasn't quite certain why. Then, it struck him - she appeared to be reading the file, but was falling prey to one of the most seductive of problems with a bluff. The temptation to watch the audience, and make sure that they were thoroughly taken in.
Clearly, this was another test; she was implying how much she knew about him, was taking her time and drawing the moment out. She wanted to see if he would crack. Well, two could play that game, and she had provided him with a prop to busy himself with while he waited. He sipped more of the delightful brandy as the slender elf woman paged through the folio, seemingly completely unconcerned with the contents of her reading. Eventually, she flipped it shut, and looked up at him - he felt as if he had scored at least one point there, because there was look of appreciation to her. He hadn't broken, and such grace under fire was much sought after.
"You would not be the first Master Stick that the Society has employed." She set the file aside, slender fingers brushing across the cover. "Your father was another such."
His mouth was dry. He hadn't known that his father was anything other than another trader; he wished dearly to ask about him, but held his tongue a moment.
"If it is agreeable to you, we would like to offer you a position. Let me tell you what it is we do."
13
« on: January 29, 2010, 03:34:37 am »
Part of it is intent, and part of it is which part you suspect to be the active part of the persuasion. If you're trying to play up the 'nothing bad will happen to you (But something bloody well COULD)' part of the attempt at persuasion, it's intimidation. If you are genuinely trying to be persuasive by more usual means, it'd be persuade.
If, as you suggest, you're trying to leverage one to assist in the other, I would probably moderate it as a GM to have you make an intimidate roll - representing the subtle threat - and depending on the quality of that roll, I would give a bonus to your persuasion. Thus, you are being intimidating - which is to say, making it clear that you possess the means and will to do the person harm in a persuasive way - but since it is more subtle, you are principally persuading with the intimidation simply affecting the susceptibility of the subject.
14
« on: January 29, 2010, 03:20:05 am »
Chapter the Second: An Introduction to Society
To say that the interior of the building into which Elijah Stick had so recently been summoned to differed from the exterior does a disservice to all understatements e'er made, by way of outshining them magnificently. Outside was the gloomy darkness of a Vehl alleyway, with the scents of urban living. Within, it seemed as if most every effort had been made to keep all avoidable contamination from without, without. The stone floor was clean of any filth, even that which must surely have been dredged in by anyone entering the way that Quill and Stick had - the various odours dissipated within moments of entering the building - even light itself from the outdoors seemed shut-away. Indeed, Elijah recalled, the windows to this building, what few there were, had been coated with a black oil that allowed no gazing in. Whatever else the case, he was quite certain that this was not Quill's personal property, for the man was hardly slavish enough to maintain this artificial environment of extreme decorum.
The woman who had opened the door to the two gentlemen was human as well. She wore clothing which neither flattered nor accentuated her figure, and although she was clearly female, Stick decided it would not take very much effort at all for her to masquerade as otherwise. Thick corded muscle built the majority of her frame, and she stood taller than most women, a combination of both natural height and platformed soles to her boots, he decided from her stride. A hooded travelling cloak, thicker pullover, and a blade at her side to keep the overly-curious at a distance, and few would choose to remember anything of her whatsoever. Certainly, Vehl seemed to command an air of non-curiosity; you didn't ask to see beneath the hoods that shrouded so many faces, for fear of what you might happen to see beneath. Besides, one's mind was usually kept occupied trying to avoid becoming a victim. The Desmer Inn, where Elijah had taken most of his meals in the past half-week, often contained many such individuals, deemed by all to be 'best left alone', and it was far from the most shady of venues.
Quill recognized the woman immediately, and his face lit up once the door was securely closed behind them. "Amelia! You brighten my day with your very glower. What have you done now, that they've got you on door duty?"
Seemingly despite herself, the woman smiled. "I fear it isn't my tale to tell." The smile, like a wizard seeking to extricate himself from an uncomfortable situation, became invisible with the words. "She would like to speak with you, once you've spoken with the lad here."
Quill sighed, his face a picture of mock-dejection. "Alas, she doubtless does. We're heading to my office, for to speak with him now." His eyes twinkled again. "Have you, perhaps, given any thought to my offer? The one of which we spoke last at the Harvest festival?"
