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Messages - Johan

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61
Out of character discussions / Recent Log Collaboration
« on: June 06, 2013, 02:47:57 PM »
Let me respond for Himo: "I think that I have 4,000 Tongues scrolls, PLUS a number of Permanency spells."

62
Out of character discussions / Recent Log Collaboration
« on: June 06, 2013, 10:24:57 AM »
People who should have been present:

Belwar
Zurn
Mirri
Himo
Saul (possibly)
4 Garachi: 2 "warrior types" (w/ spears), 2 "councilor types" (some healing capabilities)

Chasm was "guarded" by 2 ogres, and 2 ogre magi; these were distributed around the chasm perimeter (and I do recall at least one of the ogres being asleep).

I'll try to remember tonight to post the e-mail that I have from you, Matt. It's a game log from between session 28 in the log area of these forums, and the session that you describe above.

63
General Info / Happy Birthday!
« on: April 09, 2013, 03:15:41 PM »
I thought I'd ping this thread...it's FK's B-Day again!

64
The humans called them Druid. The savage gnomes to the west: Gnarcheon. To the wee fey they were Sho-Atraliar, and the Centaurs called them Ghrunvedling. In Kaltya’s dialect of the sylvan tongue she was Fra Shathor: a child and soldier of Mahiya. This was the greatest calling and honor for Kaltya, but in addition she was the Lady of the Spore, and while not Chankathur herself, she had close ties to those honored soldiers and she knew that something was different this year as the celebration at the Grove of Needles drew near.

In the three days prior to the day of the festival, each of the Chankathur had spoken with their respective Vallenbrush plants and had each of them received the gift of five berries – one for Mahiya Herself, and one for each of Her divine children.

It was a truth for Kaltya that what one mushroom knows, all mushrooms know. And she, the Lady of the Spore, would come to know what the mushrooms knew. And as her mushrooms were part of the defenses of each of the Vallenbrush plants, they whispered to her over these last days as the berries had been bestowed upon the Chankathur.

Why this had come to pass, she could only guess, but given that the Blood Tear had stained the sky, Kaltya knew that momentous stirrings were afoot.

Now, in the pre-dawn of the morning of the Festival, as she lay not-quite-sleeping on her bed of mushrooms they whispered her to full awake: “The first one comes.”

She smiled at the knowledge: one of her brethren had entered the thick northern forest en route to the Grove of Needles. She wondered who, exactly, the early comer would be this year.

She stretched a satisfying stretch and melted into her fungal bed. The dryad’s union with the fungal world allowed her to move instantly between clusters of mushrooms, and this gift she used to travel to the Grove of Needles to greet this morning, as she did every year.

She would busy herself in greeting the celebrants and in setting up the bonfires that would light the festival. One to each point of the compass within the Ring, and one in the middle; all in perfect balance, as Mahiya herself was. The fires that would be lit tonight would reflect each of the divinities: Istisha’s fire would burn green while Akadi’s would burn blue. Grumbar enjoyed a fire that burned a fluid sort of light brown while Kossuth’s blaze, like the great orb at sunrise and sunset burned a deep orange fringed with yellow and red. Mahiya’s fire, central to the concentric rings of forest, white pine, and divine fires, burned white with tongues that flickered in the colors of her children.

And she would wonder which of her Fra Shathor family would be first to show.

65
Mirriam flitted along through the forest in seeming capricious fashion while Flitter, his colorful kestrel friend, flew along with him: a bit above and a bit behind the sprite. The two were on a mission of utmost criticality before they swifted along to the Grove of Needles for the Long Night celebration.

They came along to the mushroom field, in the middle of which was a small cave – a tiny cave by most standards – that they disappeared into. Flitter only entered the little cave, and she had to hop along into the mouth of the cave, as flying was not an option for her.

Mirriam was a far more agile flyer, though, and his wings weren’t as demanding as Flitter’s were. The sprite flew deep along the narrow passage of the cave, down to the subterranean mushroom grove that Kaltya had supplied for him, much as she had for the field above. They were mystical mushrooms here, and served several purposes, from deflecting curious investigators to proofing the small grove from attempts to magically locate it. In truth, this was not the first line of defense for the small Vallenbrush that Mirriam was warden over (Chankathur was a high honor bestowed upon the lively sprite in addition to his status as Sho-Atraliar…Mahiya’s child).

