Roughly piled atop each other, the stones formed a simple pyramid. Eyeing it, the man found a spot to insert the stone, and strengthen the pile. He placed it close to the base, with great care. To the drow, it seemed as though he were loathe to see the pile fall apart. "Why do you do this?"
"For luck." he replied. "Not many make the trip. Not today. But I'm cautious - I'd like his help if I'm lost." She nodded, and looked up into the tree. She had planted it some four centuries ago.
At it's base she had buried the curled, grey-haired body of a half-orc who didn't know her. Some miles off, the dim lights of a logging camp could be seen. The young strider explained that this same tree would soon be logged, as had the rest of the forest. "They have new machines now, that take the trees down quickly."
The young strider looked up into the branches reverently, searching. But he saw nothing. After a brief prayer, he left, whistling, with the wind at his back - bound for parts unknown.
When he was safely gone, she pulled down a nearby branch, and examined the stems. Each terminated in a small green leaf, all but one. Replacing her leaf at the end of one stem, it fused there, and the silver lining its edge faded.
A wind pushed at the limbs then, and a rustling shurring surrounded her. Climbing up onto a branch, she rested against the trunk of the great tree, and rested her old bones. Before long the branches shook again with the wind, and a rustling worked its way down from the upper-most branches.
"How goes it, Laish?"
Leaning sideways against the trunk of the tree, the voice of her old friend echoed in her soul. She could see him, crouched down as was his way, his head cocked, eyes searching her.
"I'm tired Krog." She felt a sympathetic nod.
"Then rest for a while here, with me."
Her friend surveyed the land, and lingered in the direction of the camp.
"I can't stay here much longer, I don't think. It's time I go." Her heart sank.
Alone, without even the ghost of an old friend for comfort.. She nodded, and grinned, remembering her half-orc friend's vision of his afterlife, his eternal reward.
"I'll wander through every land unknown to men, places that no longer exist, and places that never will."
It made her glad to imagine her old friend cresting peaks, and looking down at some new discovery, his eyes young.
"Maybe you'd like to come with me?" She nodded sleepily, and a smile appeared on her thinning lips. "Let me rest first, Krog, then we'll go." He was always in a rush to get moving!
The trunk of the tree supported her, until her breathing stopped. A rush of wind crept through the tall grass, crouched up against the tree, sprang up into the branches, and then out into the cool night air.
Showing posts with label Krogenar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Krogenar. Show all posts
Final Far Wandering [1]
NOTE: This appeared in August of 2002, as my vision of how Krog's story might end, and as a general musing of what happens to old adventurers who outlive their enemies, and their friends. This never 'happened' but it was fun to write.
.....
A doglike creature reared its head in the darkness, four tentacles dangling from just above its mouth. Lowering its head again, the tentacles dug back into the brain of the duergar dwarf's body. They writhed and slithered, trying to get further into the braincase. With a moist crunch, the small corpse's head shattered, and the brain slid out into the creature's waiting mouth.
Gobbling madly at the pale white flesh, it was soon joined by the rest of the pack, drawn psionically to the feast. All but one. The leader of the pack paced, its primitive but sensitive mind scanning for a hidden presence. Sensing a sentient being, it bounded off into the eternal darkness.
It followed the stray thought as a shark would follow a drop of blood.
The pack followed, splitting off through the honeycomb passageways, mentally linked to each other. Working in perfect unison, as one mind, they closed in on their prey. Broadcasting confusion, entrapment and hopelessness, their pack-mind spread out to encircle the newcomer.
A tall, thin figure raised a hand as the leader lept, feeder tentacles reaching.
Thick webbing enfolded the creature, and it fell to the floor.
The others paced at a distance. More webs sprang from an outstretched hand, filling the cavern. The figure walked off, leaving the pack trapped. Waving a hand non-chalantly at them, the ceiling of the cavern began descending.
Pulling her hood back, the drow wizardress watched the creatures race into the webs to escape. The ceiling continued to fall, until only their heads snapped at her from the narrow space left.
Cessarids," she muttered under her breath, as she watched the last of them perish. The illithid were becoming increasingly lax in their control of their hunting beasts. Her face was deeply lined. Once thick, luxurious white hair was now so thin that it floated about her in a frayed nimbus. The weight of six hundred winters weighed heavily upon her, but she was not hunch-backed, as some old women become. As the years had progressed, she had descended lower and lower into the warm earth, so that the heat could ease the growing pain in her joints.
Now, she ascended to the sunlit world again. To visit family.
.....
Under the stars she traveled. When her aging body failed her, her Art did not. Entering into The Weave, she felt the sensation of flower petals being drawn over her closed eyelids. It was impractical to travel so boldly in The Underdark, where it was all too possible to emerge into a wall of solid rock.
Instead she emerged into a green, moonlit field, hundreds of leagues away, and let out a great sigh. Reaching into her cloak, her sharp fingernail sliced at the hem of a hidden pocket.
Her hand withdrew a tiny green leaf, silvered at the edges, overladen with lost memories. Leaning heavily on her staff, she let the leaf guide her.
After a time, she became aware of another walking in the tall grass. A tall, lanky man, emerged from the dark greenery, his dagger held aloft in plain sight. "No harm to you, old mother." Scowling slightly, she returned, "And none to _you_, greenleaf." They walked together, but he eyed her suspiciously.
"Are you here for a blessing of good travel?" he asked. She shook her head. "Where are you headed?" she asked. The young man grinned, and it was a familiar grin. But not quite the same. He shrugged, and maintained his roguish smile.
"I've no idea. That's why I'm here. I'll follow the wind, most likely." A great bloom of leaves rose before them, like a dark-green dawn. The main trunk of the tree rose up like a column, and then branches exploded in every direction. As they approached, the young man reached down to the grass and pulled a stone from the ground.
Krogenar
There's no art of Krogenar.
Description
Standing about 5'3" in height, this figure is draped in a plain grey cloak, patched and stained from years of use and repair. Leanly muscled forearms, deeply tanned, hang loosely at his sides. Leather armor, with bits of salvaged metal sewn into critical areas, covers his chest and legs. The leather strapped handle of a refurbished blunderbuss rifle is visible just above and behind his right shoulder. A scratched, dull sword pommel peeks out over his left shoulder, and the outline of what might be a pack is visible under the cloak. Dust caked leather boots cover and protect his upper calves, and two belts criss-cross over his waist, a loop of rope and other implements hanging from them. Woolen gloves, the fingertips cut off, protect his hands. An old, dirty ball of continual light floats over his right shoulder. A slightly deformed face, hazy with greying stubble, speaks of orcish blood.Biography
A half-orc strider, Krogenar spent most of his youth in silence, raised by his adoptive father, an Arch-Druid in the Far North. There, he learned the basic skills of a druid, but his half-orc legs carried him away, to journey to distant lands. In his first experiences with civilization, Krogenar was caged like an animal, befriending Hringorl, his bear companion. Escaping together, Krogenar slowly learned the ways of cities and towns - finding work with The MagiTek Army, in his naiveté. Later, he understood how The Realm of Vector's army powered their war machines. And the truth sickened him. Leaving the MagiTek Army, he journeyed North again, to investigate a fragment of The Rok that crashed there. Deciding to use ransack a MagiTek weapons storehouse, in hopes of finding something useful against The Rok, the half-orc was stopped, and nearly killed. No one is sure what happened to him, but he emerged from the sea, with a strange new sense of purpose. At about that time, The Hemelia Virus rocked WestBridge, and the outlying towns of The Realms. Preaching to unlistening crowds in the Market Square of WestBridge about the power of Istishia - Krogenar had found religion. It was then that Laisha, leader of The Church of Mysteries, extended to Krogenar a place within Mystra's Church. He accepted, and from that point on, found himself grounded. Together, they unraveled the mystery of The Virus, and helped to aid in the discovery of a cure.Roleplay Notes
May 2014August 2002
- Mystran Dust [6]
- Mystran Dust [5]
- Mystran Dust [4]
- Mystran Dust [3]
- Mystran Dust [2]
- Mystran Dust [1]
July 2001
Mystran Dust [6]
Gathering her robes to her, Simbul placed her ear against the strider's chest. "He'll sleep for some time." Danthor examined him briefly, concurred, and lifted Krogenar easily, carrying him from the clearing. Laisha and Grandal conferred as they followed.