"Your wife wouldn't approve."
"Alas," mused the portly merchant-official, "likely the case. Ah well, more's the pity." Stick gave his elder counterpart a glance, and was rewarded with nothing but an oblique expression of innocence. Casting off his travelling cloak, and relieving Stick of his own, Quill surprised the young man by then removing a wicked-looking dagger from a secret sheathe within his weather-coat. Catching the young man's look of surprise, the merchant chuckled. "One can never be too careful."
The pair made their way down the immaculate hallway, and Stick extended his attentions as broadly as he could, to try and discern something of the enigma that this place represented. Passing one corridor, the distinct smell of a fire, some form of pastry, and the thick rich smell of parchment and ink. Past the next, the sound of some form of exercise - difficult to tell, but it had more order to it than a genuine brawl, so he was fairly sure it wasn't a fistfight. The next had.. strange smells. Oil, tallow, metal, and a few things he couldn't name. So wrapped up in the enigma of it all, he almost missed it when Quill stopped before an open doorframe, and turned into it, walking into a wooden floored room with vast rugs spread across the floors. A fireplace held a crackling wood fire, and the rest of the room's furnishings were a pair of bookcases on either side, a broad mahogany desk, and two chairs, one on either side of the table. Quill took the one furthest from the door, and indicated to Stick that he should take the other.
"I suppose you're wondering what this is all about." Indeed, Stick had been, and though he thought he'd pieced at least some of it together, Quill seemed to be leading to the point of it all, and it occurred to the young man that the rudeness of interrupting might be unwise. "I fear that your presence in the Fort is the result of something of a deception; there is not, and never has been an Eastmoore trading company out of Vehl. The warehouse used as their address is one of our holdings, but the real point was to get you to Mistone with a minimum of suspicion. Your father was one of ours, you see, and requested that you be brought into the.. ah.. family trade, should anything befall him. You see, I am a member of the Twilight Society. Perhaps you've heard of us?"
In truth, Stick had - bard's tales and tavern whispers of an association of capable men and maids, unaffiliated with any government, and led by the mysterious Spider, who set capable agents to the tasks of information gathering and righting wrongs. Some spoke of them as heros - others as assassins. Whatever moral bent the story took however, one thing was certain; they were secretive in their ways and manners. To have confirmation of their existance was certainly interesting, if it could be believed. "The name rings a bell, although stories conflict, I fear, as they are wont to do."
Quill chuckled. "Indeed. We would like to offer you a position among us - not simply for your father's memory, but also in light of your own abilities. I've watched you grow into a thoroughly capable, extremely observant young man." Well, this was true. Stick was not the most martially inclined of people, but he could handle himself, and his powers of observation were significant enough that he was selected as a deal broker by a number of the companies of Mariner's Hold. "On that note," Quill continued, "I wonder what you might tell me about the street we walked down to get here? I have heard of your observational skills, but I wonder to what extent they may be taxed from memory."
This old game? Stick sighed. Ah well. It was more a parlour trick than anything - the eyes saw, the ears heard, the nose scented, and the mind compiled, and everyone thought that the process of doing so was remarkable. "The cobbles of the street became flagstones when we traversed to the alley. There were a dozen traders on the street." He proceded to name each in turn. "Of our fellow pedestrians, not overmuch could be discerned, nor, I suspect, confirmed even if you should have anticipated my noting them. However, the blacksmith we passed is, or is strongly considering an extra-marital affair, and the herbalist is dealing poisons under the counter."
Quill's eyebrows shot up; his eyes had been traversing a sheet of parchment before him, and it seemed to have confirmed those last two points. "Remarkable. How did you know?"
"The herbalist was simple enough - a small menage of dead rats huddled by the side of the building. Though toxins in general, and rat poison in specific are hardly difficult to obtain in a city such as this, these particular rodents displayed unusual pustules and had the whites of their teeth turned almost entirely black by the effects of a most unfortunate toxin; a draught made from quite potent mushrooms, I believe, although I'm damned if I can recall the trade name of the toxin." Realizing how this particular bit of observational data might make him sound, he hastily explained. "I worked with a Katian healer for a few weeks, helping the local constabulary in a town near Mariner's Hold sort out a series of unusual poisonings that eventually got tracked back to a Corathite death cult." Quill nodded at this.