He set himself down amid the mushrooms, some of which puffed a magical spore for him and him alone. This spore was an activator that, when mixed with his Song, would open the portal and afford him access to the little Vallenbrush to which he was bonded. The brush had long since been hidden away from the rest of the world as a matter of necessity.

The atmosphere started to become heavy with the magical spore, and Mirriam began to sing. Low (as Sprites go) at first, then joined by a music that he generated by rubbing his diaphanous wings together. His music tripped and lilted as he sang the ancient song of the Brownies – the Song of the Hidden.

Although the music filled the small grove, it did not resonate along the entry tunnel, nor did it reach the forest above. But inside, the mushrooms awoke and came to sentience and joined in the song, adding a soft luminescence and the occasional puff of colored spores at just the right time.

It was not long before the portal opened and Mirriam was allowed access to the Vallenbrush. When the portal opened, the Brush that was hidden there lent its ancient part to the song that filled the grove. Mirriam was always left with tears in his eyes when the Vallenbrush joined his songs. The brush’s voice was the foundation of life for him; it was ancient, and wise, penetrating and enveloping. It was love, guidance, mentorship, and affection all together. And it was so much more.

Wings rubbing, voice trebling, eyes welling, Mirriam greeted the Vallenbrush and told in his song the need for berries. The Vallenbrush already knew, of course…it always already knew.

Mirriam reached through the portal and five tiny, perfect, red berries were deposited gently in his small hands. The five filled his hands completely; he was glad to have Flitter’s help to bear them to the Grove of Needles.

Their task complete, Mirriam’s heart embraced the soul of the hiding Vallenbrush, and he withdrew, knowing a mother’s complete love for her child. He stopped his song, and slowly the mushrooms stopped their puffing and glowing and the portal slowly closed as it had so many times these past decades. Presently the grove was nothing more than a grove once again.

He and Flitter needed to be getting along to the Grove of Needles. This would be no ordinary celebration.

66
It was true, Eswarth realized once again, that nothing happened truly by coincidence. The centaur had been a follower of Mahiya since he was very young, and being a Divine Soldier was what gave his life meaning, gave his bow range, and gave his great sword its vengeful wrath. Nerlander, his erstwhile companion, was similarly blessed and bore the symbol of mahiya in his deep, intelligent eyes.

Eswarth and Nerlander had received Shankaria’s rabbit only a day before they had  planned to start their leisurely journey  to the Grove of Needles, and a good thing too. Had not the Torquanic sent the bounding messenger, then Eswarth and Nerlander would have arrived at the Grove of Needles without their Vallenbrush berries.

And it was their path towards the Vallenbrush that had spontaneously placed them in the path of the necromancer Quetztochal.

The necromancer himself had been their most formidable foe this day. In many seasons, in fact. Eswarth and Nerlander had known at the outset that this was no ordinary cabal of ghouls and such. It was too near the Tower of the Damned, and at the same time too near Redstone to be anything but an army manufactory. A place to manufacture a legion of undead, and that was something that Eswarth and Nerlander could not allow.

Neither of Mahiya’s crusaders emerged from this fray unscathed; they had contrived to divide the targets such that Nerlander would engage the foul necromancer Quetztochal while Eswarth held the attention of what by that time remained of the small undead army.

Eswarth, for his part, now bore heavy, deep lacerations about his hindquarters, having been cut near to ribbons by the unnaturally sharp and poisoned talons of the harpies, they themselves made undead by the foul powers of the now-late necromancer Quetztochal.

Stealthy Nerlander managed to ambush Quetztochal himself, and had split the foul death priest in parts. The dire cougar’s great maw was more than adequate once he had gotten to the priest. Nerlander’s fur was now laden with hoar frost, and were it not for Mahiya’s blessings upon her two warrior priests – Her Ghrunvedling – the two companions would now member among the ranks of the undead themselves.

But this was not the first time that the two friends had done battle against the denizens of the Ghoul Swamp, and neither would it be the last. A prayer to Istisha brought loving healing first to Nerlander and then to Eswarth, and a fervent prayer to Kossuth brought a great mystical bonfire into being in the swamp. Such fire was the best way to ensure that the undead went back to being dead, and that any secret phylactery of the necromancer’s went unused. Eswarth and Nerlander remained vigilant until the last of Quetztochal’s ashes were airborne and harmless. They then burned thoroughly the remains of the undead harpies, ghouls, skeletons, and vampire lieutenants. None escaped the fire.