"I'll get his ship to where we agreed. I think I can work it well enough." Grandal nodded at Laisha. As the female drow entered the ship, he rejoined the other two wizards and their sleeping friend aboard the Mystran airship.
.....
Laying him down on the mud-cracked ground, Laisha regarded her old friend sadly. In the oppressive heat, she knelt over him as the other Mystrans looked on. Casting her mind back some eight decades, she focused on the first time she had spoken to Krogenar - the day she had extended an invitation to him, to join her family, to join Mystra's family. It was painful, but it was a necessary step in the spell's execution.
She had followed him for a few days, to discern his nature. He had recently fled the destruction of Vector, a fugitive MagiTek soldier. Finally, she had explained Mystra's role in the universe to him, and made her invitation. He accepted, and they had been friends ever since.
Laisha removed the Symbol of Mystra from around his neck.
Whispering softly in his ear, Laisha cradled his stubbled face in the palm of her right hand. Her ebon thumb swept across his wide forehead, slowly, wiping the sweat from it. As she stroked his familiar brow, the past eighty years of his life slipped away from him. Grandal, and the other Mystrans looked on solemnly.
"You will not remember Mystra, or your life in Her Church," she husked.
"We will remember you. Go without guilt, and without heartache." Her thumb was nearly across his brow now. "And most importantly, go to the east, where none will know you." She looked upon her friend for the last time. Though they had shared so many years, he only appeared half his age. He seemed to be in his early sixth decade (a newborn, in her long-lived drow eyes) but his actual age was well over a century. The age-refuting effects of The Forest of Mysteries would no longer hold the years at bay, and age would slowly grasp him, enfeebling him.
He would awake as though from a dream. The intervening years were now gone. Lifting her thumb from his brow, a tiny drop of sweat dangled there. Wiping it across the face of a green leaf, she stood, and placed the leaf in her waist pouch. The prostrate strider sighed, and was silent.
.....
"I feel like we're abandoning him." Lanseril said. Grandal turned to the sage, and shook his head. "His choice was to leave. Forgetfulness is our gift to him, and it protects Mystra's children as well. Krogenar saw the truth of it, I think, in the clearing."
The elder wizard walked slowly to his seat at the back of the airship. Lanseril ignited the airship's engines, and looked out the porthole once more.
Krogenar lay on his back, his strange, bamboo airship a few paces away. As the ground fell away from them, the strider's form became smaller, and then invisible. "Was there food enough for him? Water?" These thoughts, and others swam through Lanseril's mind. Laisha placed her hand against his shoulder, as though reading his thoughts. "We've left him in a position of strength. No sense of loss, and the wilderness will protect him from those who will remember his as an enemy. To leave him in a city would be far crueler." The sage nodded at this, and turned back to the controls. Lanseril banked the airship westward, back across the ocean, to The Forest of Mysteries.
Mystran Dust [5]
Guilt flashed across Krogenar's face briefly, and then he was himself again. He crouched down, and offered Laisha his hand. She took it and pulled herself aboard. For the next few minutes, she was led about the strange craft. Her friend seemed proud at the fact that it had no floor. He hopped nimbly from strut to strut, as she hovered through its innards.
As his pride in his bamboo ship became ever more apparent, Laisha became more convinced that Krogenar's future course would take him farther from Mystra's Church.
Since she began her unexpected visit, the two had filled the time with as much chatter about the ship itself as possible - skirting the reason for its being.
Now, as the half-orc swung in his captain's chair (a leather sheet suspended from a convergence of bamboo struts) she could only grin at him. She decided not to let any more chatter divert her attention.
"The first flight was awkward. So much dust!" He donned a pair of aviator's goggles and beamed at her, his canines peeking out at her. "Still self-conscious about his teeth, she noted, and smiled. He droned on about the ship some more.
"... I can push the ship myself, now that the armor is gone." He slipped his bare feet into a set of pedals. Laisha's eyes widened. "You canna be serious? You pedal?" He grinned again, almost shyly. "I can, if I need to - removing the armor has to cut down on the fuel it needs." He shrugged, and frowned. "Lift engines still need to be hot, my legs can only drive her forward, and then, only slowly."
The silence descended that Laisha had awaited. The two stared across at each other.
He was leaving The Church of Mysteries, she was certain. She imagined the many enemies he had earned over the years hunting him down, with no one to protect him. As this understanding passed silently across the space between them, Krogenar misinterpreted the silence. The strider placed his hand across his breast and looked at her grimly. As the Supreme Strider of Mystra in past years, it had been Krogenar's duty to visit and maintain the various secret caches of magical knowledge that were scattered across all of known Faerun. Of all Mystrans, Krogenar knew the secret paths and crypts best. Others might know the Words of Unlocking and Sealing, but their actual contact with the locations were limited to a fingertip on a map.
"No hand, no weapon will ever turn me against Mystra. Our secrets will remain our own."
She returned her friend's gaze and replied sincerely, "I know they will." Gripping his calloused and weather-beaten hand, she motioned to the ignition key. "I'll believe this wicker beast can fly when you show me!" As he swung across the helm in his chair, and started the airship's engine, Laisha's fingers brushed against the symbol of Mystra that hung about her neck.
.....
"Water!" he snapped.
Looking into the Lift Drive Mirror, he could see that engine smoking and coughing. He pulled on a rope, and the engine's throttle was cut down. "Not even clear of the ground yet!" he thought angrily.
Laisha followed Krogenar out of the airship. He moved ahead of her now, towards the stream, a canteen in hand. As she followed him, Laisha steeled herself.
The strider sauntered through the grass, his arms loose at his sides. He slowed as Laisha approached him, then stopped. He cocked his head, and Laisha could see the profile of his nose sniffing at the air. His head started to turn, but he checked the movement.
He sighed once.
Three figures appeared from The Weave, each a staff's length away from the half-orc.
Words of sleep were whispered at him in unison. Laisha leaped ahead, and uttered a sleep enchantment as well. Krogenar staggered, and she caught him. Simbul, Grandal and Danthor helped ease him gently down to the grass.
As his pride in his bamboo ship became ever more apparent, Laisha became more convinced that Krogenar's future course would take him farther from Mystra's Church.
Since she began her unexpected visit, the two had filled the time with as much chatter about the ship itself as possible - skirting the reason for its being.
Now, as the half-orc swung in his captain's chair (a leather sheet suspended from a convergence of bamboo struts) she could only grin at him. She decided not to let any more chatter divert her attention.
"The first flight was awkward. So much dust!" He donned a pair of aviator's goggles and beamed at her, his canines peeking out at her. "Still self-conscious about his teeth, she noted, and smiled. He droned on about the ship some more.
"... I can push the ship myself, now that the armor is gone." He slipped his bare feet into a set of pedals. Laisha's eyes widened. "You canna be serious? You pedal?" He grinned again, almost shyly. "I can, if I need to - removing the armor has to cut down on the fuel it needs." He shrugged, and frowned. "Lift engines still need to be hot, my legs can only drive her forward, and then, only slowly."
The silence descended that Laisha had awaited. The two stared across at each other.
He was leaving The Church of Mysteries, she was certain. She imagined the many enemies he had earned over the years hunting him down, with no one to protect him. As this understanding passed silently across the space between them, Krogenar misinterpreted the silence. The strider placed his hand across his breast and looked at her grimly. As the Supreme Strider of Mystra in past years, it had been Krogenar's duty to visit and maintain the various secret caches of magical knowledge that were scattered across all of known Faerun. Of all Mystrans, Krogenar knew the secret paths and crypts best. Others might know the Words of Unlocking and Sealing, but their actual contact with the locations were limited to a fingertip on a map.
"No hand, no weapon will ever turn me against Mystra. Our secrets will remain our own."