"As far as the blacksmith is concerned, his case required rather more correllation of evidence. His stance, anxious and seeking as it was, coupled by the state of his stall, implied that he was hard-up for customers; not surprising as his work, at least that which I saw, was slip-shod at best. Tight as money seemed to be for him, there was therefore little to explain the excellent shirt he wore, fresh, clean, recently made, and stitched with the trade-mark of the Mastsight Street Guild of tailors. One such seamstress is doubtless his wife.
"However, sitting on the Hog's Head next to him, was a covered dish wafting the delectable scent of the Lunch Special at the Gold and Cross. Given that he works some four blocks from the inn, and his current fiscal state, it seems unlikely that he fetched it himself. Moreover, the dish rested upon a hankerchief embroidered (amateurly), with a coat-of-arms; a token of favour from a rather more well-to-do lady of some stature, who is evidently 'slumming it' with a gentleman she finds attractive. She most likely sent the tray, with her favour, by way of one of the servants at the inn, whom she paid both for the service and his discretion." He paused for breath. "Have I missed anything?"
"Nothing that the Gods themselves wouldn't." Quill looked duly impressed. "Notice anything else, did you? You have a knack for hidden things."
"The old beggar across the way may very well be a beggar, but he certainly is not blind, and he's not that old either. I would suspect he's a lookout for your little hidey-hole here, but that much is sheer speculation." Quill's nod confirmed it, and Stick continued. "And finally, this is not your office, and this was not simply a candid display of my abilities, but a demonstration to someone who is standing invisibly within this room to hear it."
Quill's mouth hung slightly open, another confirmation, but this one unnecessary. With a soft 'pfft' of dispellation, a slender elven woman, of luscious figure, dark eyes, raven hair, and pale, pale skin appeared next to the bookshelf near the fireplace.
"Most impressive, master Stick."
"The rugs are strewn so to mask the sound of footsteps - the crackling fire to hide anything else I might have noticed, such as a draft. The real clue was that there was no door in the doorway we walked through. Had this been a true office in the middle of the headquarters for a secret society, I cannot help but imagine some more care might be taken with private offices, even among friends. The only reason for such an omission would be to allow for unseen observation; the door would be conspicuous in being open, or worse still, in being opened."
The elven woman nodded, a gesture of agreement. "Word-perfect, master Stick. Word perfect. I am the Spider. Pray, come into my parlour."
15
« on: January 27, 2010, 01:21:56 am »
Elijah Stick, a human of no more than twenty-odd winters, had but recently arrived in Vehl by way of ship. The city had seemed bleak and imposing - even the promise of security that the Rofierenite Church near the docks had implicitly promised was countermanded by the sense of urban decay around it. If the gutters did not literally reek of excrement, it was only by virtue of the weather, which was damp.
Nevertheless, he was pleased to be of of the boat, and within a few hours, secured a small set of rooms with the coin he had brought with him. Accomodation arranged, he struck out upon the streets with an eye for business to be done. He was in town representing a small trading firm operating out of Mariner's Hold, and hoping to meet a representative of an organization which had but recently sent a missive to the firm, hoping to establish a trading contract across the sea. However, if he could arrange, by way of opportunity, other contracts as well, so much the better - he was receiving a small comission on the business he managed to arrange.
Master Stick was a well-groomed fellow, slender in build, but tightly-wired with muscle. His hair was dark, straight, and fell in small ringlets around his ears and down the back of his neck. His eyes, dark green, gave an impression of taking in and swiftly processing all that they could, but lacked the furtive glancing or darting that a common thief might possess. He was well dressed and wore a small beard, a long leather seaman's coat catching a bit of breeze behind him, wearing a white tunic, jacket, and breeches beneath, and walking with a cane.