Satisfied with their work – work which had taken them days to accomplish – Eswarth and Nerlander turned their mind and feet southerly. It would take them the better part of the remaining days to get to the Grove of Needles, and this year it was far more important than it had been in years past that they not be either late or missing entirely. They were at current late, however. It could not have been prevented, as it would simply not do to leave Quetztochal to build his army in the tail of the blood tear, as it were. Still, centaur and dire cougar would be running to their utmost to arrive at the Grove of Needles before the Gnarcheon were departing and the Chankathur might start their own meeting. They had but two days ahead of them; sleep would wait.

And after, a thorough search for any magics that might bring Quetztochal or his armies back again.

67
Qwydeon Albyr SYNCATH VY 237 (June 3rd)

No matter from what direction one enters, the vast forest is dense with deciduous and conifers. It is a healthy forest that stretches from the edge of the Tortured Lands, skirting the Wasteland of Archea, to roll to the northern sea and west all the way to the Dale of Wolves, stopping within a score of leagues of the Ghoul Swamp in the north.

This vast tract of unnamed wilderness is home to the Dale Gnomes, the Wildlanders, the City State of Kurr, the Citadel of Gholan, and uncountable tribes of various gargun. It holds the memories of scores of ancient peoples and conflicts. It further supports outlaying lands such as Rhohannus and D’Flewn, and across Feather Gap is the imposing Fortress of Durhain, which sits upon the waters of the northern sea, halfway between Rhohannus and New Jarla.

Although many believe that the venerable forest, having been home to so many for eons, is a well known geography, she holds secrets still from the masses.

One of these secrets is deep within the thickest part of the forest, in an area where great sycamores and sequoias squeeze in close to giant cypress and enormous pines as if to better enjoy each other’s company.

This part of the mighty forest is under a perpetual cloud; it rains daily here, often in such a deluge the likes of which would scatter lesser trees. But these giants drink greedily of the rain waters, and if man could penetrate this place, he would see that the ground is always dry, even while the rain yet falls. But man cannot penetrate here; this primal place has many defenses against the intrusion of man, from the dense trees themselves, many of whom are sentient and some of whom are apt to walk about, to a thick, thorny undergrowth, and the land herself, which is never calm and even, but seems to have birthed this place in a fit of upheaval.

Scree-strewn hills jut up abruptly and fall away just as suddenly leaving broad chasms to be crossed. Sharp, rocky teeth wait at the bottom of these chasms to chew any so unfortunate as to fall from the few spans of height…sufficient to kill anyone foolish enough to seek entry. And there are the magics that in subtle ways turn away the particularly obstinate.

If the rains were to relent, and the winds abate, a crow could fly over this denser-than-dense part of the northern wood in less time than it takes for Kossuth to mount the sky. Such an opportunity rarely presents itself to any crow, but at times the sun shines down upon the canopy of trees managing to barely penetrate unto the forest floor.

When these crows traverse this inhospitable wood, they might espy near its center a small mote of grassy meadow, half a score acres at most. At the center of these few acres is a splendid ring of resilient soft-needled white pine. These pleasant pine trees sit in a perfect circle that is about a bow-shot in diameter, and have sat thus since before humans entered the greater forest. Their soft needles have over the centuries carpeted the little circle across which that they stare at each other, and no sentient foot has ever trod upon them without Mahiya’s blessing, for it is only such as these as can navigate the uninviting wood that surrounds this place, and it is only such as these that the wood knows, and allows entry.

This is the Grove of Needles, and on this day every year meets the council of Gnarcheon to plot the north woods’ annual celebration of Long Summer’s Day.

68
General Info / Ehlonna's Forest
« on: March 01, 2013, 12:13:24 PM »
OMG...that's awsome! Good work on that one, and showing off some real photoshop skills!

69
In Character Discussions / To the Vallenbrush
« on: February 27, 2013, 12:49:45 PM »
Shall we move on to the Grove of Needles?

70
In Character Discussions / Following the Trail
« on: February 27, 2013, 12:48:00 PM »
Fin?

71
In Character Discussions / Following the Trail
« on: February 21, 2013, 09:45:48 AM »
"Hrung. Is pretty lake...good spot, but close." He looked about significantly, and sniffed the late spring morning. "Sayer know yet request?"