She returned her friend's gaze and replied sincerely, "I know they will." Gripping his calloused and weather-beaten hand, she motioned to the ignition key. "I'll believe this wicker beast can fly when you show me!" As he swung across the helm in his chair, and started the airship's engine, Laisha's fingers brushed against the symbol of Mystra that hung about her neck.
.....
"Water!" he snapped.
Looking into the Lift Drive Mirror, he could see that engine smoking and coughing. He pulled on a rope, and the engine's throttle was cut down. "Not even clear of the ground yet!" he thought angrily.
Laisha followed Krogenar out of the airship. He moved ahead of her now, towards the stream, a canteen in hand. As she followed him, Laisha steeled herself.
The strider sauntered through the grass, his arms loose at his sides. He slowed as Laisha approached him, then stopped. He cocked his head, and Laisha could see the profile of his nose sniffing at the air. His head started to turn, but he checked the movement.
He sighed once.
Three figures appeared from The Weave, each a staff's length away from the half-orc.
Words of sleep were whispered at him in unison. Laisha leaped ahead, and uttered a sleep enchantment as well. Krogenar staggered, and she caught him. Simbul, Grandal and Danthor helped ease him gently down to the grass.
Mystran Dust [4]
The branch of a tree materialized - spearing through the canvas, and becoming entangled in the ropes, pulling on some of them. Engines began roaring into life, and the ship tilted at a crazy angle. Cursing ferociously, Krogenar pulled his knife from his boot-sheath, and slashed at the ropes.
.....
The Weave slid across Laisha's face like the finest silk. Her eyes opened when the sensation ceased, and she found herself on the other side of the Sea of Swords.
While it was usual for Krogenar to be so far from The Forest of Mysteries, it was unusual for him to be building anything.
The female drow passed through Ardeep Forest, Waterdeep City was marked by a distant black cloud to the west. In the clearing, she spied an airship of NyTek design: a Hammerhead.
Murmuring a word of power, she was assumed into the folds of The Weave. From a pouch at her waist she withdrew a small vial of oil. Sprinkling it over herself, her scent was neutralized. After eighty years, Krogenar could scent her easily, cloaked or no.
"An airship? Nay, it canna be," she thought. She remembered Krogenar's first encounter with an airship had induced powerful revulsion in his spirit and his body. He had railed against the idea of bypassing the journey for the sake of the destination. It was like rushing to the point of intimacy with a woman, without dallying to enjoy the contours of the landscape first. That, and the high speed oftravel hadthrown the strider's finely tuned sense of balance into havok. He had staggered through the hallways as though drunk. All his senses had screamed that they were moving dangerously fast, but there was no true danger.
As she neared, Laisha noticed that much of the airship was covered by leather hides stretched across a bamboo platform. Puzzled, she stood beneath the ship.
Looking up into it, she saw a flash of steel. A metal plate dropped towards her. Waving a hand at the wayward armor, it veered away and skidded on the grass. The glade was littered, she noticed, with more armor plates.
Her first impression had been that the bamboo was for making scaffolding needed for altering the ship. To her horror, she realized that the bamboo _was the ship! Krogenar was cutting away the remains of the ship that he deemed unnecessary.
She stared down at a slab of armor plate and shook her head. One shot from another airship, and the strider and his wicker vehicle would be in flames. A sudden wind whipped Laisha's black robes, and a ball of lightning seemed to open before the ship. As the ship was pulled into the existential tear, the wizardress stabbed her walking staff into the soft ground, and steeled herself against the pull of it. The bamboo ship skidded clumsily into the portal, digging up the grass.
She covered her mouth to stifle her laughter when she saw the ship re-emerge at the other side of the clearing, where a nearby tree promptly fell across its bow. Bloody cursing echoed across to her, and she strolled to her friend and let her veil of invisibility fall away. It was a momentary reprieve from the sadness that was creeping into her heart.
.....
The Weave slid across Laisha's face like the finest silk. Her eyes opened when the sensation ceased, and she found herself on the other side of the Sea of Swords.
While it was usual for Krogenar to be so far from The Forest of Mysteries, it was unusual for him to be building anything.
The female drow passed through Ardeep Forest, Waterdeep City was marked by a distant black cloud to the west. In the clearing, she spied an airship of NyTek design: a Hammerhead.
Murmuring a word of power, she was assumed into the folds of The Weave. From a pouch at her waist she withdrew a small vial of oil. Sprinkling it over herself, her scent was neutralized. After eighty years, Krogenar could scent her easily, cloaked or no.
"An airship? Nay, it canna be," she thought. She remembered Krogenar's first encounter with an airship had induced powerful revulsion in his spirit and his body. He had railed against the idea of bypassing the journey for the sake of the destination. It was like rushing to the point of intimacy with a woman, without dallying to enjoy the contours of the landscape first. That, and the high speed oftravel hadthrown the strider's finely tuned sense of balance into havok. He had staggered through the hallways as though drunk. All his senses had screamed that they were moving dangerously fast, but there was no true danger.
As she neared, Laisha noticed that much of the airship was covered by leather hides stretched across a bamboo platform. Puzzled, she stood beneath the ship.
Looking up into it, she saw a flash of steel. A metal plate dropped towards her. Waving a hand at the wayward armor, it veered away and skidded on the grass. The glade was littered, she noticed, with more armor plates.
Her first impression had been that the bamboo was for making scaffolding needed for altering the ship. To her horror, she realized that the bamboo _was the ship! Krogenar was cutting away the remains of the ship that he deemed unnecessary.
She stared down at a slab of armor plate and shook her head. One shot from another airship, and the strider and his wicker vehicle would be in flames. A sudden wind whipped Laisha's black robes, and a ball of lightning seemed to open before the ship. As the ship was pulled into the existential tear, the wizardress stabbed her walking staff into the soft ground, and steeled herself against the pull of it. The bamboo ship skidded clumsily into the portal, digging up the grass.
She covered her mouth to stifle her laughter when she saw the ship re-emerge at the other side of the clearing, where a nearby tree promptly fell across its bow. Bloody cursing echoed across to her, and she strolled to her friend and let her veil of invisibility fall away. It was a momentary reprieve from the sadness that was creeping into her heart.
Mystran Dust [3]
As the female drow strode towards the bamboo grove, she mused on the uneasy quiet that had descended upon the Forest since Krogenar's demotion. He was still a Mystran, but was rarely seen in the Forest anymore. Other Mystrans were upset, confused or angry over the strider's repeated displays of stubborness. Simple discussions had routinely become heated shouting matches. Laisha could not lay all the blame on any single person. But Krogenar was the irritant - and he did little to smooth the feathers of those he ruffled.
Those who were upset over Krogenar's actions declared that they would give up worship of Mystra, or quit the Church. It was all Laisha could do to keep people from walking out on the Church. Through it all Krogenar had remained silent (at last!) out of a respect for the chaos he had triggered, or his own sulky mood, she could not tell.
Looking up at the bamboo grove, Laisha knew the depth of Krogenar's upset. Where once a wide swath of bamboo had reached skyward, now only small shoots were visible. Walking in the cleared out bamboo patch, Laisha spied the small shoots that had been laid. The sharp, skilled cuts were Krogenar's.
The strider had taken nearly every rod of bamboo. Laisha knelt and picked a stray bit of the tough, fibrous plant tubing from the muddy floor. Looking around, she pieced the scene together. Krogenar had carefully removed each stand of bamboo, cutting off dead ends (like the one she held now) and then planted cuttings to replace what he had taken.
Running her long black fingers along it, she whispered out to The Weave. Wherever a similar piece of bamboo could be found, The Weave throbbed in sympathy.
And like small wavelets that skim across an ocean, the vibrations caught each other, reinforced each other, and became a current. Laisha stood and walked in Krogenar's direction, in line with that current.
.....
The strider's hands moved quickly, in practiced fashion. Tying a one-handed bowline, he looped the remaining rope over the bamboo strut he was strengthening. He eyed the structure, pulling at the hollow rods. They didn't move.
Satisfied, he lit his blow torch and cut the remaining bolts. A three inch thick iron plate fell away to the grass below. He rubbed absent-mindedly at a singed eyebrow. Swinging hand-over-hand through the floorless structure, he hung now over the 'Munchausen Sub-something Drive.' The leather canvassing rigged over it was littered with his scribblings and drawings. Question marks were prominent.
