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BJ
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He Who Founds Wyrmlings
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| Joined: 04 Dec 2006 |
| Posts: 3997 |
| Location: Sa sikmura ng Bakunawa |
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Posted: Wed Jun 11, 2008 9:20 pm Post subject: Bonethrall History |
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| Official Bonethrall narratives/histories/events go here. |
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Revan
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Sith'ari, Chosen Heart of the Force
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| Joined: 04 Dec 2006 |
| Posts: 1552 |
| Location: Korriban |
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Posted: Mon Aug 18, 2008 8:17 pm Post subject: |
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Caves of K'maht
(From the Journal of Kyris Lasirlan, Baalim warlock)
I heard a strange story today. I'd been going around the camp, swapping stories and listening to tales from the other mercenaries in the caravan. I had just finished talking with a bunch of dwarves when a dragonborn approached. I was somewhat surprised that the dragonborn had overcome the usual animosity between the Baalim and Mandrakori, so I was naturally curious.
The warrior needed some items identified. The make of the weaponry he showed me was vaguely familiar. Baalim worksmanship, and Nagthari, but also the occasional trinket and piece of jewelry that seemed to be of Kobold styles.
I was fairly sure that there was a story behind this all, so I cut the dragonborn a deal. I'd identify and appraise his stuff for free if he would tell me the story behind them. He agreed.
He was a mercenary, working for a Mandrakori warband in the North that had been contracted by a strange fellow named Gabron. This Gabron lead the warband to a mountain range, engaging and destroying a force of Baalim Redeemers. At this point in the story, the Mandrakor looked at me askance and asked me whether I had any loyalties to Liberator or Redeemer. I assured the dragonborn, Kaelis Stormcrowned, that though I might be a Lasirlan, my loyalties were to myself, knowledge, and profits. He was surprised to find out that I was a Lasirlan, and he almost stopped and left right there. I feigned nonchalance, and then told him the nature of the longsword he had taken from one of the Baalim leaders. My mind was racing though, for I was aware of rumors that Baalim war party had recently found something unusual in the North.
This dragonborn and his comrades had chased the Baalim into the caves at the foothills of the mountains, and there, found themselves caught up in a pitched battle between kobolds, Baalim, and their own force. After exploring the caves further, they began to realize that the entire situation was much more complex. Their employer wanted them to secure a godstone at the base of the caves. The kobolds, in turn, only wanted to be free of their Baalim master, Nes'vat, so that they might be free to pursuit their "grand project", the creation of artificial life, somewhat like golems, only sentient.
In a series of pitched battles, this Kaelis and his comrades came to an alliance with the kobolds and then hunted down the Baalim. Having secured the godstone for the kobolds, the Mandrakori then turned on their employer, who was also playing the mercenaries false. Gabron was in truth a Nagthari angel who sought to destroy the new-found "K'maht" godstone. After a fierce encounter, the angel was defeated.
The mercenaries had been well-rewarded, and were in the good graces of the northern kobolds. The kobolds in turn had apparently used the godstone to power some immense construct. All parties however seem to have gotten a surprise when the construct itself had developed sentience as a result of having the godstone implanted within it. The construct, calling itself "K'maht," appears to taken over the kobolds in the north, and with their cooperation, spawned its own race of sentient warrior-constructs in the north. Kaelis called them "warforged." This bears further study. A godstone becoming sentient? A race of artificial beings? Fascinating. Does this K'maht believe itself to be a god?
I finished appraising the warrior's loot, and Kaelis thanked me for my assistance. I asked the dragonborn where he was now bound. He stared off at the horizon for a while, and then asked me what I knew of the connection between House Lasirlan and the Stormcrowned clan. I told him that I had heard rumors, nothing more. His eyes bored into mine, before turning away. He said that he was searching for "the Crown of Storms."
I searched for the dragonborn the following day to ask him for more information, but he had disappeared. One of the sentries had said that he had left the camp in the middle of the night, wandering south, to the trackless depths of the Ruined Sea.