However, well-attired though he was, his first day in Vehl was uneventful. Though he familiarized himself with the local environs, he could neither locate any who wished to do long-term business, nor the contact with whom he was supposed to meet. Although the address turned out to not be accurate however, he was not disheartened - even the local guide who had informed him of the fact after some searching admitted that there was enough turnover in the shady area of town that the address purported to be that the company he sought may simply have moved. Unwilling to forgo the comission that had brought him here, the young man resolved to stay in Vehl a while longer at least - he was set to meet the contact within the week, and unless something truly untoward had happened, that meeting should still occur.
It was four days into his stay in the Fort that Elijah chanced to meet up with an old associate - a friend of his father, a man by the name of Oliver Quill. Quill was a minor official of some capacity in Katherian, and although he was not precisely certain what the man did for a living, neither was he at all surprised to see the man in another sea-trading town. Sea voyages, although tedious and lengthy, were still the swiftest means of transit for goods across the vast expanses, and coming from such a port city, it was entirely conceivable that Quill had come in representation of Katherian, or perhaps some trading family therein. The two men comiserated briefly, Elijah agreed to come to a lunch that Quill was hosting the next day. They would meet at the corner streets of Locke and Mast, so that the younger man would not become misplaced.
Fort Vehl, for those uninitiated to its winding ways, had begun as a simple military fort - indeed, still served in that capacity - but as a port town, each tide brought more and more folk of various capacities to the burgeoning city, and with them came the need for housing and food, as well as the secondary industries to supply such a large number. The cityscape was dominated by large buildings with small footprints, crammed as closely together as could safely be managed. Alleyways were uniformly small, cramped affairs with the threat of mugging or worse, and the desire to fit as many buildings as possible in the relatively limited confines of the outer wall had led to winding and circuitous streets, where a wrong turning could lead you out into the harbour when you meant to press into the city center, or worse, into the arms of someone happy to greet you with a bared knife and a muttered address. Even during the brightest parts of day, some streets saw little sunlight, with the washing strung a floor - or three - above the street, serving to block out what little light the cramped architecture permitted.
Happily, it was a trade street that the two found themselves walking down, and as such allowed for slightly less claustrophobic climes. Such streets required at least enough breadth for the merchants' shingles, and some trades - the blacksmith at the end of the street, for instance - required more room still. As the two passed down the narrow street, Elijah drank in the scents that the tradespeople working therein employed. Tannin, from the leatherworker, an exotic mixture of herbs and spices from the apothecary across the lane, smoke from a creaking old chimney to a small blackened affair of a building that Stick was all but certain housed an elderly wizard, and a cacaphony of soil, dung, perfumes, and the scent of unwashed human living filled the air, mixing in the wind-sheltered hall between the buildings. The scent was cacaphonic, but not altogether unpleasant; the distinctly nonspecific smell of civilization.
Two thirds of the way down the street, across from a building with blacked-out windows and a sinister demeanour, Oliver Quill took an abrupt left turning, taking his youthful charge with him. Down a narrow alleyway, past what was undoubtably a house of ill-repute, across the street from where a poor blind beggar sat under an overhang with his bowl, down a flight of stairs, Quill rapped on an unmarked door with his cane, a distinct rat-a-tat-tat that although direct, likely didn't carry out of the enclosed stairway. A moment passed, with Stick arching an eyebrow at the less than verdant surroundings, before the sound of a lock ratcheting open reverberated through the thick oak of the door, and the door swung silently open on oiled hinges.
"Do, come in." Said Quill.
16
« on: January 26, 2010, 02:16:34 pm »
A belated thanks to almost everyone, and an 'I'll get you in two months' to my darling brother.
17
« on: January 20, 2010, 01:50:58 pm »
I'll take the bracers of Sigil.
- T Keel.
18
« on: January 13, 2010, 11:25:42 pm »
If you've the time and materials, I would not object to a large order of platinum in ingot form.
- T. Keel.
19
« on: January 13, 2010, 09:35:54 pm »
Flynn,
I'll take the Ring of the Defenders, and the Dragon Scale Bracers.
Darkened Cloak if Tyra hasn't already bought it.
-Keel
20
« on: January 13, 2010, 12:59:19 am »
You can't with 'Dominate Person', I know that much. Given that the mechanics work in a similar way, I doubt it.
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