Every day the half-orc had struggled to wrap his head around the necessary concepts to make the drive work. After trying for a few hours each day, he had focused his efforts back on something that made more sense.
Sometimes he understood something of its workings, and he would quickly sketch a diagram. Slowly, he had begun to understand the beastly machine enough to test it. It sat now on a bamboo platform. The aging strider was suspicous of things too complicated for him to understand. It twisted at his insides to depend on something he could not easily dismantle and reassemble. Turning the contraption on was a simple affair: the activating lever had a rope attached to it.
Ropes ran all over the structure, some connected to rudders, others to lift engines. This particular rope had a red rag tied to it - since it was important.
The strider turned, and picked his way back to the helm, his feet stepping from strut to strut. At the front of the craft, a canvas chair hung down. Krogenar slid into the chair, and surveyed the toggled ropes that were arrayed before him. Each was toggled to a notch in the bamboo.
He licked his thumb, and wiped it against the face of a mirror, then gazed into it. Two thousand paces across the clearing was his meager goal. Nodding, he took hold of the rope with the red rag tied to it. Holding his breath, he pulled it for a fraction of a second. A snap-hiss sound rang in his ears, and ...
Those who were upset over Krogenar's actions declared that they would give up worship of Mystra, or quit the Church. It was all Laisha could do to keep people from walking out on the Church. Through it all Krogenar had remained silent (at last!) out of a respect for the chaos he had triggered, or his own sulky mood, she could not tell.
Looking up at the bamboo grove, Laisha knew the depth of Krogenar's upset. Where once a wide swath of bamboo had reached skyward, now only small shoots were visible. Walking in the cleared out bamboo patch, Laisha spied the small shoots that had been laid. The sharp, skilled cuts were Krogenar's.
The strider had taken nearly every rod of bamboo. Laisha knelt and picked a stray bit of the tough, fibrous plant tubing from the muddy floor. Looking around, she pieced the scene together. Krogenar had carefully removed each stand of bamboo, cutting off dead ends (like the one she held now) and then planted cuttings to replace what he had taken.
Running her long black fingers along it, she whispered out to The Weave. Wherever a similar piece of bamboo could be found, The Weave throbbed in sympathy.
And like small wavelets that skim across an ocean, the vibrations caught each other, reinforced each other, and became a current. Laisha stood and walked in Krogenar's direction, in line with that current.
.....
The strider's hands moved quickly, in practiced fashion. Tying a one-handed bowline, he looped the remaining rope over the bamboo strut he was strengthening. He eyed the structure, pulling at the hollow rods. They didn't move.
Satisfied, he lit his blow torch and cut the remaining bolts. A three inch thick iron plate fell away to the grass below. He rubbed absent-mindedly at a singed eyebrow. Swinging hand-over-hand through the floorless structure, he hung now over the 'Munchausen Sub-something Drive.' The leather canvassing rigged over it was littered with his scribblings and drawings. Question marks were prominent.
Every day the half-orc had struggled to wrap his head around the necessary concepts to make the drive work. After trying for a few hours each day, he had focused his efforts back on something that made more sense.
Sometimes he understood something of its workings, and he would quickly sketch a diagram. Slowly, he had begun to understand the beastly machine enough to test it. It sat now on a bamboo platform. The aging strider was suspicous of things too complicated for him to understand. It twisted at his insides to depend on something he could not easily dismantle and reassemble. Turning the contraption on was a simple affair: the activating lever had a rope attached to it.
Ropes ran all over the structure, some connected to rudders, others to lift engines. This particular rope had a red rag tied to it - since it was important.
The strider turned, and picked his way back to the helm, his feet stepping from strut to strut. At the front of the craft, a canvas chair hung down. Krogenar slid into the chair, and surveyed the toggled ropes that were arrayed before him. Each was toggled to a notch in the bamboo.
He licked his thumb, and wiped it against the face of a mirror, then gazed into it. Two thousand paces across the clearing was his meager goal. Nodding, he took hold of the rope with the red rag tied to it. Holding his breath, he pulled it for a fraction of a second. A snap-hiss sound rang in his ears, and ...
Mystran Dust [2]
Laisha stood from her chair, and walked to the door of her room. Her cloak hung from an iron hook, and two bloated black spiders crawled over its silky black surface, slowly repairing it. Lifting the cloak from its hook, she shook the spiders loose and pulled it around her shoulders. She ascended the rough hewn steps of her underground home into the sunlit Forest of Mysteries.
Shielding her sensitive drow eyes within her hood, she began a slow circuit of Krogenar's usual resting places. After making some inquiries, a second level acolyte in Records gave her the clue she needed to track down the half-orc. "He's been to the bamboo grove recently," she said, a frown creasing her brow, some sentiment left unspoken. ".. and he can stay there, for all I care." Laisha expressed the acolyte's opinion in her own mind. She nodded to the woman, and headed to the bamboo grove. As she walked, the happenings of the past few days wafted through her mind.
.....
Laisha pushed away from the table just in time.
The assembled priests and sages of Mystra's Church gasped in unison as the table spun on its long axis, sending glasses of water, documents, and quills crashing to the floor. The table bashed down to the flagstones, landing atop the mess. Ink bottles made delicate tinkling sounds as they were crushed - their contents mingling into the mess. The table lay on its side now, laying like some wounded soldier among the debris.
All faces turned in unison to stare at the far end of the table.
Krogenar's eyes smouldered with anger and frustration. His shoulders remained set - the same as they had been when he had upturned the table.The half-orc strider's eyes remained focused on the table.
Some of the gathered Mystran clergy backed away from him.
Others gawped at the incredulity of his action. A select few, Laisha's sharp eyes noted, nodded very slightly and merely mimed surprise.
A high-ranking clergyman pushed his way through the shifting mob. "You cannot dictate the direction of Mystra's church, Honored Tribunal." The last two words he uttered with a mocking sincerity. He continued. "This is Mystra's Church - not The Church of The Pax Faerunis. Once you grasp this simple concept, 'Lord' Krogenar, you will begin to divine your true duty to Mystra. Methinks you focus too deeply on politics."
His fists balled, Krogenar took a deep breath to respond. The clergyman wasn't finished speaking, however.
"Before you speak Krogenar, let us digest your last-" he looked over his shoulder at the wreckage. " ... argument first, hmm?" He glowered at the strider through square-rimmed glasses, turned and then left the meeting room.
Laisha was in the crowd now, calming people, assuaging their concerns. With a fingersnap, apprentices from the various schools of magic were gathering the remains of people's notes, and had righted the table. In that activity Laisha noted that Krogenar had left the room, thankfully.
The next day a meeting was held, to determine what should be done.
A day after, Krogenar was removed as a member of The Tribunal. Azuth, in Mystra's stead, had whisked the mantle of leadership from his shoulders, where Mystra had once laid it.
Shielding her sensitive drow eyes within her hood, she began a slow circuit of Krogenar's usual resting places. After making some inquiries, a second level acolyte in Records gave her the clue she needed to track down the half-orc. "He's been to the bamboo grove recently," she said, a frown creasing her brow, some sentiment left unspoken. ".. and he can stay there, for all I care." Laisha expressed the acolyte's opinion in her own mind. She nodded to the woman, and headed to the bamboo grove. As she walked, the happenings of the past few days wafted through her mind.
.....
Laisha pushed away from the table just in time.
The assembled priests and sages of Mystra's Church gasped in unison as the table spun on its long axis, sending glasses of water, documents, and quills crashing to the floor. The table bashed down to the flagstones, landing atop the mess. Ink bottles made delicate tinkling sounds as they were crushed - their contents mingling into the mess. The table lay on its side now, laying like some wounded soldier among the debris.
All faces turned in unison to stare at the far end of the table.
Krogenar's eyes smouldered with anger and frustration. His shoulders remained set - the same as they had been when he had upturned the table.The half-orc strider's eyes remained focused on the table.
Some of the gathered Mystran clergy backed away from him.