I can only hope that he finds what he's looking for. |
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Revan
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Sith'ari, Chosen Heart of the Force
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| Joined: 04 Dec 2006 |
| Posts: 1552 |
| Location: Korriban |
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Posted: Wed Dec 10, 2008 2:26 am Post subject: |
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The Mother of Monsters
The eladrin have been euphoric of late, Kyris mused. She had been sitting quietly in the corner of the Drunk Dog's taproom observing the crowd and waiting for the right person to approach for local information and folklore. The days since the Wasteland Battle Arena (a rather pompous name for a rather unexciting tourney) had been relatively dry times for the adventurer. Leads had dried up, rumors of new finds of relics and pre-Godfall sites had proven to be nothing more than tall tales, and the dreams Locust had been sending had grown worse, until one night, she woke screaming in the darkness without any memory of the entire day before that.
After that night of screaming darkness, things had begun to take a turn for the better. The strange funk that had clouded her mind had begun to clear. Kyris had even begun to hear of a series of ruins being unearthed in the North, towards the halfling settlement of Mudtown. The only nagging thing that kept Kyris from moving onwards was the fact that she couldn't remember anything about the dream. Locust had told her of one last great dream binding her to the Mother of Monsters, and the memory of that dream remained tantalizingly out of reach.
And then the eladrin had arrived. One moment, the taproom was quiet, the next, a gaggle of eladrin burst into the room, bought drinks for all, and the room erupted in a burst of conversation. Strange eladrin, Ky remarked. Neither haughty, reserved, or mysterious, these eladrin seemed strangely gregarious and open, questioning others with an eager desire for information. She listened in on the conversations, and many of these newcomers seemed strangely ignorant of many facts about the modern world. They were unaware of the conflicts between the Redeemers and Liberators. They were shocked when told about the devastation of the Ruined Sea and the spell-scarred wasteland that was the Daemonscar. Most fascinating of all was the nugget of information that Kyris alone seemed to have realized: these eladrin had little conception of the value and importance of Godstones. A fascinating mystery, one that every fiber of her body urged her to solve. Immediately.
Kyris sidled over to one of the eladrin, a well-built young man with a swordsman's stance. She took two tankards of summerstar mead in hand and grabbed a seat. The eladrin's eyes immediately narrowed, peering out at her from elegantly trimmed platinum-blonde hair. "Baalim? What do you want, Loyalist wretch?" Kyris rolled her eyes. One of those, then. "I'll have you know, sir eladrin, that not every Baalim bows slavishly to the fanatical priests of dead gods." She flashed him a grin, carefully reminding herself not to assume a predatory smirk, aiming for a feigned earnest smile. "Some of us can actually try to be perfectly kind and decent folk actually, when we're not sacrificing babies or despoiling innocents." The eladrin's eyes softened a bit and he raised a questioning eyebrow, not quite sure what to make of her. Looking on at his wondering expression, Ky carefully repressed a snigger. This is almost too easy. Still, he is sort of charming, in a naive sort of way. "That was a joke, if you haven't noticed, neighbor." Ky raised one of the two tankards of mead. "I noticed that your tankard was empty, and that I happened to have one extra. Kyris Lasirlan, a sometime historian and collector of tales, at your service. You don't seem to be from around here, and I think you've got a story to tell. Maybe over a tankard of summerstar?"
The eladrin's frown faded, to be slowly replaced by a disbelieving smile as he sniffed at the tankard cautiously. "Summerstar mead? Horned Lord's blessing, I never thought I'd find any of this in these benighted wastes!" The smiling young eladrin took an eager draught. "Horned Lord, that's good!" He rolled the remnants of the tankard around and then leaned back, smiling companionably. "The name's Brandin of Malathris. Tell you what, Kyris: for another tankard or two of this fine summerstar, I'll tell you all about the long war against the Mother of Monsters and the heroes that liberated the Hartland." Kyris brushed a stray lock of hair out of the way as she gave the young eladrin a beaming smile. "Well, that's a small price to pay for a solution to this mystery, friend Brandin." The pair took a booth to the side, and over rich summerstar mead and steaming cups of khav black as night and sweet as sin, Brandin of Malathris regaled her with the lost history of Malathris, the Hartland, and the Mother of Monsters.
The eladrin city of Malathris was one of the few to survive the fall of the Horned Lord in the cataclysmic battle that pitted the feyborn against both the Liberators and Loyalists. Distraught at the death of their God and the wild chaos that surged throughout the Feywild, the people of Malathris succumbed to despair. Untended, the wildlands crumbled to chaos and ruin, the devastation of Creation mirrored in the primal reaches of the Feywild. But then a charismatic sorceress arose from the youngest of the eladrin, those born of the last generation, the children born and raised during the Godfall War. She championed a new course, a rebirth. Gathering her own cabal of arcanists and scholars, she sought to bring a new purpose to the distraught eladrin. She sought a means by which the eladrin could harness the untended and wild magics of the Feywild to regenerate the land itself and make a new beginning for the children of Malathris.
