thehoneyjournal

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore #13 Destruction of Glowing Ember

Your vision darkens, then quickly clears, revealing a collection of about a dozen or so small but well made huts, with woven wooden walls and thatch roofs. Men and women, primarily dragon born but with a few other races sprinkled in, are rushing to and fro, calling to one another in Draconic and Common, heading into the houses, where you can hear latches being locked and windows being boarded. Turning, you see a rag tag group of about 40 soldiers traipsing across a field, trampling plants under their boots without any regard.

           The village has fallen silent as the first soldiers reach the outskirts of the town, and then inexplicably stop, milling about and sitting down, chatting amiably, some laughing at jokes. All of them have naked weapons in their hands or near them, but their body language is relaxed. Their eyes, however, are alive, darting from building to building, searching for something. A slight half elven man pushes his way through the group, emerging into the sunlight, holding a plain sheathed katana at his side. His voice, though quiet, carries, and is layered with an obvious edge of menace.

           “Citizens of Fire to Stone- our client has made it perfectly clear that your land is required for his purposes. You have been offered money and serviceable terms twice now. I have come to ask you for a third time to vacate your homes and move onwards. There will not be a fourth time.”

           The man turns, seemingly dismissing the town from his thoughts, laughing at a quiet joke that seems to be thrown out from the group of soldiers. About an hour passes, and you can see the soldiers growing ever more restless, their eyes growing hungry, their jokes growing more bloody and dark, several of them shifting weight from foot to foot with anticipation.

As you turn to look back at the town, however, a figure stands in the middle of the road, wreathed in the morning mist, draped in a beautiful blue and white kimono. In his left hand, undrawn, is a katana with a jet black sheath that seems to almost drink in the morning light. Approaching more closely, you can see elegant runes in Elvish scrolled across the sheath. The hilt is wrapped in dark grey shark skin for a better grip and the dragonborn holds it with practiced ease.

           You recognize this blade, for it’s been described to you by Zanatile, and you briefly feel a cold shock move through you as realize that this dragonborn is wielding the sword. The dragonborn’s eyes close briefly, and he takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring, a brief gout of cold vapor emerging as he exhales and opens his deep blue eyes. He has a trim but muscular form, clearly one who trains often, and from his grip, and the deep ingrained sweat stains on the hilt of the katana, takes great pleasure in doing so. He has a higher voice, but quite melodic, as he calls out to the group of soldiers, all of whom are silently facing him.

           “I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting! We have discussed your proposal at length, and would like to talk terms now with you, that you may accurately deliver our intentions to your employer.”

           After saying this, the dragon born kneels in the dust of the road, laying his katana in front of him, and bowing his head, seeming to slip into a meditative state. The group of soldiers look at each other for a few moments, seemingly non plussed, before the half elven man, who you know at this point to be the modern day Black Blade, pushes his way back to the front of the group.

           “My friend, have the terms not already been discussed and worked out? We have delivered a requirement, and we now require a simple yes or no response. There is no need for diplomats or negotiations, as this can be resolved quite simply with one of two ways. Either you, and your families, can leave, or we will burn your homes to the ground and put everyone of you to the sword, so this entire island understands what happens to those who defy Marcus Morellos.”

           There is a brief pause, then the dragonborn’s voice comes forth once more, mist still swirling about him in the morning air. There is no trace of fear or waver in his voice.

           “I wish to avoid wounding or killing your men wherever possible, good sir. If you send them amongst these homes en masse, as would be most effective, many of them will die or need medical attention, even if you should succeed. I propose this instead- send your best warrior to face me. If I should lose, we will leave, and you may do as you wish with this land. If I win, you may send another soldier. If I defeat all of you, you will leave.”

           The Black Blade grins, his eyes hardening.

           “You’re an honorable man, I can tell. You must be Zander. We’ve been warned that you are quite the swordsman. Still, even one man cannot stand against forty trained soldiers. I accept your terms.”

           A thin human man walks over to the Black Blade’s side, quietly turning to face away from the samurai and speaking to him briefly.

           “Sir, that sword is radiating evocation magic. Are you sure you wish to do this? I thought you were going to wait until our report before you did anything further.”

           The Black Blade looks at him with disdain.

           “I was, and you took too long. I have patience enough for your rituals when there is no other path forward, but I very much would like to see what this blade can do. I’ve only ever heard the stories.” (He steps forward, raising his voice once more.) “Very well, we agree to your terms. Our fighter will meet you where you kneel.”

           He turns back to the group, surveying them briefly.  “Orgash? Time to eat.”

           A massive half orc with a double bladed battle axe steps forward, grunting. He trudges towards the kneeling dragonborn, before a sudden hand on his arm stops him. The Black Blade raises his hand to the group.

           “Anyone who defeats this man, shall earn their full ranking within the guild, and be groomed as my successor. To the victor go the spoils. As it is in war, so it shall be here.”

           The half orc’s eyes light with greed and anticipation, and he eagerly walks to the center of the road, standing in front of the dragon born man, who has risen to his feet, dusting his knees off. The blue scaled man’s quiet words are audible only to your ethereal form and the half orc.

           “I’m sorry for any pain I inflict upon you. If I can avoid killing you, I will.”

The half orc snorts, rolling his eyes, and raises the axe off his shoulder. “Less talk, more fighting.”

The dragonborn inclines his head and does not draw his blade. The half orc cocks his head, and with a blur of speed, grunts, swinging the axe with enough force to cleave the man in two.

Effortlessly, without any great speed, the dragonborn sways to the side, the axe missing him by a good six inches. He takes two quick steps- one back, and one to the side, and does not draw his sword.

The soldiers begin to cheer, and the half orc grins, standing up to his full height, before bringing the axe around in a brutal horizontal slice. The dragonborn ducks, the axe missing him by a whisker, and takes another step to the side.

“Coward!”

“Stand and fight, lily liver!”

“Are all dragonborn as timid as you?”

           The insults continue to fly, but they may as well be stones thrown against a mountain. The blue scaled samurai’s posture never changes, his eyes never waver, constantly scanning, reading, and reacting to the half orc warrior’s brutal swings. You can hear him counting after each stroke of the axe.

           “Four.”

           A bit later.

           “Twenty-Five.”

           Minutes have passed. The half orc is covered in sweat, breathing hard, his arms just beginning to shake. The Dragonborn’s posture, expression, and focus have not budged. His sword remains in its scabbard.

           After thirty minutes, the dragonborn is covered in a thin layer of sweat. His breathing has increased, but his mouth remains shut, save for when his clipped, light voice speaks the count.

           “Forty-seven.”

           The half orc is gasping, the axe head trailing in the dust, his posture collapsing inwards, his eyes dull, unfocused, humiliated.

           “Fifty-one.”

           On this strike, the half orc stumble, falling to the ground, the dust swirling around him. The dragonborn turns, holding the sheathed katana loosely in his left hand. His voice, barely any trace of fatigue in it, rings out, louder this time.

           “Do you yield?”

           The half orc, head down, gives a short, sharp nod. His low voice growls out.

           “I cannot best you, star blade. I yield.”

           The dragonborn nods, stepping back lightly out of reach.

           “Go then. Return to your soldiers.”

           The half orc stumbles to his feet, drunkenly making his way back towards the now silent group of ronin. The Black Blade stands, his face a mask, revealing nothing, but you can see his mind turning over the problem. As the half orc returns to the group, shoulders heaving, you hear the half elven man quietly say to the soldier next to him- “Half rations for Orgash on the way home. No excuse for moving that slowly. And increase his training with lighter weapons during that time.”

           So saying, he steps forward, placing a thumb on the hilt of his sword, and begins to walk forward. Eventually he stands, maybe twenty feet from the dragonborn, and unfathomable look on his face. Eventually he speaks, his voice low, an unexpected hitch in it.

           “Are you one of us? One of the children from the village.”

           The dragonborn raises his head from where he kneels on the ground, a confused look coming over his face.

           “What village? What do you mean?”

           Immediately the Black Blade’s face closes off, the vulnerability disappearing. His next words are low, angry, and concerned.

           “What are you then?”

           The Dragonborn rises to his feet- you notice his face is far more concerned than it was with the half orc, as though he has noticed something.

           “I’m just a man, defending his home.”

           The Black Blade shakes his head, gritting his teeth, a rising fury eclipsing every other emotion on his normally taciturn face.

           “Just a man. Do you think me a fool? Think back: have we met before?”

           A look of dawning comprehension followed by complete horror comes over the dragonborn’s face. His voice wavers.

           “No. The odds are too great. This isn’t possible.”

           The Black Blade shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the taller blue scaled man’s.

           “They aren’t, and you know it. Imagine my surprise, when Zander, the Star-Blade of Dancing Flame, is out here in the countryside with a farm! You were the talk of the city. I knew you’d remember meeting me- I was just a boy, but you were my idol. And now, here we are, 80 years later, and you haven’t aged a day… Why is that, I wonder? Perhaps some elvish heritage, or maybe something more…. Celestial?”

           Zander’s face is pale, his eyes darting around. The Black Blade continues, his voice tinged with a sickening blend of anger and relish at the dragonborn’s discomfort.

           “What would cause a man to leave wealth, and fame, and power, and come to live in the middle of nowhere? Was it freedom? Peace? Or perhaps… love?”

           On the last, you hear a faint sigh, and watch as Zander smoothly, firmly, draws a sword made of a metal so black you can’t see the edge. It gleams in the late morning air, and you swear you hear a faint hiss from it, like a snake about to be stepped on.

           “Touched a nerve then, did I? Fine. I’ve always wanted to cross blades with one of your kind, so let’s do this!”

           On the last word, he leaps forward, covering the twenty feet in a single, massive leap, flying forward with a howl, the katana singing from the scabbard, which he discards to the side.

           Zander raises the sword, blocking the savage blow, and you watch as he staggers slightly but noticeably before regaining his balance and dropping into a stance with the black katana held in front of him.

           They make several passes at each other- Zander is clearly the better swordsman but appears troubled. Even despite this, after 5 or 6 brutal salvos of blows, the Black Blade is winded, while Zander is merely breathing hard.

           Finally, Zander swings, a two-handed chop that, even though the Black Blade intercepts and blocks, cleaves the Black Blade’s katana in two, driving him to his knees. The man brings one knee up, panting, and looks up at Zander, who pauses. You realize that Zander’s eyes are a jet, polished black, like his eyes have been replaced by volcanic marbles.

           “Finish it then. What are you waiting for?”

           Zander continues to pause. You realize his hands are flexing, relaxing, rhythmically, like he’s fighting himself. He doesn’t say anything. The Black Blade spits on the ground.

           “You’re pathetic. All that power, and you just… sit there. Ah well. Maybe it’s time that sword had a new owner. I just needed to buy a little time.”

           And an arrow sprouts from Zander’s chest as he brings the sword back to strike.

           He stumbles back, looking down at it with an expression of almost amused bewilderment, before another eight or nine arrows slam into his arms, legs, and chest, most of them clustered about the stomach and chest. You turn, noticing the ronin crossbowmen who have snuck alongside the village street, using the houses for cover.

           Zander grunts, dropping to one knee as the Black Blade rises to his feet, casting aside the broken katana. He leans forward, plucking the intact katana from Zander’s hand, admiring it in the light before suddenly his head seizes, and he screams. You watch as his hand clenches on the hilt of the sword, unable to release it, before he stops seizing and stands there, panting, looking at the blade, a somewhat crazed smile flitting across it. He turns back to Zander.

           “He told me what you are, godling. A shame your story ends here. With this, I can be the man I’ve always wanted to be.”

           And the blade arcs across Zander’s neck, his head rolling to a stop in the dust at the Black Blade’s feet.