Others gawped at the incredulity of his action. A select few, Laisha's sharp eyes noted, nodded very slightly and merely mimed surprise.
A high-ranking clergyman pushed his way through the shifting mob. "You cannot dictate the direction of Mystra's church, Honored Tribunal." The last two words he uttered with a mocking sincerity. He continued. "This is Mystra's Church - not The Church of The Pax Faerunis. Once you grasp this simple concept, 'Lord' Krogenar, you will begin to divine your true duty to Mystra. Methinks you focus too deeply on politics."
His fists balled, Krogenar took a deep breath to respond. The clergyman wasn't finished speaking, however.
"Before you speak Krogenar, let us digest your last-" he looked over his shoulder at the wreckage. " ... argument first, hmm?" He glowered at the strider through square-rimmed glasses, turned and then left the meeting room.
Laisha was in the crowd now, calming people, assuaging their concerns. With a fingersnap, apprentices from the various schools of magic were gathering the remains of people's notes, and had righted the table. In that activity Laisha noted that Krogenar had left the room, thankfully.
The next day a meeting was held, to determine what should be done.
A day after, Krogenar was removed as a member of The Tribunal. Azuth, in Mystra's stead, had whisked the mantle of leadership from his shoulders, where Mystra had once laid it.
Mystran Dust [1]
Hopping to a stop, his legs hummed with energy. Walking to cool himself down, the strider's small, tight chest still sucked air greedily. Cocking his head left and right, Krogenar pulled his neck bones back into place with a dull crackle. His breathing slowed, and his legs began to cool. He shook his hands at his sides, and rolled his wide shoulders. A cool breeze toyed with his shaggy red-brown hair, like a surprise visit from an old friend. The sweat on his brow was chilled by it, and streaked down the sides of his stubbled face. Putting each of his thickly calloused thumbs at the point where his shaggy eyebrows touched, he pressed them outwards. Sweat squirted past his fingers and streamed down in his cheeks.
Ardeep Forest lay behind him, and the open plains lay ahead. His mental almanac of this area told him he would sleep well. The grass of these plains was especially thick and luxurious. At night he'd would lay down, and pull the greeness around him into a thick pad, and sleep in the plains' perfume. The splash of stars would swirl its chaotic lullaby for him tonight.
The sun began to dip behind the distant mountains beyond the plains. In the twilight, the half-orc walked serenely in the grass, with no particular thought in his mind, and his feet moving in no particular direction. Nightfall was about to descend.
He looked up at the sky, childlike, and waited for the first stars to arrive.
A flashing white dawn rose up over the mountain's shoulders. Krogenar's eyebrow's arched, and he stared at the unnatural dawn in wonder. A white brilliance built up slowly, and night was turned to day. And then it receded to darkness again. A moment ago, the grass had waved around him in a fitful breeze. Now it became still. The air around him seemed to somehow recede, to pull away. Fingers pulling at the grass, Krogenar tried to rouse them back into their dance - but they would not. The green strands bowed their heads solemnly.
He squinted into the distance, and horror began twisting in his stomach. His legs suddenly came alive again, hot in an instant. Instinct warred with the doom in his heart. His head sagged down against his chest. Somewhere, he knew, another half-orc would be on a mountaintop somewhere, undead arms open in a rapturous embrace. Westbridge was gone. He longed to picture the Mystrans huddled in The Archive, but he could not be sure. Built using the funds and resources of The Pax Faerunis, it was to all outside observers an ordinary library. In that deep shaft underground, they, and the knowledge that they could fit inside would be safe from The Rok's impact.
If they went inside.
Krogenar lifted his head, and peered out between fear-sweat soaked strands of hair. His hands twitched where they hung loosely at his sides, reminding the strider that they were ready to act - if he could only think of something to be done.
The first white clouds could be seen now, racing along the ground towards him. Small flecks of black could be seen bobbing on their surface. A snarl twisted its way onto his face, and he screamed at the wall of whiteness.
The shout's sound was clipped to silence as his lungs explosively decompressed, and the strider was swept away, limbs pulled from their fleshly moorings, joining what remained of him in the chaotic flotsam of the shock wave.
Krogenar bolted upright from his bed of grass. The stars drifted above him, and the smell of wildflowers drifted on the wind. Hringorl, his great bear companion snored softly some distance away. He lay back again, and tried to sleep.
Ardeep Forest lay behind him, and the open plains lay ahead. His mental almanac of this area told him he would sleep well. The grass of these plains was especially thick and luxurious. At night he'd would lay down, and pull the greeness around him into a thick pad, and sleep in the plains' perfume. The splash of stars would swirl its chaotic lullaby for him tonight.
The sun began to dip behind the distant mountains beyond the plains. In the twilight, the half-orc walked serenely in the grass, with no particular thought in his mind, and his feet moving in no particular direction. Nightfall was about to descend.
He looked up at the sky, childlike, and waited for the first stars to arrive.
A flashing white dawn rose up over the mountain's shoulders. Krogenar's eyebrow's arched, and he stared at the unnatural dawn in wonder. A white brilliance built up slowly, and night was turned to day. And then it receded to darkness again. A moment ago, the grass had waved around him in a fitful breeze. Now it became still. The air around him seemed to somehow recede, to pull away. Fingers pulling at the grass, Krogenar tried to rouse them back into their dance - but they would not. The green strands bowed their heads solemnly.
He squinted into the distance, and horror began twisting in his stomach. His legs suddenly came alive again, hot in an instant. Instinct warred with the doom in his heart. His head sagged down against his chest. Somewhere, he knew, another half-orc would be on a mountaintop somewhere, undead arms open in a rapturous embrace. Westbridge was gone. He longed to picture the Mystrans huddled in The Archive, but he could not be sure. Built using the funds and resources of The Pax Faerunis, it was to all outside observers an ordinary library. In that deep shaft underground, they, and the knowledge that they could fit inside would be safe from The Rok's impact.
If they went inside.
Krogenar lifted his head, and peered out between fear-sweat soaked strands of hair. His hands twitched where they hung loosely at his sides, reminding the strider that they were ready to act - if he could only think of something to be done.
The first white clouds could be seen now, racing along the ground towards him. Small flecks of black could be seen bobbing on their surface. A snarl twisted its way onto his face, and he screamed at the wall of whiteness.
The shout's sound was clipped to silence as his lungs explosively decompressed, and the strider was swept away, limbs pulled from their fleshly moorings, joining what remained of him in the chaotic flotsam of the shock wave.
Krogenar bolted upright from his bed of grass. The stars drifted above him, and the smell of wildflowers drifted on the wind. Hringorl, his great bear companion snored softly some distance away. He lay back again, and tried to sleep.
Introduction to the Pax
A stranger walks into the Blue Moon Tavern,
which a HalfOrc is standing in, looking out the window. This stranger seems
to look at the HalfOrc with some extreme interest. The HalfOrc starts speaking
first, the words coming out of his mouth to the human. "Welcome Demortes.
By joining the forces of the Pax, you have sworn to protect the world,
from the force we know as Ragnarok." "I have already agreed to this Krogenar,"
stated the human, "but if I must, I will agree again. I will do anything
within my power to protect those in need from the Rok." Krogenar smiles,
as Demortes looks at Krogenar and the surroundings. There is a small emblem
on the wall. With a closer look at the multi colored ropes, which come
to form a knot, Demortes thought to himself, "Is that a knot?" Krogenar
nods. "How did you know the thoughts going through my head?" Demortes had
asked. "You were examining it closely, and others have asked the same question."
Demortes smiled at Krogenar. Demortes goes back to check out the room.
It was a smaller room, one of the small rooms of the building. "If you
can, please leave now, I have other things to attend." Krogenar turns to
the window, looking at the sky above the realms. Demortes smiles at the
short, about 5 feet is Demortes' guess, HalfOrc. Demortes leaves through
the closed door, without opening it. Demortes chuckles. His fangs are visable
now. "We shall see who wins this fight now." Demortes finds a near window,
and looks at The Rok. "Your going down."
Pax Faerunis Meeting [1]
Stumbling down one of Westbridge's many forgotten
alleyways, the tip of Krogenar's remaining crutch caught between two cobblestones.