72
In Character Discussions / Following the Trail
« on: February 20, 2013, 01:47:08 PM »
"Hrung." Jarmok indicated his understanding. "Can't tell on horse who." He admitted. "But one horse at site, shadow riders not ride horse, think." He reiterated. "Am logic Kurr soldier. Am sorry." He felt a point of irritated disappointment that he must bring news of such betrayal to anyone, and the Arch-Duke seemed kind indeed.

"Can Sayer help answers find." He assured Corwynn. "Answers find. Questions too. Always questions find."

73
In Character Discussions / To the Vallenbrush
« on: February 20, 2013, 01:29:40 PM »
North Woodlands Gnomish 0066ff
Brethren's Cant ff9933
Common (for the wildlands)

Ah s'pose I coul' do tha'. Shankaria responded. Bu' it'd do no good, onna count o' it'd take a week a' least fer them ta heah th' call and r'spon'.

But no wurries...th' annual meetin' a' th' Grove o' Needles is on'y a week away...they'll all be there, ye c'n bet onnit. We shoul' jest talk at'em a' th' meetin'. No Gnarcheon missus tha' meetin' widout cause.

Inna mean time, I'll go an' see a couple of the Chakanthur tha' I c'n reach inna th' time I got an' talk to'em affore hand too."

She looked up into Ashe's eyes to see if such an arrangement would suit him.

74
In Character Discussions / Following the Trail
« on: February 11, 2013, 08:49:46 AM »
"Hrung." Jarmok indicated his understanding. Jarmok took the proffered water, but did not drink of it just then. He listened intently to the Arch-Duke's request, and when the weary ruler had finished, Jarmok briefly scurried on haunch-and-hand about the camp fire to collect a cubit-long stick and then clear a patch of dirt where he could draw.

"Is first traitor." He said and he swiftly began sketching out the Ambush Site that only a fortnight ago he had inspected. That trip had been much on Jarmok's mind during the intervening weeks; the site was fair etched in his mind at this point. As he drew the north-south road and the cut-off where the party had bivouacked for that fateful night, and the protected hollow, and all the elements that made that site, he spoke rather tersely.

"Councilors from Rivercliff tell story. Ambush at night. Find place and look...old, but many tracks. Much learn." He didn't look at Corwynn as he spoke. He was busily creating something of a battle map in the dirt.

"Is road, Threshold [drew an arrow] long day, maybe two short days. Kurr [another arrow]. Party camp here...hill..hill...tree. Good place for camp. Enemy [drawing arrows indicating that the enemy forces that surrounded the little camp came from various directions, as if coming to a meeting at the sound of a call], man and shadewolf, on hill, on hill, arrows to kill soldiers."

Jarmok began digging in his satchel for a moment, but continued to speak animatedly. "Councillors say dark. Not just night...dark [with emphasis]. Am think shade wolf dark. Found [holds up the claw that he found at the ambush site so that Corwynn might inspect it, if he so wished]"

"But arrows only hit soldiers, not Councillors. Is aim good."

"Is traitor on horse." He stated somberly. "Is only one horse in Kurr company. Find horse prints here [pokes the dirt], here, [poke], and here [pokes the south hill side], on top of hill. Shadow Riders not ride horse. Horse from Kurr." He stated firmly. "Rider up on hill is signal to Shadow Riders: come kill, think."

"Am yesterday Sayer told...when get to Kurr...man on horse is back, say, 'all good... Councillors at Threshold'. Is lie. Is traitor."

Pleased with his battle map, and his narration, Jarmok sat back on his haunches and drank of the cup that Corwynn had handed him. He made a few minor additions to his map.

"Man on horse is traitor." He reiterated. "Who is?"

75
In Character Discussions / Following the Trail
« on: February 08, 2013, 04:29:29 PM »
Jarmok perked up when Corwynn noted that this was his cabin; he hadn't expected that such an august person might have a humble cabin in the forest, though he was beginning to sense that more of these city folk were children of the forest than he might have imagined.

"My Mercer left." He affirned Corwynn's guess that the old hunter was gone. "Not know where." Jarmok couldn't be too sure of his own worthiness, but he was all that Mercer had at the time. All the outlander could do was his best.

"Hrung." He assented to his host. "What need?" He asked.


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