           The black steel ripples like water, moving visibly in the light of the day, and as you watch black flames begin to slowly burn along it’s length. The Black Blade begins to laugh, a free, crazed, unhinged laugh, and swings the sword in an arc, casting a jet of black flames in a cone before the sword, immolating and setting on fire several houses. You begin to hear screams.

           “Take anything that you want, men. Go have some fun!”

           The soldiers sprint through the streets, setting more fires, grabbing valuables, and pulling townspeople from their homes, slaughtering them in the streets. Something is wrong with them- they’re completely crazed, fighting with reckless abandon.

           You watch as one of them ducks into a house that is fully aflame and emerges with a wrapped bundle in his arms. You glide over and hear him talking to it as the house behind them collapses in a shower of sparks and wood.

           “Hush now. Shhhh, child. I know. There will be time to grieve, but now’s not the time. Keep quiet and I’ll get you out. Just gotta figure out how…”

           The voice trails off as the man disappears behind a nearby house, and your vision fades to black before you wake up back on the ship.

#legend lore #character thoughts #Miere Notes

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore #12 Ymir

I was, and am, the first and last of my name. I was cast from my home world, a marvelous place of water and air, to drift aimlessly forever amidst the stars as punishment for my fictional crimes, for the mere fact that I was grander and more powerful than anything that had existed before me. My ambitions exceeded their grasp and control, and this has ever frightened those with little power and less vision.

I was encased in ice, ejected from my world, and I confess no small amount of pain came from watching my wonderful blue world shrink behind me as I left. I could feel the magic of the elders pressing against my prison, moving me ever faster, ever further from where I was born, where I was raised, and where I thought I would one day die, when everything else had turned to dust and ash, and the universe was a cold vacuum once more.

I slept. My kind do not sleep, not as the short-lived beings I have come to understand, but there was little else to do in my prison, and it is the closest thing I have to an analogy. As I slept, I raged at the foolishness of the elders. How could they not see that I was right? That I alone understood the threat we faced, and how to end it?

The universe is nothing more or less than a dark forest, with every race and civilization creeping through it, trying desperately to remain unnoticed. Reaching outwards to the stars is a mistake, a world ending, apocalyptic mistake. For everything that dwells in the darkness is hungry, and strong, and so utterly different from us that they would simply see this world as a snack, an appetizer of things to come. Odin never understood this until he met me. Finally, I had someone who had lived nearly as long, who saw as clearly as I did, even with one eye. Or so I thought.

But I digress. A tale for another time, for later in this story.

My elders disagreed with me. I felt them fight their war, uncountable millennia ago, and lose, sealing our world away from any others who could ever find it. If they had heeded my warnings, I would, perhaps, have a home to return to. I know you understand me, my dear. You have been on the run for years for no other reason then what you were born as, and it is a travesty.

As I drifted, I felt the minds of so many beings passing along beneath me. For the most part they quailed under my mental touch, gibbering with fear, barely coherent enough to catch my attention. I passed so many worlds like this I eventually began to pull away the moment I felt them, as I knew I would learn nothing from such interactions.

I learned much of the movements of celestial bodies- the forces that govern their movements, that can bend even light to their will. I painstakingly experimented with such forces, altering my trajectory several times to the point where I nearly impacted with planets or stars. Such a blow would have wounded me severely, and while the vacuum or cold of space holds no fear, I would never have been able to move myself anywhere or heal quickly enough. Gradually I learned how best to manipulate these bodies, to speed or slow my passage through the stars, and even to orbit those worlds with interesting populations.

It wasn’t until I found your world that I knew this was a place to try and stay. Such a bright light upon its surface, many of them, with minds that flowed like water, and were strong like stone. I had only seen so many on a few worlds in the past, and they universally feared and rejected me rather than entertain my overtures.

But when I reached out and felt his mind, I knew. Here was one to be respected, possibly even feared. Ahhh, little one, when I felt his mind… it flashed and darted like a school of fish, always obscuring its true intentions, never revealing its true thoughts until he was saying them out loud. He is clever beyond reason, decisive, unused to being challenged. His power and command over magic rivaled my own in those days, and as soon as our minds met, I knew there was a chance. I showed him a bit of what I knew of gravity and light, and his curiosity took my breath away. Where before all had pushed, he pulled, demanding more and more of my knowledge, and as my prison approached your world, he and his compatriots drew me down to the surface of his world.

I wish I could say that your planet was beautiful as mine was, little one, but that would be a lie. It was a blasted wasteland, cratered and pockmarked with the signs of fierce magic and violence. It was clear a fight had been waged here, and had left innumerable scars. These “gods”, as they called themselves, worked for three years to free me, gradually melting the ice around me until they had made what you call the Lake of the World. An apt name, for that lake was once my entire world, for thousands of years.

When I saw him, I was nearly disappointed. If I had not felt his mind from above, I would have consumed him and his brethren on the spot, and my wariness was reflected in the stances of his siblings and children, weapons bare, glowing with an inner light that would have blinded lesser creatures, and would have wounded me greatly in the battle.

We learned to work together. I helped him often over those years, as a friend, a confidant, an advisor. I watched as he sketched the plans for Asgard, brokered peace with Vanaheim, strengthened Midgard and became a god to their people, changing the land around him to be lush with forests, seas full of fish and life, and a people hungry for exploration of the new world.

He betrayed me. When I told him of the threat in the stars, that I needed his and everyone devotion to access the power needed to protect their fragile worlds, he grew distant. One night while he was sleeping, I entered his dreams, and there found his plan to try and kill me. Just like my elders, he resented me for supposedly seeking to become greater than him.

I knew I could not stand against them united, and many of them were scattered to the winds. A small, mean creature of shadow offered his services to me, and I allowed him to hunt the two gods of Midgard for his pleasure. While they were occupied, I broke Asgard, killed the gods I could find, and drove the rest into their golden halls, where they cower to this day.

Remember this, Thenestrae. Beware of God’s when you meet them, for they lie as they breathe. They will not protect you. They cannot.

But I can.

#legend lore #Miere Notes #the deep one

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore #11 Muspelheim

Immediately upon casting the spell, your breath catches in your throat. You inhale, then exhale, forcing air through your body, as darkness swirls across your vision. You try to calm your accelerating heart rate, and after a moment realize you can still breathe, its just… difficult. Like a 20-pound cat is sitting on your chest.

            Your vision clears to reveal an enormous cavern, almost like a hangar, filled with dwarves, half orcs, and orcs. They seem to be standing by, idly talking, laughing, with pickaxes in hand, illuminated by glowing crystals embedded in the floor and ceiling, emanating a harsh, fluorescent light. An enormous metal door covers the opposite wall, with two chains going from floor to ceiling, obviously some kind of pulley system to open the doors. The chains lead across the floor and under the wall where the people are standing.

            As you watch, a low whistle sounds, followed by a higher tone that continues for several seconds. All of the chatter gradually ceases, the people down below standing upright, holding their picks off of the ground. A crackling sound emanates from a device sprouting from the ceiling above you, and with surprise a voice emanates.

            “AWWWWRIGHT YOU LIMP DICK PICK MONKEYS, GOT A LIVE ONE COMIN INTO THIS HANGER IN THE NEXT 3 MINUTES, AS SCHEDULED. CLEAR THE DECK AND PREPARE FOR ACTION!”

            A very enthusiastic shout rises up from the crowd of miners below- “FUCK YOU, SIR!” before subsiding, and after just a few minutes they all file out of the room to either side. You float down and follow them, and listen as with a hiss, the doors seal, clearly forming an airtight bond with the floor. Upon closer inspection you realize they have actually dropped into the stone itself.

            A sharp blare of an alarm horn sounds, and you float back through the door. The voice continues to count over the loudspeaker, blaringly loud, easy to hear through the thick metal door and stone walls. “Impact in 10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5…”

            A low hiss reaches your ears, and you watch as the chains begin to rattle, their thick links pulling across the floor. The hiss turns into a roar as you watch all the pebbles and other loose material fly forward across the floor, rapidly being sucked out of the hangar. An instant later, you see an infinite black void, with little dots of light winking behind it. A moment later the light of the stars is blocked by a massive shadow, a truly enormous meteorite which rockets into the now open hangar, slamming into the far wall with a force that makes you wince. The room barely shakes, and a moment later there’s a second slam as the hangar door crashes down to the ground, melding with the stone seamlessly.

            There’s a quiet, and gradually your hearing returns to you, as a hissing sound emanates from the walls. You realize there are multiple pipes feeding into the room, air feeding into the room. After about twenty minutes you hear another alarm, and the door behind you rattles open, as the miners begin to emerge. You hear some low whistles, a few muttered exclamations.

            The meteorite is about 35 feet long and 20 feet tall, jagged, with multiple large cracks feeding across its surface. The outer portion of it glimmers with veins of crystal and metal, some of which pulses with an inner light. The twenty or thirty miners set to work, studiously and professionally avoiding the veins, carving away the rock around them, until all that’s left is something approximating a modern art sculpture, all crystal and metal, some of it merged, with a glowing silvery blue core of what even in this state, you know to be pure magical arcane energy.

            One of the miners walks over to the wall, pressing a button next to a metal box. “Yeah, listen boss we’ve got a good one here, some of the boys have a bit of sensitivity to this and say it’s either abjuration or evocation, but we’ll need transport to the labs. No injuries, we were careful. Yeah. Yup. Alright sounds good, Hangar Eight, I’ll tell them.”

            He releases the button, stepping away, whistling loudly, making a circle motion over his head with his left hand. Laughing and talking the men and women leave the chamber in ones and twos, and you get the sense that their find has earned them some time off from their relaxed body language and banter about getting drinks and playing games.

            A silence falls over the hangar. After a few minutes two dwarves and an orc arrive in thick robes, and begin mumbling incantations over the sculpture, the light within flaring and dimming in response to their machinations. One of them steps back, smiling. “Oh yes, this will do very nicely.” He makes an arcane gesture in the air, pulling a metal device out of his pocket. “Dennis? Olive here. Yes, you should certainly give that entire team the week off, and a five hundred gold bonus as well. Truly exquisite excavation, just a real ten out of ten. Not a crumb of stone or puff of dust left! You train your people very well. Thank you for telling me about this!”

            You follow the three of them, as the other two make a gesture, the sculpture floating into the air, the two of them gently pushing it a foot at a time before speaking an incantation and shrinking the object to a quarter of its size, pulling it through the air through the door on the far side of the hangar. You follow, stepping through, moving through a large, smooth tunnel, following the group for about a quarter of a mile.

            You step through a large opening in the tunnel ahead of you, emerging into an enormous cavern. The ceilings stretch at least two to three hundred feet over head, enormous stalactites and stalagmites forming pillars supporting the ceiling all around you. Built into these enormous columns are stairs, buildings, entire houses, build into or emerging from the stone itself, exquisitely carved, rising so high into the air that your eyes can barely make out the tiny figures of people moving towards the top.

            The whole cavern stretches almost out of your sight- you can just barely see the far wall. The entire chamber is lit with those same crystals, but the light is softer on your eyes. Shops line the walls and streets in front of you, and you quickly realize that the residential areas are the columns, with shops, warehouses, and workshops built into the ground level of this cave. As you stand here, soaking it all in, your vision fades, and you awaken in the guild hall once more.