His left leg, unsupported for a moment, was shot through with pain. He
grimaced, wrenched at the crutch. A cobblestone tore loose from the street.
Clutching at his abdomen, the half-orc panted, beads of sweat on his forehead.
With each breath, a faint pressure in his gut increased slightly... building.
The strider limped into a darkened corner, leaned against the cold walls,
slowing his breathing. Licking his dry lips, he mumbled. "...
the Focus... Davion... " his fingers flicked
out, counting off as he spoke. "... intro
new members... shops... " he breathed slowly.
He gathered his strength, grabbed his crutch, and pushed off from the wall.
Something
grabbed his insides. Dropping to his knees,
the strider put both hands on the street... ...
choked...
a
reddish-grey
mass of pulp
crawled
up his throat. As it finally flopped to the
floor of the alley, he gasped for air. Just in time. He knelt in the alley
again, the muscles of his back twisting. Sighing, he wiped the mucous from
his mouth, and stood up. The pile he had left in the alley twitched...
letting off a light steam - warm in the night air. Disgusted, he exited
the alleyway, walking swiftly. Though the thought made him want to retch
again, he what it was... It was muscle. Dead muscle.
At her command chair, Minli watched data appear on her armrests, from time to time. As her agents gathered information, they sent it back to The Sylphe. She watched them all here, like firefly facts. Constellations of information. Watching for patterns in the swarm of unconnected facts, a new data point appeared. '...K-walk' it then floated off to join the other bits of information which danced on her armrests.
At her command chair, Minli watched data appear on her armrests, from time to time. As her agents gathered information, they sent it back to The Sylphe. She watched them all here, like firefly facts. Constellations of information. Watching for patterns in the swarm of unconnected facts, a new data point appeared. '...K-walk' it then floated off to join the other bits of information which danced on her armrests.
Respite [5]
Writing hastily, the strider held the quill
as he was taught, the tip of his tongue caught in his teeth. Eager to begin
his journey, he carefully printed out each letter - hoping he would be
able to get everyone together. He closed the parchment, and handed it to
the printer. The gnome behind the counter held the parchment at arms length,
adjusted his bifocals. "How many copies?"
Krogenar
slapped some platinum down on the counter. "How
many will that buy?" The gnome moved to the
coins, counting them out one by one. The strider looked out the shop's
window, and thought he could see the sun move. He tapped a finger on the
counter, waited. The gnome hopped down from his seat, began tapping on
a small machine. The copy gnome beamed at the machine, his eyebrow pointing
at it. "She a beaut, eh?" Krogenar's
expression did not change. He blinked at the gnome. "It's
an adding machine, of sorts.. It can divide by ten in minutes!" the
gnome smiled. "How many copies?" Krogenar
repeated, his face beginning to color. The gnome pushed a final button
on the machine, pulled a lever backwards with relish. Two
Thousand copies." he wrinkled his face up
in curiosity, "Why so many?" "Make as many
copies as that money will buy, and distribute them by tonight, all over
Westbridge."Krogenar left the building, and
the gnome behind.
Respite [4]
Krogenar turned on his side, and allowed Minli
to perform the procedure on his other leg. Focusing on the smooth, acid-etched
metal walls of the airship, he felt his other leg split open, but felt
no pain. A distant sensation, of something beeing 'placed' into his ruptured
leg could be felt. He was strangely detached from it. Taking a deep breath,
he stared at the wall again. When the light struck them askance, pictographs
could be seen, very finely etched into them. Pearl colored, they must mean
something. He felt a distant,'closing' sensation. "Your
legs will heal Krogenar, in a few days time." He
turned onto his back, to face Minli, who slowly closed her black trenchcoat.
"Thank
you, Minli.."She nodded, smiled at the strider.
"You'll
need them soon." "I'll speak with the Sunites next." he
said. Minli scoffed.
"I don't think they'll
be of much help," she frowned. "...not
if they know that I'm involved."
Krogenar
frowned, raised an eyebrow. "I know that they'll
help me Minli." "I have a friend in their Order - a pixie who enjoys pinching
me!" he grinned. Minli's mouth curved into
smile, "You mean Zaria."
He
nodded. She leaned closer to Krogenar, informed him, "She
pinches EVERYONE Krogenar."
They chuckled
for a moment, then Minli asked,
"I've noticed
some other anatomical anomalies while performing this surgery..." The
half-orc's eyebrows came together, and he smirked. Minli took one if his
arms, turned it over. "Here. Your arms, the
hair on them, they grow in all directions, not in one direction. You were
-" "Burned? Yes. My arms were burned some time back, when I was much, much
younger."
He grinned, his canines peeking
out. "The hair on them has never grown straight
since.""He tries to smile without showing
his teeth,"
Minli observed inwardly. "He's
a bit sensitive about his canines." she thought.
She asked, "I could fix that as well, hardly
as difficult as your legs." The strider shook
his head. "My arms work - I don't care how
they look, really." He grinned again, his
lips together. "Thank you though, for offering."
Minli
nodded. "Then go, and find Keldon - with or
without the help of The Sunites."She helped
him from the chair, and handed him his crutches.
Krogenar hobbled through the streets of New Thalos, happy to think of it under the control of The Church of Istishia. There were no outward changes to it yet, but he control of The Church of Istishia. There were no outward changes to it yet, but he was sure some were planned. He came to the curb, looked at the step upwards he would have to take. Putting one foot gingerly on the curb, he took a breath, looked at his leg. He pushed up on his crutches, lifting himself up those few inches. A twinge of pain shot through his leg, and he toppled forward onto the pavement, landing on his right shoulder. Growling at a tourist who stopped to observe, he looked to the leg that failed him, saw its surface quivering slightly. Something inside his leg snaked about, grasping at tendons, trying to make itself more like the rest of the flesh it inhabited. It only wanted to fit in. Krogenar felt his tendons and ligaments pulled from within, tightening. He took short, quick breaths, waiting for it to stop. Eventually, the thing in his leg stopped its explorations, and quieted itself. Grabbing at the wall, he pulled himself up, snatched his crutch back from the tourist who offered it to him, and hobbled west. Despite his irritation, one of his legs felt stronger.
Krogenar hobbled through the streets of New Thalos, happy to think of it under the control of The Church of Istishia. There were no outward changes to it yet, but he control of The Church of Istishia. There were no outward changes to it yet, but he was sure some were planned. He came to the curb, looked at the step upwards he would have to take. Putting one foot gingerly on the curb, he took a breath, looked at his leg. He pushed up on his crutches, lifting himself up those few inches. A twinge of pain shot through his leg, and he toppled forward onto the pavement, landing on his right shoulder. Growling at a tourist who stopped to observe, he looked to the leg that failed him, saw its surface quivering slightly. Something inside his leg snaked about, grasping at tendons, trying to make itself more like the rest of the flesh it inhabited. It only wanted to fit in. Krogenar felt his tendons and ligaments pulled from within, tightening. He took short, quick breaths, waiting for it to stop. Eventually, the thing in his leg stopped its explorations, and quieted itself. Grabbing at the wall, he pulled himself up, snatched his crutch back from the tourist who offered it to him, and hobbled west. Despite his irritation, one of his legs felt stronger.
Krogenar in the Inn
Kaz sat quietly and listened to the discussion in the inn around him. He drank his usual brew, and kept his cloak low. He had stripped himself of all of his identifying marks so that the people around him would not know who he was. Kaz was infuriated by what Krogenar was telling the people. How dare he accuse the FLAME of using the city for their own purpose. Sure the city held some benifits for the FLAME. But Kaz had been around long enough to know that Elbryan would never let any harm come to the Citizens.
Long after the people had left the inn. Kaz had some time to think about what had just happened. Finally later that night Kaz decided to go report to Elbryan. Kaz Told elbryan everything that he had overheard that night. Elbryan was less than pleased with the whole thing. After telling his story Kaz Left Elbryan to think about what to do next. Kaz knew Elbryan would know what to do about Krogenar. He always seemed to know what to do. Kaz was glad that the Flame had the two capable leaders that it did. Otherwise FLAME would not have lasted as long as it has. With his work for the night done, Kaz went out to the city of Darrowmere to sit int he forrest for a while, to calm his nerves...