To this day, the eladrin of Malathris have never quite pieced together the full story of the birth of the Mother of Monsters. Perhaps she sought too much too fast. Perhaps she made contact with entities locked away by the dead gods. Perhaps she truly did find a way to generate a new rebirth, a second genesis. Brandin mused that perhaps her transformation was part of her plan to give birth to a fecund new order, fertile, but touched by the madness of the starless dark. The eladrin sorceress transformed herself, becoming the Mother of Monsters, her closest allies would be warped by Far Realm magics into hags, harpies, and other twisted mockeries of their true form. With the city unaware of their apotheosis, the Mother of Monsters seized the element of surprise and struck at the eladrin of Malathris, foulspawn aberrants and chaos beasts bloodily siezing the initiative. Thus began the long war against the Mother of Monsters, a war that the eladrin fought with dogged resistance and defiant steadfastness. A war that they could not hope to win. Ground down through centuries of attrition and seemingly limitless hordes of monsters birthed by the Mother, the eladrin were slowly and surely being dragged to defeat.
And then everything changed with the coming of the heroes.
***
The war was proceeding adequately. She paused for a moment to revel in the genius of the masterstroke that the whispers from beyond had given her. The call had echoed throughout the Feywild, the undercurrents of madness masked by the fey energies of her near-forgotten eladrin self. Even the White Hart itself had been deceived by her summons. The unicorns had heard her call and answered. They gathered at the den of the White Hart. They had crossed into the Feywild. And they had been promptly slaughtered. Many had escaped, but they were scattered and broken. They would not be enough to turn the tide.
Outside the Spire, her children marched against the feeble remnants of the Feyborn. Her wishes were clear, carefully relayed to her favored sons and daughters, those of the keenest blades and fiercest natures. The eladrin would not be destroyed. They would be subdued. And then she would make them behold the glory of the Celestial Purpose and give them the Embrace of the Mother. Already, her dear ones began to press against the beleaguered feyborn. Mentally, she reminded her aberrant elites that the fey were not truly their enemies. They were merely misguided children who needed to be returned to the bosom of their Mother. Outside, her children roared their assent.
And then the dissonance began. Her children reported the coming of an unexpected force. A small party of warriors accompanied by a unicorn had unexpectedly broken through her lines. They fought like madmen, and she could feel their culling blades as they cleaved through her children, leaving them dead and dying. The deaths of her precious ones enraged her, but beyond the anger was a twinge of panic. She could not allow the Great Work to be interrupted. She had poured her power into the spire, into the vast armies of her children. She had poured so much of herself into the Great Work that her physical form had been left vulnerable. She would not be able to harness her energies fast enough. The foes would be upon her. She opened her eyes and called her children to her side, only to have the eladrin thwart her, locking down her mightiest champions with dimensional shackles and force cages. The eladrin redoubled their battle against her chosen, leaving them unable to rush to their Mother's side.
Within the tower her newest born, the weakest of her children gathered around her. They would have to be enough. The interlopers smashed into the heart of her hive, a bumbling old human and his awkward young apprentice, a little girl with knife-bright eyes, a fierce dragonborn, a masked elf, and finally one of the hated eladrin themselves, astride one of the cursed unicorns.
She howled her defiance and called her children to arms. She could feel the cutting blades and searing fires of their blades and watched as they cruelly slaughtered her children. And then the interlopers turned their blades upon her, cutting, slicing, searing, blinding, and stabbing.
***
Kyris gave a keening cry as she bolted upright, clutching her side reflexively, the phantom pain of the Mother of Monster's violent end coursing through her body. She curled into a ball in pain, sobs of pain and loss wracking through her as she wept for the deaths of foulspawned children that were never hers to weep for.
Pain, death, sorrow, and the long night, and a warm presence at her side holding her in the dark.
"Kyris? Baalim? Snap out of it. You're all right. You're not her! You are not the Mother of Monsters!" Ky's eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. The eladrin Brandin sat at her bedside, holding her as the last wracking sobs subsided.