#legend lore #muspelheim #Miere Notes

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore #10 Copernicus’s Choice

As the spell takes hold, you find yourself in a vast chamber, lit solely by an enormous column of blue and yellow light that ejects itself from the floor of the room and pierces the ceiling through a massive hole, about 40 feet across. The ceiling is clear, like an observatory, and you can see how the light scatters as it hits the upper atmosphere, forming a shifting prismatic pattern across the night sky. The room is covered in beautifully painted frescos and mosaics, depicting elves casting magic, fighting, building, creating artwork. You could stand and look at these depictions for hours, but your perspective turns against your will as the room shudders, glass shattering in the rood as the floor buckles and twists, cracks spidering up the walls.

           You hear the sounds of energy discharging from outside of the room, blasts of magic, shouting, screaming, and then with a zapping, crackling blast, a wall to your left explodes inwards, an elven man blasted backwards through it on a tidal wave of white lightning. Another elven man, clad in white robes with a golden trim, rushes in, carrying a spell book, waving a hand nonchalantly at the hole in the wall behind him.  A wall of white energy springs into existence across the wall, and you hear the sound of more spells, arrows, plinking off of the energy, seemingly unable to break through it.

           The man in white begins to lay out materials, occasionally glancing at the wall behind him, muttering to himself. He lays out 6 white gems in a hexagonal shape on the floor, checking their orientation to the beam of light rocketing into the sky. He pulls out a small tome, covered in black leather, and begins leafing through it, speaking in a clear, high, ringing voice, tracing sigils in the air with his fingers that appear etched into the floor as if by a giant’s finger. As they are completed, the sigils begin to glow with an inner white light, and the column of light from the floor begins to pulse. You hear a commanding voice from outside of the room.

           “Stand back.”

           A zapping sound. The wall snaps with a sound of breaking glass, and around twenty soldiers in armor scrolled with eldritch runes storm into the room, facing the man in white. A second elf enters the room, clad in deep blue robes similar to a dusk sky. He raises a hand, and the soldiers relax. Somewhat. The elven man in blue speaks, his deep voice rolling across the tense scene.

           “Copernicus. What are you doing? Your fear mongering has taken a new turn. You’ve killed your friends and mine on this insane quest. I admit, none of us quite grasped how fully realized your delusions had become of late. Stop this, and let us treat you fairly.”

           The man in white, Copernicus, darts his eyes from person to person frantically, before a strange calm settles over him. He straightens, and as he releases his book, it floats before him in the air, flipping on its own to a new page. His high voice rings out through the chamber, clear and cold.

           “Novara, you and your council have doomed our entire race and planet to oblivion. For years, you’ve received tepid warnings about this world falling into the sun, and you’ve ignored them as fear mongering and alarmism. We’ve tried the proper channels. We’ve tried to be measured. If you’d LISTENED TO US WE WOULDN’T BE HERE!”

           With that shout, he sweeps his arms across his body, a blast of air and force knocking the soldiers back into the walls several of them unmoving, the rest struggling to rise. Novara, unaffected by the spell, steps forward, shaking his hands free of the deep blue robes. His voice, though calm, simmers with barely repressed rage.

           “You will kill us all. You leave me no choice.”

           The lights and magic flying between the two grow so hot and bright that the stone floor cracks under their feet, and even in this ethereal state your eyes are dazzled by the barrage of magic. Copernicus is driven backwards steadily, into the circle he’s drawn, the glyphs glowing with a fierce white light. After a dazzling thirty seconds or so, the light fades reluctantly, and you can see again. Novara, standing over Copernicus, holding a section of his white robes, his own blue robes smoking, smoldering, half of his body covered in burns.

           Copernicus barely clings to life, his head lolling limply on his neck, eyes blinking feverishly. He’s missing an arm, and one of his legs has a fragment of bone protruding through the skin. A steady pump of blood emanates from the fractured leg. Novara’s deep voice, quieter now, reaches your ethereal ears.

           “What was the point of this, pupil? You must have known that we would catch you. Why?”

           Copernicus brings his head forward with an effort, broken teeth falling from his mouth. He grins, his bruised and blackened face grinning suddenly with a ferocity that makes you take an instinctive step back.

           “Counted on it, master.”

           Copernicus grabs Novara’s face with his remaining hand, shoving backwards on his own leg as hard as he possible can. Novara’s face changes from rage and disappointment to sudden fear as he tries to stop his sudden forward progress, but to no avail.

           Copernicus’ right shoulder touches the column of light.

           In an instant, his eyes flash open, now glowing with a fierce magic, and the scream that emanates from his mouth suggests that it is not pleasant. As he screams, you see his skin begin to crack, the light beginning to emanate from his mouth, as Novara’s skin begins to smoke and crack, the soldiers in the room beginning to cry out and fall, drained of some vital essence. Copernicus begins to speak in a rushed babble, crying out the words in a language you don’t recognize. You look up, and the stars have become a blur overhead, the light around the planet intensifying, becoming opaque. After a moment, an explosion.

           Copernicus and Novara, the soldiers, all are gone. Light piles of ash remain where they once stood. The room is silent, the light humming just out of ear shot, felt on the skin like electricity. You look overhead and see entirely new stars. No hint of a sun in the sky. All that remains is the light.

#legend lore #Found Lore

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore #9 Meilil’s Past and Thenestrae’s Plight

Thenestrae stands impatiently by the roadside, tapping her foot, casting glances every few seconds down the road towards the faint glimmer of fading sunlight against the gilded city in the distance. A faint rustle from the bushes announced the arrival of her small daughter, red skinned like her with a shock of pure white hair atop her small horned head, an infectious smile on her face.

           “All done!” the little girl grins, twirling a strand of hair around a finger.

           “Meilil, darling, you must be quicker next time. It’s important that we try and be at the next town as soon as possible.”

           Meilil’s face screws up in confusion, and Thenestrae braced for the impact.

           “Why?”

           The older tiefling sighs briefly internally as the lie comes instinctively, naturally to her lips.

           “We are Tieflings, my dear. The humans only tolerate us so long as we are useful, and I need to keep you safe.”

           “But why? They seemed nice enough in Glasir, and that guy who came over one night seemed like he liked you!”

           Thenestrae’s smile never falters, her mind rushing to the man’s disgusting leers and the sound of him choking on his own blood. She didn’t know the young one had seen her with him.

           “Yes, he was nice, but he didn’t stay that way darling, and you remember what I’ve always told you, yes?”

           Meilil kicks a stone, the rock bouncing away down the cobblestone road, her expression turning sullen.

           “We’re better off on our own. I remember.”

           “Good girl. Now chin up! If you’re good and don’t complain the rest of today, I’ll show you the lights again tonight.”

           Thenestrae breathes a sigh of relief as Meilil’s face brightens, excitement replacing the youthful resentment. “Race you to the next bridge!” she shouts, before sprinting off down the road.

           Thenestrae watches her tear off down the road, still a little gangly and awkward on her legs, the cold winter air whipping around Meilil’s cloak and coat. Thenestrae hadn’t felt the cold for years, and it seemed Meilil had inherited this fortitude. Still, Thenestrae always wore a coat and heavy leggings, and Meilil dutifully copied her. The less questions people asked, the better.

           Thenestrae begins to stride down the road, frowning slightly at the distance that has opened up between her daughter and her. She reaches for the nodule at the back of her mind, the tingle of cold energy rushing through her mind. Shaping the flow of power with a word and a quick gesture, the cold air swirls around her boots, her step quickening as the wind hastens her down the road. In no time at all she passes Meilil, a quick cry of annoyance and a “No fair! That’s cheating!” carried on the breeze. Thenestrae takes a few more steps before stopping, releasing the magic reluctantly, feeling her boots sink more firmly into the dirt and stone of the road.

           “Meilil dear, you must learn to keep up no matter what advantages I have. We are outnumbered in this world, and help is only given to those who find it for themselves.”

           The day passes uneventfully, Thenestrae’s constant vigilance on the road behind the two Tieflings seemingly for naught. The cold winter sun sets, the woman and girl making camp a few hundred feet off the road. The older woman’s practiced hands quickly coax flame from the dry dead wood, a low fire quickly arising from the planks. The two sit in silence, the stars wheeling overhead, the two moons shedding a gentle light on the clearing. Finally, a small voice pipes up.

           “Mother? You said you’d show me the lights again.”

           Thenestrae shakes her head, forcing herself back to the present. “I did, my dear! You did very well today, and I’m so impressed I think you’ve certainly earned this. But I have something better than lights this time.”

           Thenestrae reaches down, scooping a bit of cold dirt into her hands, feeling the coarseness against her palm. She closes her eyes, extending her senses, feeling the heat of the flame, the cooling ashes, and the cold soil. Humming under her breath, she gently tugs at each of these elements, fixing a picture of Meilil in her mind’s eye, weaving the coals and the ash and the dirt together. After a moment, the alignment feels correct, and she opens her eyes, still humming, observing the floating miniature Tiefling over the fire. Meilil’s eyes shine, her mouth open, watching the tiny model of herself turn slowly, the coals forming her red skin, two small stones her white eyes, and gray ash her hair. The girl and the woman both watch the figure rotate slowly over the fire before Thenestrae lowers her fingers and the figure collapses into the fire.

           “Mother? How did you learn to do that?”

           Thenestrae freezes, her mind racing. Meilil has never asked her this before, and for once, her tongue dries up. She can think of nothing except a deep voice and yellow eyes, asking her if she wants power, if she wants choice, if she wants freedom. She can think of nothing except how quickly she said yes, heedless of the consequences, poor and hated by the world.

           “I’ve… always been able to do it. Since I was about your age, actually! I could always make people smile with whatever jokes I told them.”

           The girl’s face brightens.

           “So I might be able to do stuff like that someday?”

           Thenestrae bolts to her feet.

           “NO!”

           A sudden bolt of electricity shoots from her fingertips into the dirt, the soil fusing together. There’s a crackle in the air and a SNAP as the tendril of energy burrows into the dirt, the older woman’s eyes fixed on her daughter.

           “If you ever begin to do things like this, you tell me immediately. You will not keep it a secret. You will not use it without telling me.” Thenestrae thinks for a moment, weighing her options, fear whipping her insides into a horrible nausea. She consciously clamps down on the magic, watching Meilil’s face, now twisted with fear.

           “And Meilil, my dear. If you should ever hear a voice, asking you for anything… You tell me right away and we’ll figure it out together, alright?

           The girl’s face twists in confusion, her eyes still fixed on Thenestrae’s hands. “Yes, mother. I will.” She nods seriously, still so much a child, and Thenestrae sighs inwardly, relaxing slightly.

           “Evening, ladies.”

           Thenestrae whirls around, cursing to herself, raising both hands to chest height before freezing in place.

           “Ah, ah, ah. Let’s not have any of that. You and the kid sit there and be quiet, and ain’t nothing will happen to you.”

           A human, male, older by the looks of him. Thenestrae counts quickly. Six friends. Three have large crossbows trained at her. One has plate armor and a massive axe that he handles with ease. The man in front of her has a fine sword, a holy symbol of Tyr, and the last man has a longbow, strung, arrow nocked but not pointed at her. All humans. All male.

           The holy man steps forward, his sword unsheathed, shield at his side.

           “Now wouldn’t you know it, there’s a reward for a Tiefling woman fleeing Glasir. Red skin, traveling with a Tiefling girl. 400 gold pieces for their return to the Golden City. Here we are traveling along the road when we hear some kind of odd buzzing sound and a snapping noise… Seeing as your kind are so rare, mind telling me who you are and where you’re headed?”

           Thenestrae gives the man a brilliant smile, projecting a confidence she does not feel.

           “My good sirs, there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. My daughter and I are heading to Glasir. We have family there that we mean to visit for the winter solstice.”

A brief pause. The man’s brow furrows, and Thenestrae mentally files away that he doesn’t seem particularly bright. His sword seems sharp though, and he handles it easily, with a trained familiarity. He brings a hand to his holy symbol, his eyes suddenly reflecting the firelight, glowing briefly orange.