Long after the people had left the inn. Kaz had some time to think about what had just happened. Finally later that night Kaz decided to go report to Elbryan. Kaz Told elbryan everything that he had overheard that night. Elbryan was less than pleased with the whole thing. After telling his story Kaz Left Elbryan to think about what to do next. Kaz knew Elbryan would know what to do about Krogenar. He always seemed to know what to do. Kaz was glad that the Flame had the two capable leaders that it did. Otherwise FLAME would not have lasted as long as it has. With his work for the night done, Kaz went out to the city of Darrowmere to sit int he forrest for a while, to calm his nerves...
FLAMEs in Polaris (part 6)
Quickly stretching his limbs to warm his cold atrophied muscles, he leapt with avian grace to the heights of the trader's building. Talons gouged through layers of ice and snow before finding purchase in a beveled crease of the slate roof. Soundlessly he trudged across the expanse, tracking his quarry from the building heights. Stark watched with rapt, unblinking interest as Krogenar labored through newly formed snow drifts and entered the local tavern.
"Lambs to the slaughter", a knowing grin played across his raptor beak, "or rather, a certain little piggy just made it to market." His chilled breath clouded the hazy night as he whispered, "The best form of information, is misinformation, my porcine friend. We have well prepared our contingents here for your eventual arrival."
With barely restrained mirth, Stark waited for the performance to unfold, confident that his agents would liven up the Istishian's confidence of FLAME's failure here in Polaris. The uncountable and torturous span of time of living and preparing in cold suffering had paid off, FLAME plans were quickly coming to fruition.
His humor only increased all the more as his thoughts centered upon his comrades... especially those in New Thalos. "... and the curtain rises even now upon a new act being performed in your own backyard."
With a firey glint, he hastily leapt from the heights and made way to the chapel to prepare to receive the reports of his comrades. Stark had had a very busy, yet fulfilling day.
"Lambs to the slaughter", a knowing grin played across his raptor beak, "or rather, a certain little piggy just made it to market." His chilled breath clouded the hazy night as he whispered, "The best form of information, is misinformation, my porcine friend. We have well prepared our contingents here for your eventual arrival."
With barely restrained mirth, Stark waited for the performance to unfold, confident that his agents would liven up the Istishian's confidence of FLAME's failure here in Polaris. The uncountable and torturous span of time of living and preparing in cold suffering had paid off, FLAME plans were quickly coming to fruition.
His humor only increased all the more as his thoughts centered upon his comrades... especially those in New Thalos. "... and the curtain rises even now upon a new act being performed in your own backyard."
With a firey glint, he hastily leapt from the heights and made way to the chapel to prepare to receive the reports of his comrades. Stark had had a very busy, yet fulfilling day.
FLAMEs in Polaris (Part 5)
Stark stepped down from the fountain and smiled broadly as he handed out the remainder of his parchments to the anxious citizens. "Yes, Krogenar... I am well aware of your presence. Twould take more than a few seasonal bathings to shield your wretched smell, even in the depths of this frigid waste", he thought amusedly to himself. His hawkish eyes hadn't missed the Istishian's less than adequate attempts to lose himself in the crowd as he had continued his speech. Though well skilled in the arts of camouflage in the wild, Krogenar was well out of his element here in the city. The expected and long-awaited appearance of the enemy merely made things all the more interesting. "Indeed, the Istishians have placed their necks right in our noose, just as Lady Atandella foresaw they would" Stark congratulated to himself as he marked Krogenar's slinking retreat through half-lidded eyes.
Pocketing the fire ring, Stark graciously took his leave of the assemblage and made his way down the ice shrouded street to the depths of a frost-limned alleyway. From the depths of a 'borrowed' bag of holding he withdrew a flowing white cloak which blended seamlessly with the surrounding snow, even in the growing darkness of the fast encroaching night. Donning the garment, Stark drew the cowl low across his head and studied the wall before him with a smile. "Ah... the thrill of bagging the mark."
Pocketing the fire ring, Stark graciously took his leave of the assemblage and made his way down the ice shrouded street to the depths of a frost-limned alleyway. From the depths of a 'borrowed' bag of holding he withdrew a flowing white cloak which blended seamlessly with the surrounding snow, even in the growing darkness of the fast encroaching night. Donning the garment, Stark drew the cowl low across his head and studied the wall before him with a smile. "Ah... the thrill of bagging the mark."
Campaigning in Polaris 2.1
The townsfolk chittered away at the thought of becoming like the decadent southern cities. "Can't have that! Gamblers and flop houses everywhere! We know what the southern cities are like..." a voice called out. "He's just trying to scare us! We'll always remain as true Polari's!" another countered.
One elderly woman spoke up, "They move here, where it's warm like the other cities... and then the whores will come!" Some of the younger men cackled, and she pounced on them.
"See! Even now our men are pining for those southern strumpets and hussies... they wear next to nothing at all!" she nodded with dreadful certainty.
One older Polari, a grey-haired sailor posed a question to the strider. "What would you propose instead then?"
"I would propose that Polaris stay the way I have always enjoyed it..... ....Cold. Where the strong and the straight walk." Other voices called out, even while some silently nodded in agreement. "He only wants _HIS_ church to rule here!" Shaking his head, Krogenar replied. "No. I just think that Istishians, like myself, would be... ... a better fit with the way Polaris is now. Make no mistake... the FLAMEs want to change Polaris to suit themselves. We can have prosperity, and you can rule yourselves."
"But Polaris can, and SHOULD retain it's uniqueness... it's cold."
The strider left then, and walked into the cold, continuing his search for The Way.
One elderly woman spoke up, "They move here, where it's warm like the other cities... and then the whores will come!" Some of the younger men cackled, and she pounced on them.
"See! Even now our men are pining for those southern strumpets and hussies... they wear next to nothing at all!" she nodded with dreadful certainty.
One older Polari, a grey-haired sailor posed a question to the strider. "What would you propose instead then?"
"I would propose that Polaris stay the way I have always enjoyed it..... ....Cold. Where the strong and the straight walk." Other voices called out, even while some silently nodded in agreement. "He only wants _HIS_ church to rule here!" Shaking his head, Krogenar replied. "No. I just think that Istishians, like myself, would be... ... a better fit with the way Polaris is now. Make no mistake... the FLAMEs want to change Polaris to suit themselves. We can have prosperity, and you can rule yourselves."
"But Polaris can, and SHOULD retain it's uniqueness... it's cold."
The strider left then, and walked into the cold, continuing his search for The Way.
Campaigning in Polaris 2
Later, in a tavern, some of the townsfolk gathered to discuss this strange visit. Under the peaked cedar rafters, the men and their wives smoked and drank - the doors shut tightly against the cold night wind. People spoke at individual tables, until the talking turned to debating - with speakers taking the floor, one by one.
Krogenar watched them from his table, silently. Ordinarily, they were a taciturn, unreactive people - not given to the loud passionate speaking that was the norm amongst those of warmer lands. But the days doings had aroused a fire in them.
"I say let them warm this place - we have suffered too much from the cold!" The middle-aged fisherman sat down, pulling his warm ale closer.
An old man stood shakily from his table, helped to his feet by his sons. "The warmth would be kinder to old bones like mine... I say we take them at their word." His sons nodded at that wisdom, helping him to sit, wrapping him in furs.
But other voices did not agree.
A youngish man, tall and lean, with the wide shoulders of lumberjack stood, placed his mug on the table beside him. "Polaris has always been as it is now. Why should we change? If others wish it to be warm and balmy, like some desert - let them leave!" Some cheered to this.
Smiling at the support, he finished, "Or let them rule elsewhere!" More applause from some patrons.
As the catcalls and cheers died slowly, other concerns were raised. "What of these Istishians? They could be lurking about, even now! If what the FLAMEs say is true, we should be wary of their lies." Another spoke, "They hate the Istishians - that's clear, I think. We should NOT choose sides betwixt them - keep to the old wisdom: 'Leave Fighting Bears Be.'"