"How-- What are you-"
The eladrin gave her a concerned look as he sat beside her, smelling of summerstar and the woodlands. "I was telling you about the heroes of the War against the Mother, Ereth and the others, when you keeled over. I thought you just had too much to drink, until I heard you speaking as if possessed. You were speaking in her voice. I heard the Mother of Monsters in my dreams once, and it is a voice one does not forget. I think you were dreaming her last moments."
Wearily, Kyris sat up. The eladrin moved away to give her some space. She wrapped her arms around herself, feverish hands clutching her shirt. Someone had removed her leather armor, which was neatly stacked in a corner. She turned an eye warily at the eladrin. Brandin spread his hands open. "You were raving, possessed. I didn't think it would be a good idea to leave you alone like that. And having slept in armor before, I know it's not exactly a comfortable experience." He paused a while, considered her expression, and then began to blush. "What? Look, I didn't- I mean, I didn't look- or see anything. Not that there was anything to be seen. No, that didn't come out right, didn't it?"
Ky smiled warily. She reached out to him in the dark. "Thank you. For the story. And for staying with me." There was an impish glimmer in her eyes. "And for not doing anything stupid."
"You're welcome." Kyris tightened her grip on Brandin's shoulder. "It's a cold night, feyborn, and a strange one. It's not a night I'd like to spend alone, Brandin of Malathris."
***
Locust spoke to her just before the dawn, as she lay content, the sleeping eladrin curled up beside her. She felt the limp form shift, and a sardonic whisper came from the dormant feyborn. "So, my little one, did you enjoy yourself, tonight? How did you find the story, dear one?" Brandin's face turned towards her, and his eyes were blank, unseeing, though they glowed faintly with blue-white fire.
She gave out a sigh of contentment and contemplated the ceiling. "It was interesting. Entertaining."
"Is that it? Surely you are not so dense that you do not see the comparison. I-"
"I am not like her, Loke. I'm stronger than that. She allowed the magic to consume her, and she became the Mother of Monsters. I'm better than that. The magic serves me, not vice versa. You taught me to be better than that, patron."
Brandin's face was still blank, but Ky could hear just the faintest note of pride as Locust's voice was channeled through him. "Yes, I think you are, dear one. Sharp as ever, Ky. Sharp enough, I think, for what is to come."
"It was good talking to you again, Loke." Ky nestled close to the eladrin, took his face in her hands, and kissed him slow and deep as she felt the spirit of Locust leave him.
Brandin stirred. "What?"
She nestled in his warmth and purred. "Thank you." Tomorrow they would part, the eladrin emissaries scattering, and she to Mudtown perhaps, or Briar Twig. Tonight, however she would rest content. |
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Revan
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Sith'ari, Chosen Heart of the Force
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| Joined: 04 Dec 2006 |
| Posts: 1552 |
| Location: Korriban |
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Posted: Fri Jan 23, 2009 11:24 pm Post subject: The Nightmare Chieftain |
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The Nightmare Chieftain
"So you're saying that Tiberius Lasirlan was misinformed when he wrote the annals of the Last Battle? That he got it wrong?"
Locust raised an eyebrow. "But of course. His annals of the final battle are rife with factual errors, inaccuracies, and innuendo. I'm after factual knowledge, Ky, not gossip and myth."
We're walking down the road towards the town of Oakcotte in the distance, Sam the Raven trailing behind us and warily keeping watch. For the past mile or so, Loke and I have been trading notes and interesting tidbits about the Battle of the Shadowed Mount. But I think I know a few things about all this that my smug little star-spawned friend doesn't.
"Consider how Tiberias' Annals of the Shadowed Mount compare to the sheer detailed research and scholarship of his other works. I don't believe my ancestor could turn from a devoted scholar to blathering idiot just like that. Also, Loke, consider the pattern of the inaccuracies. He gets so many things mixed up, but especially when he talks about Abaddon, Brianna Darkhope, Memnon Tydeides, and Koroth Stormcrowned! Each and every one of these leaders played a critical role in the Last Battle. Mark my words Loke, there's a pattern behind these falsehoods, a pattern that Tiberias Lasirlan was aware of. Maybe he couldn't speak the truth directly, but he may have left signs in his works, signs that might lead to the truth behind the Shadowed Mount. So what do you think, Loke?"
There was no response. I turn around, and that smug star-spawn has disappeared. Sam's giving me a strange look.