           “If you’re heading to see family, would you mind telling me what district they live in?”

           “Of course, my dear! They live…” Thenestrae’s voice trails off, the words feeling like they’re literally sticking in her throat. The man raises an eyebrow, a cold grin crossing his face. Thenestrae tries again.

           “They live in…” Again, she can’t finish the sentence, and she doubles over, coughing, suddenly terrified as her lies and charm have seemingly deserted her.

           “Little trick they taught us in the army, love. Keeps things honest. Now unless you want us to kill you and your daughter, I suggest you come with us. There’s seven of us, and one and a half of you.”

           Ugly laughs echo through the clearing. Thenestrae straightens up, glancing at Meilil behind her, who has moved behind her. She tries once more, frantically casting about for a way to avoid what’s about to happen.

           “My dear sirs, please! Surely there must be something we can do to avoid such unpleasantness?”

           The man steps forward, raising his sword. “Does the name Harald ring a bell?”

           Thenestrae frowns- of course it doesn’t.

           “He was found missing half of his head, the stink of magic at the scene. Patrons at the bar said he left with a striking Tiefling woman, and that he seemed quite enamored. We found him the following morning. And here you are, with a child, and you don’t even remember his name.”

           The man drops into a crouch, and the other begin to close in. The longbow is drawn. Thenestrae’s eyes dart frantically about the clearing, a calm settling over her, the night air silent.

           “Meilil, darling? Shut your eyes. That’s a good girl. No matter what you hear, keep them shut.” A quick glance confirms that Meilil has shut her eyes, placing both hands over her eyes.

           The older man barks an order. “Take her!”

           Two arrows whiz forward, deflecting off the sheen of purple energy that springs up over Thenestrae’s clothing. The men halt, staring in confusion. She grins, standing tall, shaking her hands free of her sleeves.

           “Gentlemen, I’d like you all to remember that I gave you a fair chance. I’m afraid your funerals will be closed casket.”

And with a clap of her hands, the night closes in around the men, a ball of darkness coalescing around them. Thenestrae’s eyes flare as she peers through the darkness, watching the men stumble into each other, the paladin continuing to march forward stolidly. She bends down, digging her fingers into the soil, closing her eyes, humming once more.

Meilil’s eyes snap open as screams begin to emanate from the darkness, and she watches as the darkness evaporates, the moon highlighting a scene from a nightmare.

The six human men are grabbed by inky black tentacles made of smoke from the fire. As Meilil watches, the tentacles slam the men into the ground over and over again, one of them succumbing to the bludgeoning and falling silent. The tentacle flings him away contemptuously, a snap echoing through the clearing as the man’s body impacts against a tree.

Thenestrae grins, watching and feeling the energy tear through her body, a deep chuckle emanating from her lungs. This is what freedom feels like! This is what her lord can do!

With a cry, she reaches past the magic for the swirling vortex of lightning and rain that is her patron. Silently, she offers the men as a sacrifice, and steps back instinctively as something else’s feral pleasure fills her mind, before she feels a power whoosh past her under the ground.

The screams increase in intensity as a massive beak rips through the soil, biting three of the men in half, swallowing the pieces. The paladin whirls around, crying out as his companions die, sprinting forward to try and strike at the beak with his sword. As he makes it to the maw of the beast, it shimmers and disappears, leaving only bloodstains in its wake. The other two men lay on the ground, ominously quiet, as the tentacles fade away into the night sky. The paladin turns, shaking, to face the Tiefling woman, who has not moved from her place beside the fire.

“What… what are you?”

Thenestrae dusts her hands off, striding across the clearing, stopping a few feet from the man.

“My name is Thenestrae, and you’ve threatened my daughter. Tell me, how long have you worshipped Tyr?”

The paladin straightens, raising his sword and shield.

“I will not yield to you, creature of darkness. I have trained to slay your kind since I could walk, and I will not… NO!”

A horrible cry echoes through the clearing as the paladin begins sobbing. Meilil cannot see what is happening, only hear the man crying, begging, and her mother quietly responding to him. Finally, all is silent, save the crackle of the fire. Thenestrae walks back to the fire.

“My dear, there’s something I must do. Please stay here. I will be back shortly.”

Meilil nods silently. As Thenestrae turns to leave, she peers into the darkness, seeing the blood stains, as well as a statue of the paladin, his armor and weapons in sharp relief, a horrified expression frozen on his face. Thenestrae walks up, studying the statue briefly, before leaning close to the man’s stone ear.

“You know, I’m never sure if you all can hear me when you’re like this. You’ve spent your life in the service of Tyr. Tonight, you’re going to meet a real god.”

She bows her head, reaching again for the storm, beseeching it. A crack spreads, water bubbling up from the depths, and the statue falls in, a deep, cavernous chuckle echoing through the night air. The rift seals, and Thenestrae feels her patron retreat, pleasure and approval seeping through their bond.

She turns, seeing the look on her daughter’s face as she walks back to the fire. Thenestrae bends down, placing a hand on Meilil’s shoulder, feeling her flinch, looking her in the eye.

“If you ever begin to do things like this, you tell me immediately. You will not keep it a secret. You will not use it without telling me.”

With a scared, silent nod, the girl agrees. Thenestrae stands up, feeding the fire with sticks. She does not seem Meilil look towards the ground where the men were fed to something, curiosity and jealousy flickering across her features.

#legend lore #Found Lore

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore #8 General Autumnus , Scourge of the East

Your vision darkens, as it has so many times before. In the darkness, you hear the snapping of tent flaps in the wind, but nothing else, before gradually a new scene fades into existence in front of you. You’re standing in front of what appears to be an eastern city, walled with stone and built partially into the mountain behind it, which towers away so tall that you cannot see the top, wreathed in clouds. You see ranks upon ranks of soldiers, festooned in golden armor and gilded chain mail, silently facing the walls of the city, some of them shivering slightly in their ranks. A tall, thin red skinned dragon born in a long coat stands at the front of the army, his breath misting in the cold winter air. The trees around the city are bare. A gray sky sits overhead. You hear the dragonborn’s voice break the air’s stillness.

           “Now, you all have fought bravely. You’ve tried to break this siege four times, and fought with a viciousness and skill that frankly, surprised all of us. But by my count it’s been five days since any of you had a meal. If we come in there, it will be a slaughter, and to be honest that seems like a waste. So, here’s what we’re going to do.”

           Autumnus raises a hand, and you watch as the ranks of soldiers silently part, a massive table being carried through the center of the army, fires being silently set up, pots of water being brought to a boil. You have no senses other then sight, but you can see the strips of meat being cooked, flavored with salt and pepper in some cases, crates of fresh fruits and vegetables being carried to almost every man and campfire set up outside of these silent city walls.

           You look up, and realize that some defenders have appeared in your sight line. Gaunt, shaking in the cold, staring at the budding feast with hungry eyes. You can only imagine the smell wafting over the walls to these starving men and women. After about an hour, the soldiers are tucking into their food, laughing, drinking, and toasting Autumnus to their victory. You notice, however, that none of them are touching their cuts of meat. Not a single one. The fruits and vegetables are being eaten quickly, and ale is flowing in great measures.

           Soon after, the gates to the city rumble open, and around two hundred men and women stagger out, wrapped in cloaks, emaciated, shivering, barely able to walk in the cold. The army’s carousing stops gradually, as they realize the city is theirs. Autumnus stands, a goblet of drink sloshing in his hands, and your perspective zooms forward, following him specifically as he walks forward towards the defenders with seven or eight other officers clad in fine armor. They are all carrying cuts of meat on fine gilded plates as they walk towards the defenders of this unnamed city. As the officers get closer, they stop, allowing Autumnus to close the distance alone to the leader of the defenders, a thin human man. The general speaks as he gets close enough to touch them. You can see the opposing army’s noses and mouths twitching as the smell of the cooked and seasoned meat reaches them.

           “Welcome, my friends. It is good to see that sense has prevailed over pride. There is no such thing as honor in this world, only survival, and it is gratifying to see that you have learned this lesson. Now then, to business.”

           “We do not have the supplies to transport all two hundred of you back to Glasir to have you live your lives out in comfort in our prisons, and we do not have the time or inclination to give the weakest and least determined to live among you a handout, to drain our resources on the journey home. Therefore, this is what we’ll do.”

           He holds up the piece of meat, dangling it before the eyes of the group of silent, starving people.

           “Decide who gets to live.”

           He throws it, it arcing through the air to plop in the dirt. There’s a pause. The explosion of violence, when it occurs, is brutal, and not quick. The enemy soldiers had disarmed themselves before leaving the city, and you are forced to watch as for almost 30 minutes starving people scrabble in the dirt, gouging eyes, choking, and striking each other with feeble, starved arms until they lay ominously still. As the fighting slows, the officers throw their cuts of meat into the fray, reigniting the struggle each time, hooting, hollering, and cheering on the carnage.

           After about an hour, the violence stops. Where once there were two hundred men and women, there are now twenty. Scratched, bruised, two cradling broken arms. Some are still holding cuts of meat, chewing as fast as they can as Autumnus and the officers heard them together into a cohesive mass. Autumnus’ voice rings out once more, rich with satisfaction and mirth.

           “Well done, all of you. You alone of your former comrades had the will and strength to live. I am sure you will all survive the march eastwards. Oh, just one other thing.”

           He grins, points at a scrap of meat left on the ground.

           “That last sally really had me thinking. Dead of winter, you all so short on food. Your friends cooked up very nicely, and you all rushed to devour them without a second thought. For those religious among you survivors, it should be clear at this point that your afterlife is now forfeit. You will go to Hel, far colder than this, and suffer there for your crimes. Suffer for resisting the rule of the Golden City. I would suggest the following- prolong your death as long as you can, by any means necessary. Y’all better keep up on the trek back.”

           He turns his back, begins walking back to the army, which have been silently watching this entire event and proceedings. As Autumnus reaches their ranks, they snap straighter, beat spear on shields, shout his name, then fall silent as the dragon born speaks.

           “We march in one hour. Break camp. Don’t delay.”

Your vision fades to black, then you open your eyes, relieved to be on the ship once more.

#legend lore #Found Lore

[thehoneyjournal]

Skidbladnir, the Finest Ship of the Aesir

Your vision fades to black, the faint sounds of your companions turning pages of their books lulling you into the trance that comes with the spell. Before your vision clears, you hear the sound of gulls crying out, the endless wash of the ocean’s waves, and the sound of a song reaches your ears as the darkness begins to recede, and you realize you’re standing on the deck of a square rigged, fat hulled trading vessel. The shanty continues unabated, the sailors not at all talented but giving it their all.

“Come all you young sailor men, listen to me I'll sing you a song of the fish in the sea

And its windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys When the wind blows, we're all together, boys Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes

Up jumps the eel with his slippery tail Climbs up aloft and reefs the topsail

And its windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys When the wind blows, we're all together, boys Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes

And then up jumps the shark with his nine rows of teeth Saying, "You eat the dough boys, and I'll eat the beef!"

And its windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys When the wind blows, we're all together, boys Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes

Up jumps the whale, the largest of all "If you want any wind, well, I'll blow ye a squall"

And its windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys When the wind blows, we're all together, boys Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes!”

The song ends to rousing, raucous laughter, and you watch as for the next several minutes the crew scrambles about their duties, the sails humming in the strong, constant breeze emanating from the south. After about a half an hour of watching the men work, a voice shouts from the top of the mast.

“Oy, Cap’n! Sails on the horizon, Sou-sou-west! White sails, with a blue trident!”

A well-dressed elven man steps forward into your view, resplendent in a blue and green trench coat that clashes awfully with an orange tricorner hat. He snaps out a retractable spyglass, and you watch as the blood drains from his angular elven features. His voice, however, remains fairly clam as he turns out to the crew.

“Everyone, you will need to move more quickly than you ever have before today. First mate Olina will relay my orders. You are to perform precisely as I instruct. Is that clear?”

The captain begins relaying his orders through a small half orc woman to his left, whose booming voice is utterly incongruous with her small frame. As you watch, the crew in less then twenty minutes runs out a new flag, unfurls an additional small sail on an attachable, smaller mast at the bow of the ship, the ship begins to plow through the waves, kicking up more and more spray. You drift over to the captain at the stern of the vessel, looking for this other ship, and just barely in your vision is a wisp of sail with a bright blue trident. It seems to be rapidly closing the distance with the current ship you’re on, growing larger as you look at it. The captain and his first mate are discussing in low voices, and you drift over to eavesdrop.

“It’s him. You know it is. And we can’t outrun him. You’re just buying time, and not much. What’s the plan here, captain?” Olina says.

“I’m thinking. Shut up and let me think,” the elf growls, rubbing his forehead with a knuckle. After a moment he raises his head.

“Tell them to grab their swords and hand crossbows. Run out the Ballistae and secure them with pitch and torches ready should we need. Get Gilberto ready with materials for his transmutation magic. Maybe we can get lucky and transform our cargo into something innocuous.”

“Done,” the half orc growls, before perfectly relaying every order the captain gave at ear splitting, profanity ridden volumes. You watch as 8 Ballistae are rolled onto each side of the ship, their bolts loaded and winched back, the actual ballistae themselves sinking into the floor slightly, immobilizing their wheels in the wooden deck below. A human man appears on deck, blinking in the sun, clad in threadbare brown and grey robes. After about a half hour of watching this flurry of activity, you turn to look for the sails behind you, but cannot make them out. A moment later, you hear the voice from the crow’s nest again.

“Cap’n! Sails aren’t there anymore! I think we lost em!”

The elf frowns, clearly unconvinced.

“Keep a close- “

WHUMP. CRACK.

You spin around at the noise, and see an incredibly strange sight. A well-dressed Halfling man in fine, what looks to be silk clothing, stands on the deck, a rakish half smile on his lips. In one hand, lazily held against his person by a leather belt, is an odd device. A wooden handle, carved with a trident, attaches to a metal frame, a cylinder with 6 small holes in it. A long thin metal tube extends in front of the cylinder, poking through the halfling’s belt. The man steps forward, revealing a cracked and splintered piece of wood behind him, before sweeping into an ostentatious bow, his green cap being swept off his head. A low but perfectly audible voice emerges, light, carefree, but brimming with a very real sense of danger that makes you try to take a step back involuntarily.

“I greet you, crew and captain of the smuggling vessel known as the Black Rat. Word has reached the Lady of Geldorcraft that you have been engaging in cargo runs of a more nefarious sort, more recently. If you would not mind, as her instrument upon the high seas, may I inspect your vessel?”

The dry mouth breathing of the captain is audible. The halfling’s position hasn’t changed, but you watch as his hand slowly drifts upwards, removing the oddly shaped piece of metal and wood from his belt. As his hand begins to move, the captain steps forward, raising his hands.

“Good sir, we have only the usual cargo of spices and other herbs that we are taking to the good continental colony of Begrunsburg. While this is not strictly speaking legal by the laws of sea trade, I would ask that you humbly allow us to complete our journey safely before confiscating such cargo.”

The halfling thinks for a moment, his foot tapping against the deck of the ship. In one fluid motion he draws the device from his belt, the barrel glowing with a faint blue light as he points it at the captain.

“I think you’re going to show me the cargo. I think you’re going to show me the hidey hole you had built in this vessel downstairs between the first and second ballistae on the starboard side of the ship. And I think you’re going to explain to me why I just talked to a corpse on the bottom of the ocean two days past who swears that your crew boarded them, slaughtered them, then took their cargo and left.”

The captain’s face twitches, before he suddenly and violently turns to the side, vomiting loudly for a few seconds. The halfling rolls his eyes, his attention slackening, and he begins to turn away, opening his mouth as if to speak. The captain pops back up behind the rail suddenly, drawing a hand crossbow in one fluid, fast motion.

CRACK.

Where the captain’s head once was is a smoking crater, bits of meat and skull scattered about the ship’s stern. The halfling sighs, blowing a bit of smoke away from the barrel of his weapon, which had just produced a bright blue bolt of electricity, lancing out unbelievably quickly, leaving a scorch mark in the railing that the captain had been using. It appeared to your eyes that the halfling had been able to turn, sight, and fire before the captain even drew his weapon. The halfling eyes the rest of the crew, who are noticeably angered by his action.

“Lads, I wouldn’t do anything hasty. You know who I serve. She wouldn’t let you all within 100 miles of the sea if you were to kill one of her chosen heroes, now would she? Besides…. It looks like you’re all outnumbered now anyways.

A shadow falls over the ship, and you watch as the sailors of the pirate vessel look up, their mouths and faces going slack with fear and wonder. Hanging above you in the air is a magnificent longship, forty oars to a side, two sails, floating in the air silently. You watch as ropes begin to fly down, sailors sliding down them with practiced ease, drawing fine rapiers, cutlasses, and hand crossbows, methodically and professionally disarming the pirate vessels crew members. They outnumber the smuggler’s crew by almost two to one. After a bit, they begin bringing up gold, jewels, and other valuable cargo from below. The halfling bows to the crew of the pirate ship.

“Now then, my lads and ladies. We have taken only the cargo that you have taken first. It will be given to the families of the men and women you killed and drowned two days ago. Additionally, a charm has been placed on this vessel. It will take you to the colony you stated you were heading to, but if you try and change course, it will sink this ship. The authorities of that colony have been contacted via sending stone. Have a nice day.”

The halfling grabs a rope, scaling it hand over hand incredibly quickly. You watch as the ship begins to silently float higher into the air before the sails unfurl after a shouted word in Halfling, and it escapes into the sunlit air, disappearing behind a bank of clouds. After a moment you hear the half orc’s voice growl out.

“I fucking hate Bjorn Ironsides and that fucking Ship.”

#legend lore #Found Lore #worldbuilding

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore #7: Herehand

Your vision fades to black, like so many times before, your senses muffled for a brief moment before your view clears, revealing a stunning plain with a magnificent stone road stretching away towards the horizon. As you look around you, you realize that your perspective rests atop an enormous stone wall, slate grey, with a thin sheet of metal bonded to the outside of the wall, almost woven into the stonework itself, cables of metal reaching through the stones, forming a structure you can feel but not see of enchantments humming within the stone work all the way to the ground below you. You look out over the vista once more, the expanses dotted with small villages and thick forests to either side of the perfectly formed stone road.

You frown. Where are the people? Why is it so quiet? And why is the sky so heavy and grey, and the air so cold? The trees are full of bright green leaves, the grass still rich and thick. You shiver.

You hear the sound of heavy footsteps, and muffled cursing in Dwarvish. A man appears at the top of the wall, continuing to curse as he finally mounts the top of the wall, leaning against it for a moment, breathing heavily. Even for a dwarf, he’s short, and so wide that it seems to be an arcane miracle he could fit up the stairs. He’s clad in a simple leather jerkin and wool pants, his hands stained and tarnished with soot and grime, the likes of which has probably been there for years. His nose is squashed and broken several times over. A thick black beard reaches to his prodigious stomach, immaculately kept. As he brushes past your perspective you catch a whiff of woodsmoke and charcoal, melting metal, the tang so strong it almost makes you retch. He steps forward past you, clambering up onto a small step carved out of the wall, likely there so the smaller races can see over the parapet.

A moment later a second dwarf appears, taller, thinner, and substantially cleaner. Rings adorn his long thin fingers, but his hands are stained much like his companions are. A long-hooked nose protrudes over a fine brown beard and relatively small mouth. He joins his companion at the wall, looking over the vista silently for a moment before breaking the silence, looking at his shorter, rounder companion.

“Looks like snow.”

The black bearded dwarf looks up at his companion, his rough voice rumbling up from deep in his belly.

“That supposed to be a joke?”

“A little. We don’t have much time. Thought I’d try to…. Lighten the mood, a little.”

“Ach, Sindri. We’ve had centuries together, and you still never learned. Your jokes always come at the worst times.”

A silence emerges between the two, stretching on for what seems like minutes. The one called Sindri’s voice emerges after a moment, almost flute like, melodic, like singing, as he asks a question.

“How do dwarves greet each other?”

You watch the shorter one’s hands clench for a moment as his breathing quickens.

“Not now Sindri. Bloody not now. Our home empty, our children gone. The only one of them left is a sea goddess with more vinegar than sense trying to take on a madman who we still don’t even know the name of on account of his memory magic he’s so fond of. Keep blocking every message spell we try to send to her. So, let’s just stop the bloody comedy show, eh?”

Another silence, shorter this time. Sindri speaks.

“Small world, isn’t it?”

You watch as the shorter one turns to Sindri, clenching his fist, grabbing the front of Sindri’s shirt so quickly you barely see him move, raising a fist. Sindri doesn’t move. After a moment you realize that the black bearded dwarf’s eyes are full of tears, and he lowers his hand settling with a “whumpf” on the stone step, turned partially away from Sindri, who lowers himself down next to his round companion. After a moment the shorter dwarf’s voice emerges, nearly breaking under the weight of his emotions.

“Did we fail them, Sindri?”

Sindri leans back for a moment, looking up at the cloud filled, grey sky.

“You know, brother, we’re sitting here at the end of days. A marauding army led by a demon has stopped the last god in Midgard from returning home, Odin has locked himself in Asgard and imprisoned that damn wolf, and the rest of the gods are dead or vanished. And you want to know something?”

“What?”

“I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. This realm has never known such peace as what we helped bring it for the last 600 years. Civilization, art, music, poetry, the tales they will tell of these people and what they could do! These things flourished with our aid, and that is a most noble cause to dedicate one’s life too. We knew the gods at their most vulnerable. We crafted them weapons that shook the heavens and rewrote the laws of nature themselves. But most importantly, my dear friend, I’d do it all again if it meant that I sat here, at the end of the days, with you. Because there’s no one I’d rather greet Ragnarök with at my side.”

The shorter dwarf’s shoulders begin to shake, thick tears flowing from his eyes into his beard. Sindri reaches a hand out, rubbing the shorter man’s back between his shoulder blades as the man’s tears eventually subside. Eventually Sindri’s voice floats out into the air once more.

“We didn’t fail them, Brok. It just happened faster than we ever could have prepared for. There’s an end to all things, even the gods, and Odin’s known it for centuries. Perhaps our mistake was preparing for it in the first place instead of accepting our fates. Hard to do when the Hanged One won’t share his knowledge with the rest.”

Brok sniffs, wiping his hand across his eyes and nose.

“Are you ready, Sindri? One last act before we go. One last thing good thing to put into this world. What incantation did you choose?”

Sindri smiles, a sad, wistful smile.

“The song mother sang us to sleep with when we were young.”

Brok nods, his eyes welling once more. The two brothers interlock their fingers, turning to the southwest, their voice crooning out over the trees, Brok’s basso rumble melding nicely with Sindri’s tenor.

“The darkness is naught to fear,

For it is whence we came.

From under mountains deep and far,

And will return again.”

“Close your heart to fear, dear child,

Keep always at your back.

You brother, Brok, and Sindri too,

To aid in what you lack.”