"Where the hell did Locust go?"
The Raven warrior rolls her eyes. "How should I know? You've been muttering gibberish to yourself for the past three miles."
May the dead gods :consored: on your bones, Locust.
"Aw hell. Must be the heat, Sam. Heck, come on, let's get a drink. It's been a long walk."
***
Oakcotte is a dusty little frontier town, north of Ilawith, west of Tarkonis, and just east from Sinagthari territories. From the town center, I spot a well-maintained fort. Looks like there's enough trouble in these parts for the local lord to spend a lot on his defenses.
Well, we should only be here for a short stop before heading north to Barrier Twig. We've been hearing some pretty strange stories about that town up north, and Sam and I decided to check it out. I spend the next two hours or so playing the taproom, asking around about their strange neighbors to the northeast. I don't get a lot of progress until I meet the elf.
"Barrier Twig? If I were you, I'd stay away from that gods forsaken pestilent little dunghole of a town, Baalim." Dreven bin-Hakoth takes a long swig from his mug. I offer him a skin of summerwine, the last one I have. He takes a sniff. "What the hell do you think I am? A pansy-ass eladrin? Hey, barkeep, some mead over here! If you want tthe story, that's going on your tab, little lady."
I roll my eyes. This elf's real subtle, isn't he? I bring out my journal and start jotting down his ramblings.
**
It began with the dreams, he said. Writhing tentacles, ravenous maws consuming them in the darkness while an eladrin woman seems to beckon them onwards, northwards. (The dream imagery is fascinating. There seem to be some parallels between these visions and some of the imagery that Locust uses.)
The dreams led them to the town of Barrier Twig, a strange and twisted town caught up in some strange temporal curse. Built surrounding a font of primal energies, the inhabitants of Barrier Twig revere an eladrin patron who seemed to provide them with some level of protection. But then a new force entered the equation, a tribe of orcs led by their star-touched leader, an orc calling himself "The Nightmare Chieftain". Somehow, they managed to corrupt a fair amount of the font of power towards their own ends, subduing the eladrin guardian and consuming the town in a strange temporal curse. (Strains of madness. Spiders. Insects. Damn it, this is your doing, isn't it, Locust? What the hell is going on here?). The villagers, wandering around in a dazed stupor, were condemned to live out the same two days of their lives, fluctuating between joyous stupidity and melancholy idleness. The elf isn't the greatest storyteller in the world, but his description of the town's cursed existence sends shivers down my spine as I write these down.
The Nightmare Chieftain wasn't able to completely subdue the town though. The eladrin still resisted his will, and the town's resident wizard, Hyperita Fagnefus, set out to make a bloody nuisance of herself, continuously interfering with the Nightmare Chieftain's plans.
Dreven and his companions came to the town at a crux point in this shadow war. Initially bewildered by the glamer surrounding the town, they eventually began to piece the mystery together. Rescuing Hyperita Fagnefus provided them with the information they needed to take action. Striking out at the Nightmare Chieftain's allies, these adventurers slowly whittled away at the orc's strength. Even with all their effort, they were almost too late. (Plane-touched orcs infused with far-realm energies? This bears investigating.)
The Nightmare Chieftain was not idle during this time. Channeling fey and far realm energies together, he sought to bring his master into the physical realm (WTF?! LOCUST? The hell?). The orc's death served as the catalyst for the summoning of a great tentacled spider that announced itself as "Klesk, immortal servant of Locust." (Servant of Locust?) After a fierce battle, the adventurers slew the Chieftain, and banished Klesk (though he seems to have left a bit of himself behind), freeing the eladrin guardian. The eladrin rewarded them, and then told them to get the hell out of her town.
The curse on Barrier Twig seems to have been lifted, but perhaps residual elements of the Far Realm taint remain. It might be worth investigating.
**
"Klesk, servant of Locust, eh? Sounds interesting."
Dreven grunted. "You want to talk to him? He's right outside. See that purple tentacle-thing draped around the warforged? Can't miss him." The elf goes back to his mead.
Fascinating. A sentient segment of a strange Far-Realm beast...This bears researching. I head out of the inn and into the square outside. I wonder how long it'll take for the elf to remember that I haven't paid for my tab, leaving it all in his lap?
_________________
Words are the only bullets in truth's bandolier. And poets are the snipers.
-George Wu (The Hyperion Cantos, Dan Simmons) |
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