The song ends, the brothers remaining standing, hands clasped, as an enormous rumbling takes hold of the wall. Light crawls through the metal strands woven into the stonework beneath your feet, flashing and moving like neural impulses.

After about 20 seconds the rumbling stops. As you watch a metal man appears at the staircase top, walking over to the wall, standing at attention, sword and shield affixed to its arm, a crossbow strapped to it’s back, a quiver slung low on a hip with bolts. It deftly moves along the wall, snapping to face outwards over the plain. As you watch, and look further along the wall, you see dozens of these soldiers appearing silently at multiple staircases that lead to the top of the wall.

Brok and Sindri step back, making space for the metal men continuing to arrive. Brok speaks, his voice more even now.

“It’s done. They’ll defend what we couldn’t. No minds to BREAK HERE, EH SHADOW LORD?”

His voice rises to a fevered shout as he turns to the southwest, a rude hand gesture sent sailing towards Geldorcraft. Sindri grins, chuckling quietly to himself.

“Brok, I have to say, as final words go, those aren’t bad. What say we see what’s waiting for us after this world?”

Brok nods, smiling back up at his brother.

“Sindri, I couldn’t agree more.”

The two clasp hands once more, turning and sitting down again against the wall, their breathing beginning to slow. You watch as their hair begins to whiten, their hands to become spotted with age. After a moment Brok cracks an eye.

“Sindri?”

“Yes, my friend?”

“It’s snowing.”

Thick, fat flakes of snow have begun to fall, coating everything silently, including the soldiers on the wall, the snowflakes hissing slightly as they rapidly melt and steam on the armor.

Brok and Sindri laugh, sticking their tongues out, catching the flakes, making small piles of snow after a few minutes and dumping them down each other’s shirts before finally subsiding. Sindri clasps the back of Brok’s neck, looking him in the eyes.

“I love you, brother. You’ve been my best friend throughout our existence. Here’s to family.”

Brok nods, fixing Sindri with equal intensity.

“I love you too, Sindri.”

The two lean back against the wall, and as you watch they continue to age, before suddenly and simultaneously turning to snow. You look up and notice immediately after they do so two ravens flying away deeper into the city, cawing the whole while they leave.

And the snow falls. And the metal men stand watch.

#Found Lore #legend lore #Miere Notes

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore #6: The Two Moons

“Skoll is the name of the wolf who follows the shining priest into the desolate forest, and the other is Hati, who chases the bright bride of the sky.”

Shining Priest- Mani, the larger of the two moons, gently glows silver in the night sky, about 15% larger then our moon on earth.

Ydalir- bright bride of the sky. Glows golden brown early in the evening and just before sunrise, and fades to a dull grey outline in the darker hours of night.

#found lore #legend lore #worldbuilding

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore # 5: A Tale of Skadi the Huntress

Once, when this land was wild and untamed, a man and his daughter lived well. The giant Thiazi, master of the Wild shape, able to turn into any beast, loved with his daughter Skadi, a huntress of unmatched ferocity and power.

One day Odin and Loki visited Midgard, and upon their arrival realized they were hungry. They quickly caught and killed a bull, laying it upon their oven. They realized that the oven would not cook the bull, and cursing, sought to fix the problem. A deep voice rang out, as a giant eagle perched atop the tree. Thiazi, angered at the gods for stealing one of his prize bulls, demanded that the two Aesir help him if they wished their oven to cook the bull. Loki grew enraged, striking the eagle with his staff, but the staff stuck to the eagle, who took flight through the air, Loki’s shins and feet banging into trees. Loki shouted, begging to be let down, and Thiazi agreed after Loki promised to aid him by bringing him some of Iounn’s Golden apples, famed bringers of inmortality. For Thiazi felt the cold chill of man’s winter creeping into his bones, and feared the end for him and his daughter.

Loki agreed to the plan, tricking Iounn upon his return to Asgard, telling her that he had found a new grove of apples that would be worthy for her to add to her own. Upon the two gods arrival in Midgard, Thiazi swooped down from the sky, snatching Iounn up and carrying her to his Eyrie. And the other Aesir were greatly angered by this, and marched to the mountain upon which Thiazi and Skadi made their homes. Skadi met them in battle in the forests and snows of her homeland, sowing terror into the enemy with her bow, skating across the snow and ice with her magic snow shoes.

Odin, far seer, the hanged one, spear master, sought to undo the damage his son Loki and the Giant Thiazi had wrought. He met with Skadi, promising her a betrothed from the ranks of Aesir if Iounn were returned to the Aesir, for she had been kidnapped and did not love her Giant husband. Skadi agreed, and chose Njord from among the ranks of soldiers, for Njord stood tall and bright browed, his stature impressing the Giant Huntress. Njord agreed, taken with the huntresses prowess in battle.

Iounn was returned to the Aesir, but overtime Odin’s wrath grew towards Thiazi for his transgressions. The All father plotted to destroy the Giant shape shifter in The cruelest way possible. He set a contest for Skadi, telling her that if she succeeded she would be made an Aesir, knowing that despite Skadi’s loving marriage with the sea god, she still felt an outsider. Skadi eagerly agreed, setting off to hunt the beast that the Raven Master spoke of. Her arrows flew true, striking the beast dead, only to find her father fatally struck with two arrows in his skull. Skadi wept, for she had not seen her father in years, and from her tears grew a grove of apple trees as Skadi ended her life on that mountaintop. When Njord heard what had happened, he traveled to Midgard with all haste, finding his wife and father in law’s bodies, now turned into flowers and plants, as giants become when they die. Njord’s fury was immense, and he nearly swept the All Father aside in his anger and destruction. For this he was banished to Midgard, forbidden to return home. And so the lesson is this- things are not always what they seem. A rash action can cost more in the future then a tempered one. And the Gods will always have their due. It is upon us to pay them what we owe, lest the take it, as Skadi found out.

#legend lore #found lore #religious mythos

[thehoneyjournal]

Journalist’s Notes: The ship sunk off the coast between Geldorcraft and Borgamandr, finding its exact location could require some specialized divination. I wonder if anything will be left of the ship after thousands of years on the bottom of the ocean.

Legend Lore #4: The Phantom’s Rapier

A vision of a ship wavers to life in front if you, shimmering slightly in the air. After examining the image, you realize that you can interact with the ship, and by focusing on it can zoom in and out to view things with greater or lesser detail. These are the things you notice about the ship!

A single masted war sloop- colored jet black, with a figurehead of a humanoid, pointing forward with a thin blade. The figure is covered by a cloak, it’s face hidden from view (think dementor with a sword).

Weapons- 16 ballistae, 8 per side, as well as buckets of pitch coating some of the bolts and torches burning nearby.

Sails- a single mast that appears detachable, and able to be laid on the main deck and secured there. Oars can be placed to the sides of the ship, allowing the ship to be piloted in shallow waters.

Captain’s quarters- opulently decorated room with a 4 poster bed, a cloak hangs on the wall, as well as a thin sword, its hilt encrusted with jewels and gold filligree. There appears to be a sealed compartment under a writing desk in this room as well.

Crew Quarters- rows of hammocks line this room, double stacked on each other. Counting them you come to an even 40 in 4 rows of ten. As you enter the room theres a row of ten, then behind it another row, etc.

The hold- in this image, the hold appears empty, a decent sized space to hold treasure and other loot gained during raiding and boarding ships.

Galley- rows of benches and long tables adorn this room, barren. A door opens to a small room with a table, knives, and other cutlery for preparing food. A second door opens to a room filled with dried food and other supplies.

#miere notes

[thehoneyjournal]

Journalist’s Notes: if this information relates directly to the dragon we saw dissapting the storm in the southwest this would be a creature that we may find an ally with against Prusias if we play our cards right, the fact the tiefling warrior seemed to be bespelled by the dragon is concerning, but hopefully we can find a way to combat this.

Its mere continued existence if incredible and i wonder if he is the last one left of his kind, I certainly hope not.

Legend Lore Entry #3: Fafnir the Dragon

Your vision fades, and as it returns you realize you are sat astride a small horse, a giant of a Tiefling riding a warhorse at least two feet taller than your own next to you, a massive two handed greatsword slung on his back. He rides with a practiced ease, the dusty mid morning sun  illuminating the cobblestone road in front of you. You turn, feeling a lithe elven frame twist in the saddle, looking backwards towards the silver walls of your home as they shrink into the distance.

“What exactly is the point of this excursion, Lethalin?” The Tiefling growls. I am one of the foremost battlemasters of the mercenary’s guild, and I do not take kindly to babysitting a tiny academic such as yourself.”

I frown at the sun, absent mindedly gauging the hours left until sundown, barely acknowledging the rudeness of the meat mountain to my left. 

“Mack, You’re here as a deterrent to bandits, mostly. My magic will be enough protection for us both, but the Order of the Vanir would rather us not kill anyone with our abilities if at all possible.

The Tiefling grunts again, frustration evident with the vagueness of my answer. 

“Thats all well and fine, but why me and not some other intimidating fellow? I was to travel to Geldorcraft to aid in the defense of the city!”

This gets my attention. 

“Did the guild not tell you anything?”

“Well…” I turn to look at Mack, who is squirming in his saddle with what appears to be self consciousness. 

“I may not have been fully listening at the time when they gave my assignment.”

I sigh (quietly- this man has a reputation and a capacity for extreme swiftness and violence).  

“We are to observe the dragon Fafnir and attempt to make contact with him, in order to see if he will aid the conflict in Geldorcraft.”

There’s a long silence, for at least a mile if not more before Mack speaks again. 

“And what do we do if the dragon says no to our proposal?”

I shrug- in truth my excitement at getting to see the last dragon in Midgard is somewhat tempered now that I am away from my colleagues and the safety of the city walls. 

“I suppose we will see if your reputation is earned then, Mack.”

This shuts him up for the rest of the day. 

The rhythm of the horse lulls me into a dull trance, which we elves are known for. The faint echo and scent of magic lingers on the air from the north, even this far away, a whiff of sea water and something darker, like sulfur or brimstone.

We stop for the night, setting a fire. I find a small stream, filling a pot with water before starting the fire with flint and steel. I feel Mack’s eyes on me, as well as the all too common question coming. 

“Lethalin?”

“Yes?”

“Why aren’t you using magic to do all that?”

I grin, a memory of Allana’s teachings coming to my mind from when I was but a sapling, being trained in the great halls of the Order of the Vanir.

“Mack, do you shave with your greatsword?”

He pulls back, a look of confusion on his broad, light purple face.

“What? No! Of course not, that would be impractical and dangerous!”

I wait, but see no resolution or realization in his features. I gesture to the water, which has begun to steam and bubble gently in the night air. 

“The fire’s hot. The water’s boiling. Simple tasks don’t require dangerous tools. I won’t use my powers for the same reason you won’t use that cleaver on your back to rid yourself of morning stubble. It’s…. what’s the word? Overkill.”

Mack’s expression clears.

“That makes sense, I suppose. Like I can’t lift the heaviest weights possible every time I train, or I’d hurt myself!”

I nod, a quick grin crossing my mouth. 

“Yep, that’s it exactly”, I say lightly, my tone giving nothing away.

The following 3 days pass without incident, and I find myself enjoying this warrior’s company. He frequently asks questions about life as a magic user, how it works, what it means to me, and other probing questions. I confess, I began to enjoy his company. 

Then we met the dragon. 

On the third day, there’s a dull rumble in the air- Mack and I are both on edge, seeing the dull red glow in the distance of Geldorcraft. The last messages had told us that the Goddess had ripped the demon limb from limb and that he had run from the field, but his followers had apparently gone into a frenzy for days after the hell spawns ignoble retreat, and the city’s fate was still very much in the balance.

As it turns out, the rumble was not the battle in the city.

Do you know the collective noun for a group of dragons? The word has not been used for a century, not since the grand culling of the wyrms by our Aesir protectors. The word is a ‘thunder’ of dragons. 

I submit to you that a single dragon is enough to warrant this word’s use.

I thought the sky had cracked open, as a blast of wind sent our horses into a panic, throwing me from the saddle, the breath whooshing from my lungs. Mack collected his reins, setting his horse expertly, drawing the sword over his shoulder in a practiced motion, holding it easily in a single hand, facing against a mountain of black scales and wings the size of a galleons sails.

Mack jumps off his mount, his armor causing him to land heavily on both feet. His voice is deceptively calm. 

“Lethalin? Now’s a good time to get on your feet. Maybe even to use some dangerous tools.”

I stumble up, feeling a bruise already forming on both legs and my side. For the first and last time in my life, I observe the majesty of a fully grown dragon.

Fafnir’s scales are so black they appear to absorb light. At different times they appear as sleek black steel, other times stone. His teeth are as long as Mack’s sword, his claws the same, and both look sharper as his claws have carved furrows into the stone below him just from standing. A glow at the back of his throat signals to that most famous ability of dragons. His wings spread to either side for nearly 50 or 60 feet. His eyes, shockingly, are a piercing green, and each one is as tall as Mack is. I can feel the magic radiating off of this creature like a furnace, and for a moment I doubt our plan. My fear is forgotten a moment later as an impossibly Deep voice rings out from behind the teeth, the dragon’s mouth and tongue somehow framing language better than I ever have.

“Greetings, Men of The East. I welcome

You to my domain, the vast grasslands of Fafnir, last and greatest of the dragons in Midgard.”

I swallow, feeling the lump in my throat. Mack has stood up out of his fighting crouch, the sword hanging from nerveless fingers, some fell magic working on him, numbing him with fear. I feel it to, but fight it down, saying:

“Greetings to you, Fafnir, son of Bolin. Well met, and we acknowledge your greatness. We come bearing gifts for your treasure hoard, and a request if you will allow us smaller beings to take up any more of your time this day.”

A mischievous light flares, and a breath of wind whuffs from the dragon’s mouth, nearly knocking us flat.

“Oho! Flattery! Tis only natural, for I am nature’s fury in all it’s glory and mastery. Your compliments are well received, young one. What is this gift you have brought me?”

My hands are shaking as I produce a tome

from my bag of holding, written in draconic. I hold it up, stepping forward, feeling the ground shake as the dragon brings one its eyes around to blink slowly and peruse my gift. It reads aloud, seeming to savor the syllables rolling off it’s tongue.

“A complete genealogy of the dragons- 8th edition. A good gift, a fine gift! Perhaps now this rumor and legend of me once being a dwarf will now be put to rest once and for all.”

I nod, breathless. The eye suddenly locks back on me. 

“And your…. request?”

I swallow my fear, my voice cracking as I blurt out:

“We wish for you to help us find and kill the one they call Prusias, and to help defend the city of Geldorcraft.”

What can only be described as a frown crosses Fafnir’s face.

“I cannot do this, hatchling. No- I will not. Tell me, who is the leader of your coastal city?” 

I wince. “Njord,” I say.

The majestic beast bends down, its eye level with mine once more.

“I can tell you know why this is a problem. Those Aesir destroyed my race. I am alone in the world because of them. My brothers and sisters have left for other realms to avoid extinction. Our race will survive, but we were made here, and our ancestral home is now forever denied for us. So ask me for any other boon, hatchling. I cannot grant what you ask.”

Tears cloud my eyes, and I feel a breath of wind on my cheek before the voice rumbles once more, quietly, filled with sympathy.

“I have watched your race’s persecution with great sadness in my heart, little one. Your kind are so long lived and mysterious to those who don’t understand what centuries do to a person. I am glad that you have found acceptance with your companion here. It gives me hope that you two legs will work things out someday.”

I swipe my hand furiously across my face, hoping that Mack can’t see me- a quick glance confirms the sword is now on the ground, his eyes entirely vacant with fear and whatever magic is clouding his mind.

“Will he be okay?” My voice sounds small even to my ears now. A earth rattling chuckle.

“Yes. He will likely remember this as a terrible dream.”

I look up at the dragon once more. A kinship fills my heart, and I instinctively reach out towards the dragon, touching the scales below it’s jaw. They are warm to the touch, like sunkissed rocks, and i scratch along the jaw, right where I would if Fafnir was a cat. 

The green eyes close, and a dull rumble fills the air, a humming that is nearly subsonic, felt but not heard. I do not press my luck or ask again for the favor. The dragon gently grabs the manuscript from where it lays on the ground, somehow cradling it in a paw. It inclines its head to me before launching into the air, knocking Mack and I flat to the ground as it climbs into the air. I watch it leave, unsure if I’ve done the right thing. It feels right. The wounds of a hundred years ago are still fresh to beings like me and Fafnir, and I understand his reasons. That will have to be enough.

#miere notes

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore #4: The Phantom’s Rapier

A vision of a ship wavers to life in front if you, shimmering slightly in the air. After examining the image, you realize that you can interact with the ship, and by focusing on it can zoom in and out to view things with greater or lesser detail. These are the things you notice about the ship!

A single masted war sloop- colored jet black, with a figurehead of a humanoid, pointing forward with a thin blade. The figure is covered by a cloak, it’s face hidden from view (think dementor with a sword).

Weapons- 16 ballistae, 8 per side, as well as buckets of pitch coating some of the bolts and torches burning nearby.

Sails- a single mast that appears detachable, and able to be laid on the main deck and secured there. Oars can be placed to the sides of the ship, allowing the ship to be piloted in shallow waters.

Captain’s quarters- opulently decorated room with a 4 poster bed, a cloak hangs on the wall, as well as a thin sword, its hilt encrusted with jewels and gold filligree. There appears to be a sealed compartment under a writing desk in this room as well.

Crew Quarters- rows of hammocks line this room, double stacked on each other. Counting them you come to an even 40 in 4 rows of ten. As you enter the room theres a row of ten, then behind it another row, etc.

The hold- in this image, the hold appears empty, a decent sized space to hold treasure and other loot gained during raiding and boarding ships.

Galley- rows of benches and long tables adorn this room, barren. A door opens to a small room with a table, knives, and other cutlery for preparing food. A second door opens to a room filled with dried food and other supplies.

#found lore #miere notes #legend lore #Prusias Info

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore Entry #3: Fafnir the Dragon

Your vision fades, and as it returns you realize you are sat astride a small horse, a giant of a Tiefling riding a warhorse at least two feet taller than your own next to you, a massive two handed greatsword slung on his back. He rides with a practiced ease, the dusty mid morning sun  illuminating the cobblestone road in front of you. You turn, feeling a lithe elven frame twist in the saddle, looking backwards towards the silver walls of your home as they shrink into the distance.

“What exactly is the point of this excursion, Lethalin?” The Tiefling growls. I am one of the foremost battlemasters of the mercenary’s guild, and I do not take kindly to babysitting a tiny academic such as yourself.”

I frown at the sun, absent mindedly gauging the hours left until sundown, barely acknowledging the rudeness of the meat mountain to my left. 

“Mack, You’re here as a deterrent to bandits, mostly. My magic will be enough protection for us both, but the Order of the Vanir would rather us not kill anyone with our abilities if at all possible.

The Tiefling grunts again, frustration evident with the vagueness of my answer. 

“Thats all well and fine, but why me and not some other intimidating fellow? I was to travel to Geldorcraft to aid in the defense of the city!”

This gets my attention. 

“Did the guild not tell you anything?”

“Well...” I turn to look at Mack, who is squirming in his saddle with what appears to be self consciousness. 

“I may not have been fully listening at the time when they gave my assignment.”

I sigh (quietly- this man has a reputation and a capacity for extreme swiftness and violence).  

“We are to observe the dragon Fafnir and attempt to make contact with him, in order to see if he will aid the conflict in Geldorcraft.”

There's a long silence, for at least a mile if not more before Mack speaks again. 

“And what do we do if the dragon says no to our proposal?”

I shrug- in truth my excitement at getting to see the last dragon in Midgard is somewhat tempered now that I am away from my colleagues and the safety of the city walls. 

“I suppose we will see if your reputation is earned then, Mack.”

This shuts him up for the rest of the day. 

The rhythm of the horse lulls me into a dull trance, which we elves are known for. The faint echo and scent of magic lingers on the air from the north, even this far away, a whiff of sea water and something darker, like sulfur or brimstone.

We stop for the night, setting a fire. I find a small stream, filling a pot with water before starting the fire with flint and steel. I feel Mack’s eyes on me, as well as the all too common question coming. 

“Lethalin?”

“Yes?”

“Why aren’t you using magic to do all that?”

I grin, a memory of Allana’s teachings coming to my mind from when I was but a sapling, being trained in the great halls of the Order of the Vanir.

“Mack, do you shave with your greatsword?”

He pulls back, a look of confusion on his broad, light purple face.

“What? No! Of course not, that would be impractical and dangerous!”

I wait, but see no resolution or realization in his features. I gesture to the water, which has begun to steam and bubble gently in the night air. 

“The fire’s hot. The water’s boiling. Simple tasks don’t require dangerous tools. I won’t use my powers for the same reason you won’t use that cleaver on your back to rid yourself of morning stubble. It’s.... what's the word? Overkill.”

Mack’s expression clears.

“That makes sense, I suppose. Like I can’t lift the heaviest weights possible every time I train, or I’d hurt myself!”

I nod, a quick grin crossing my mouth. 

“Yep, that’s it exactly”, I say lightly, my tone giving nothing away.

The following 3 days pass without incident, and I find myself enjoying this warrior’s company. He frequently asks questions about life as a magic user, how it works, what it means to me, and other probing questions. I confess, I began to enjoy his company. 

Then we met the dragon. 

On the third day, there’s a dull rumble in the air- Mack and I are both on edge, seeing the dull red glow in the distance of Geldorcraft. The last messages had told us that the Goddess had ripped the demon limb from limb and that he had run from the field, but his followers had apparently gone into a frenzy for days after the hell spawns ignoble retreat, and the city’s fate was still very much in the balance.

As it turns out, the rumble was not the battle in the city.

Do you know the collective noun for a group of dragons? The word has not been used for a century, not since the grand culling of the wyrms by our Aesir protectors. The word is a ‘thunder’ of dragons. 

I submit to you that a single dragon is enough to warrant this word’s use.

I thought the sky had cracked open, as a blast of wind sent our horses into a panic, throwing me from the saddle, the breath whooshing from my lungs. Mack collected his reins, setting his horse expertly, drawing the sword over his shoulder in a practiced motion, holding it easily in a single hand, facing against a mountain of black scales and wings the size of a galleons sails.

Mack jumps off his mount, his armor causing him to land heavily on both feet. His voice is deceptively calm. 

“Lethalin? Now’s a good time to get on your feet. Maybe even to use some dangerous tools.”

I stumble up, feeling a bruise already forming on both legs and my side. For the first and last time in my life, I observe the majesty of a fully grown dragon.

Fafnir’s scales are so black they appear to absorb light. At different times they appear as sleek black steel, other times stone. His teeth are as long as Mack’s sword, his claws the same, and both look sharper as his claws have carved furrows into the stone below him just from standing. A glow at the back of his throat signals to that most famous ability of dragons. His wings spread to either side for nearly 50 or 60 feet. His eyes, shockingly, are a piercing green, and each one is as tall as Mack is. I can feel the magic radiating off of this creature like a furnace, and for a moment I doubt our plan. My fear is forgotten a moment later as an impossibly Deep voice rings out from behind the teeth, the dragon’s mouth and tongue somehow framing language better than I ever have.

“Greetings, Men of The East. I welcome

You to my domain, the vast grasslands of Fafnir, last and greatest of the dragons in Midgard.”

I swallow, feeling the lump in my throat. Mack has stood up out of his fighting crouch, the sword hanging from nerveless fingers, some fell magic working on him, numbing him with fear. I feel it to, but fight it down, saying:

“Greetings to you, Fafnir, son of Bolin. Well met, and we acknowledge your greatness. We come bearing gifts for your treasure hoard, and a request if you will allow us smaller beings to take up any more of your time this day.”

A mischievous light flares, and a breath of wind whuffs from the dragon’s mouth, nearly knocking us flat.

“Oho! Flattery! Tis only natural, for I am nature’s fury in all it’s glory and mastery. Your compliments are well received, young one. What is this gift you have brought me?”

My hands are shaking as I produce a tome

from my bag of holding, written in draconic. I hold it up, stepping forward, feeling the ground shake as the dragon brings one its eyes around to blink slowly and peruse my gift. It reads aloud, seeming to savor the syllables rolling off it’s tongue.

“A complete genealogy of the dragons- 8th edition. A good gift, a fine gift! Perhaps now this rumor and legend of me once being a dwarf will now be put to rest once and for all.”

I nod, breathless. The eye suddenly locks back on me. 

“And your.... request?”

I swallow my fear, my voice cracking as I blurt out:

“We wish for you to help us find and kill the one they call Prusias, and to help defend the city of Geldorcraft.”

What can only be described as a frown crosses Fafnir’s face.

“I cannot do this, hatchling. No- I will not. Tell me, who is the leader of your coastal city?” 

I wince. “Njord,” I say.

The majestic beast bends down, its eye level with mine once more.

“I can tell you know why this is a problem. Those Aesir destroyed my race. I am alone in the world because of them. My brothers and sisters have left for other realms to avoid extinction. Our race will survive, but we were made here, and our ancestral home is now forever denied for us. So ask me for any other boon, hatchling. I cannot grant what you ask.”

Tears cloud my eyes, and I feel a breath of wind on my cheek before the voice rumbles once more, quietly, filled with sympathy.

“I have watched your race’s persecution with great sadness in my heart, little one. Your kind are so long lived and mysterious to those who don’t understand what centuries do to a person. I am glad that you have found acceptance with your companion here. It gives me hope that you two legs will work things out someday.”

I swipe my hand furiously across my face, hoping that Mack can’t see me- a quick glance confirms the sword is now on the ground, his eyes entirely vacant with fear and whatever magic is clouding his mind.

“Will he be okay?” My voice sounds small even to my ears now. A earth rattling chuckle.

“Yes. He will likely remember this as a terrible dream.”

I look up at the dragon once more. A kinship fills my heart, and I instinctively reach out towards the dragon, touching the scales below it’s jaw. They are warm to the touch, like sunkissed rocks, and i scratch along the jaw, right where I would if Fafnir was a cat. 

The green eyes close, and a dull rumble fills the air, a humming that is nearly subsonic, felt but not heard. I do not press my luck or ask again for the favor. The dragon gently grabs the manuscript from where it lays on the ground, somehow cradling it in a paw. It inclines its head to me before launching into the air, knocking Mack and I flat to the ground as it climbs into the air. I watch it leave, unsure if I’ve done the right thing. It feels right. The wounds of a hundred years ago are still fresh to beings like me and Fafnir, and I understand his reasons. That will have to be enough.

#Found Lore #legend lore #Miere Notes

[thehoneyjournal]

Journalist’s Notes: ....Um right well i suppose i will have to find other means to gather info about it, as it seems to be able to know when people are targetig it with Magic.

Im curious about the riddle it left me with, the two most powerful forces in the realms? I’ll have to ask the other members of the guild what they think too, somehow i doubt a demon would think “Love” to be an answer.

Legend Lore Entry #2: The Deep One

Ahh. Her dragon born friend. Since you’re so curious about me, I’d suggest asking yourself a question.

What are the two most powerful forces in the realms?

If you try this again, I will haunt your dreams and burn the magic from your veins for your insolence. Consider this mercy, and a mark of my sentimentality.

#Legend Lore #Found Lore #Miere Notes

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore Entry #2: The Deep One

Ahh. Her dragon born friend. Since you’re so curious about me, I’d suggest asking yourself a question.

What are the two most powerful forces in the realms?

If you try this again, I will haunt your dreams and burn the magic from your veins for your insolence. Consider this mercy, and a mark of my sentimentality.

#Legend Lore #Found Lore

[thehoneyjournal]

Journalist’s Notes: I don’t know wether to be relived that Prusias was once a mortal or very concerned that a demon of his caliber can just be made with a strong enough wish.

There are so many elements to his tale i want to know more about; who was the clever little boy that knew about the demons artifact in the sunken ship? What does the “Return is shadows remain” actually mean? One way or another this gives a clue to how to defeat him, we need to gather holy weapons.

Legend Lore Entry #1: Prusias

As the spell takes effect, your vision darkens, before clearing to reveal a somewhat familiar landscape before you. Buildings, some aflame, some smashed, some whole, stretch away in front of you into the darkness, which seems brighter, more defined. The roar of the wave’s rings in your ears, although you can’t see them, and the screams of wounded men and women split the humid night air. The smell of smoke hangs on the wind. You look forward, bodies of soldiers and winged devils littering the ground around you, as you look towards a large, human woman clad in sea green armor, cradling a trident, bleeding from multiple wounds, looking up at you with a hatred so intense you’re shocked you don’t burst into flames.

A deep chuckle rumbles from your chest, as mirth fills your mind at the carnage around you, and the victory over your foe. You step forward, wincing as your legs twinge, even after all these years still aching after your last wound. The woman says nothing, watching silently as you search for a place to rest, grunting silently as the weight is removed from your limbs as you sit down upon a nearby piece of rubble. You stroke your long black beard, thinking for a moment.

“You know, the last time we were here…. Ended quite differently. You hurt me quite badly that day. Took all my power to escape here alive. But today is different. Today, you are beaten. Took me some time… but then we denizens of hell have always had advantages you gods don’t. A shame, really. Relying on mortal followers to give you power when you can just… take it.”

At your words, the woman’s face curdles, and she leans forward to spit a gob of blood into the dirt. Doesn’t quite make it to you, but you smile at the effort.

“My dear, I don’t think there’s really any need for fruitless resistance at this point. Please don’t try turning into sea water, or a bird, or any other tricks. You can’t. I won’t let you. But I think a rivalry such as ours deserves a little more respect then you’ve given me. So, I’m going to tell you a story, of how I came to exist. Then I’m going to bind you to this city for eternity. I’m wiser now, and you’ve chosen the battlefield well- I can’t kill you here, not really, this is your city after all and we’re a stone throw away from your divine domain. I think an eternal imprisonment, devoid of the meaningful death your kind so obsess over is possibly the worst punishment I can devise for what you did to me.”

You shift your weight into the rocks, getting comfortable.

“You may not know this, but when I was a boy, I loved the sea. This was before your time, before you all were the Aesir enshrined in legend. I used to sail every chance I got, feeling the wind and waves and sun on my face, the rhythm of the water, and the constant thrum of the tides. I loved battle, of feeling my swords cross with an enemy, only to see me prevail with determination and strength. Please remember, there used to be great galleons that sailed the seas around this tiny continent, exploring and trading with the rest of the land masses on this planet. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, being so concerned only with this little island. But I digress.”

“Loving the sea and violence naturally does not lead to many acceptable pastimes, and I quickly found myself plundering the fattest trade vessels I could find in the many shipping lanes between this land and the others I mentioned earlier. Before I became the being you see before you, I was a strapping lad of eight and twenty, and I had just taken the greatest prize I had ever seen, a galleon dripping with gems, gold, and priceless art, preserved in magical chests to ward off the salty air and water. We executed the crew, naturally, and fed them to the sharks, but one of the crew swore he had information to an even greater prize.”

The woman’s eyes spark for a moment, a fist of water thrusting from her outstretched hand with enough force to crush a humanoid head. You flick a hand dismissively, scattering the feeble magic with a thought, and with a grunt you lash the god’s hands and mind to your will, forcing her to listen obediently.

“This crew member was a child, one of the light-footed boys who helped take the sails in or let them out, and he quickly gabbled out a tale of a whirling entity of clouds who told him he could grant any wish. The boy believed this apparition was trapped in a vessel below our ship, and I told him that if he dove and found it he could work on my own vessel, the Phantom’s Rapier.”

“By some miracle the boy survived, although he did lose quite a lot of blood to the sharks. He brought with a brass tin, and when I touched the vessel a thunderous voice spoke to me, demanding I release it and saying it could give me whatever I asked for. With the merchant’s vessel burning before me, I knew. I asked it to make me the fiercest demon on the high seas, feared by all. The voice told me that it would be done, but it would first need to take me to hell to accomplish my wish. I agreed, foolishly, thinking power was to be mine, the seas forever my domain.”

“I was transported to hell immediately upon opening the vessel. A whirling thunderhead of clouds, a genie, thanked me for releasing it, and informed me that demons could only be made in Hel, and could not leave for a thousand years. It told me that I would never be sick, never need fear any mortal weapon, and that I would be immortal. It told me that the shadows would be my ally, light my enemy, and that even if I was killed by some holy weapon powerful enough to harm me that I would always return if the shadows remained.”

“And so, I remained. When I made my way back to this world, I found that it had decayed, the people retreating from the sea and exploration. For the next hundred years I wandered, listening to the tales of the gods, beginning to hate you all for your vanity, your pride, and your incessant need for worship and adulation. One by one you fell or left Midgard, until only you remained. I tried to wait patiently, but you just… refused to give up, the way your brothers and sisters did. So, I tried to defeat you. And failed, I can admit that now.”

You stand, feeling the ache in your legs return. The fire inside you begin to smolder, the rage building as you look down at this pathetic thing that hurt you so badly.

“But this time I won’t. And now, you know my tale. And now I’m going to bind you to this place. Forever.”

A low, grinding laugh escapes the woman’s mouth, ending in a cough with more blood splattering the ground.

“You know the thing about immortality, Prusias? Eventually you get beaten. You can never end at the top of the ladder; someone always surpasses you. There’s no gentle death, no slipping away with friends and family around you. It’s always a bad ending. So do what you will. I’ll rest here for the remaining time I have, knowing that eventually, someone or something is going to destroy you.”

Your smile evaporates. You stride forward, seizing the woman around the throat, the rage filling you like a wildfire, flinging her through the wall of a nearby building. In a flash you’re beside her again, using the shadows instinctively, pummeling her until there’s a small furrow in the ground where her body lays. Your breathing slows, and you consider her words more carefully.

It’s too risky.

You lean down, pressing your thumbs into her forehead- you feel her presence, her power, the rumble of the tides and waves threatening to overwhelm your spell. You close them out, concentrating on the last few minutes, wiping her memory clean, ensuring she can never share your weaknesses and origin with anyone. You straighten, watching her eyes clear, then bend down and with one strike knock her unconscious, a rock beneath her head cracking with the force of the strike. You close your eyes, grasping the tapestry of magic that surrounds this city, weaving an impenetrable cage as you do, ensuring that anyone of celestial Aesir heritage can never leave so long as Njord lives.

A feeling of calm. You are the most powerful being on this continent now. It is yours for the taking. But violence for fun has lost its purpose now.

Perhaps politics would suit you better.

#Legend Lore #Found Lore #Miere Notes