Some knew of Krogenar's association with the Church of Istishia. And as the word slowly made its way about the room, from conversation to conversation, many eyes came to settle on him.
The strider kept to his beer.
"Well, Istishian? What say you? Can the FLAMEs really do what they said they could - make us into a paradise as they promise?" A fisherman stared at the half-orc- waiting for his reply.
Putting his mug down, Krogenar looked down into it.
As though speaking to it, he said, "I call Polaris paradise already - no changes needed." The room erupted into argument again. The strider stood, pulling his knapsack over his shoulder, arranging his winter coat.
From the din of voices, a young man shouted to Krogenar. "You're not even a Polari, half-orc! Don't pretend to know us! The FLAMEs offer us warmth, and we'll take it!" Krogenar stopped on his way to the door. "Think on this, Polaris - think of what the cold and ice has given you."
Most of the younger nobles scoffed. "..numbed fingers!" But some of the old-timers caught his meaning. The strider approached the young men who tended to their aging father. "You are right. I am not Polari. But I have traveled to other, warmer lands, and so I can tell you of them." Some leaned in to listen, others fell back into their chairs, smirking.
"They are not like Polari. Grown fat and lazy where the living is easy..." He seized one young man by the shoulders - who resisted - pulling away. "Your young are strong, resilient - hardened by the cold." he said, smiling. He motioned to a table of lumberjacks. "Your sons, able to withstand the fierce north winds, only they dare to chop at the trees of the north."
The room quieted to a low buzzing as they discussed this idea. But the strider continued. "And what of discipline? Your fishermen, survive the raging seas only through the discipline that adversity forces upon them."
"Polaris, you are strong - strong because it was the cold, the ice, the snow - the Water - that forced you to such strength."
"Would you be like all the other cities in the Realms? You are a rare northern jewel! Would you take on the other qualities of the warmer cities?" He played this card, knowing what they thought of the people who populated the south.
Krogenar watched them from his table, silently. Ordinarily, they were a taciturn, unreactive people - not given to the loud passionate speaking that was the norm amongst those of warmer lands. But the days doings had aroused a fire in them.
"I say let them warm this place - we have suffered too much from the cold!" The middle-aged fisherman sat down, pulling his warm ale closer.
An old man stood shakily from his table, helped to his feet by his sons. "The warmth would be kinder to old bones like mine... I say we take them at their word." His sons nodded at that wisdom, helping him to sit, wrapping him in furs.
But other voices did not agree.
A youngish man, tall and lean, with the wide shoulders of lumberjack stood, placed his mug on the table beside him. "Polaris has always been as it is now. Why should we change? If others wish it to be warm and balmy, like some desert - let them leave!" Some cheered to this.
Smiling at the support, he finished, "Or let them rule elsewhere!" More applause from some patrons.
As the catcalls and cheers died slowly, other concerns were raised. "What of these Istishians? They could be lurking about, even now! If what the FLAMEs say is true, we should be wary of their lies." Another spoke, "They hate the Istishians - that's clear, I think. We should NOT choose sides betwixt them - keep to the old wisdom: 'Leave Fighting Bears Be.'"
Some knew of Krogenar's association with the Church of Istishia. And as the word slowly made its way about the room, from conversation to conversation, many eyes came to settle on him.
The strider kept to his beer.
"Well, Istishian? What say you? Can the FLAMEs really do what they said they could - make us into a paradise as they promise?" A fisherman stared at the half-orc- waiting for his reply.
Putting his mug down, Krogenar looked down into it.
As though speaking to it, he said, "I call Polaris paradise already - no changes needed." The room erupted into argument again. The strider stood, pulling his knapsack over his shoulder, arranging his winter coat.
From the din of voices, a young man shouted to Krogenar. "You're not even a Polari, half-orc! Don't pretend to know us! The FLAMEs offer us warmth, and we'll take it!" Krogenar stopped on his way to the door. "Think on this, Polaris - think of what the cold and ice has given you."
Most of the younger nobles scoffed. "..numbed fingers!" But some of the old-timers caught his meaning. The strider approached the young men who tended to their aging father. "You are right. I am not Polari. But I have traveled to other, warmer lands, and so I can tell you of them." Some leaned in to listen, others fell back into their chairs, smirking.
"They are not like Polari. Grown fat and lazy where the living is easy..." He seized one young man by the shoulders - who resisted - pulling away. "Your young are strong, resilient - hardened by the cold." he said, smiling. He motioned to a table of lumberjacks. "Your sons, able to withstand the fierce north winds, only they dare to chop at the trees of the north."
The room quieted to a low buzzing as they discussed this idea. But the strider continued. "And what of discipline? Your fishermen, survive the raging seas only through the discipline that adversity forces upon them."
"Polaris, you are strong - strong because it was the cold, the ice, the snow - the Water - that forced you to such strength."
"Would you be like all the other cities in the Realms? You are a rare northern jewel! Would you take on the other qualities of the warmer cities?" He played this card, knowing what they thought of the people who populated the south.
Campaigning in Polaris
(Technically, Krog is out in the Wastes, sure to die of frostbite and hypothermia... for the moment, lets just imagine he stopped on his way in Polaris first.)
Handing the pelts to the man behind the counter, Krogenar turned to the window of the trading post - watched a group of people milling about.
"We're square now Krog... fine furs, fine furs..." the merchant purred at the thought of the price that the women of Polaris would pay to adorn themselves in such fashionably warm coats.
But the half-orc was growing into a wiser merchant with each trade. What he once traded for some simple supplies and a room, he now traded for supplies and credit on his next visit!
But the trader still came out ahead, and the strider often brought strange and difficult-to-find carcasses back - to which he gave him the first pick.
Looking up from his imaginings, surrounded by open barrels of goods, the trader saw the strider walking towards the gathering outside.
-------------------------------------------------------
Krogenar watched the people milling about the town square... - Polaris - being so close to the frontier - rarely had visitors.
"Stark..." he muttered under his breath.
Watching the FLAME wave his hands as he spoke, the people around him listened with earnest - curious to see what the stranger brought with him. Standing atop the fountain, he spoke of remaking the city into a paradise to rival any of the great cities of the Realms. Some of the people around Krogenar looked on suspiciously - but others were curious.
"A paradise? ... What's he on about? .. like New Thalos ... or Westbridge... what's this western bridge?..."
As they muttered, some cried out in concern when the speaker lifted a ringed fist, and his eyes shone with a crimson light that was matched by the ring he wore.
A wash of heat rippled through the air, melting some of the snow on people's coats, soaking them with water. Icicles hanging under the eaves of a nearby tavern dropped like deadly pikes, nearly spearing some greybeards who sat underneath, listening. A small wail caught the strider's attention amidst the chaos.
Atop her daddy's shoulder, a 5-year-old girl watched in horror as her ice cream cone melted under the furnace-like heat, dripping down her father's winter jacket. Her small, cherubic face turned scarlet - nearly losing her breath from the effort of crying. And then the tears began streaming down her cheeks, her little shoulders shaking as she cried.
Frowning, Krogenar looked back at the speaker.
"We do not, however, wish to force governance upon you by force..." Raising an eyebrow, he smiled - waiting for the inevitable rhetoric about Istishians. "We are aware of the lies which have been perpetuated by our rival, the Church of Istishia, in attempts to befoul Lord Flame's honoured name..."
Handing the pelts to the man behind the counter, Krogenar turned to the window of the trading post - watched a group of people milling about.
"We're square now Krog... fine furs, fine furs..." the merchant purred at the thought of the price that the women of Polaris would pay to adorn themselves in such fashionably warm coats.
But the half-orc was growing into a wiser merchant with each trade. What he once traded for some simple supplies and a room, he now traded for supplies and credit on his next visit!
But the trader still came out ahead, and the strider often brought strange and difficult-to-find carcasses back - to which he gave him the first pick.
Looking up from his imaginings, surrounded by open barrels of goods, the trader saw the strider walking towards the gathering outside.
-------------------------------------------------------
Krogenar watched the people milling about the town square... - Polaris - being so close to the frontier - rarely had visitors.
"Stark..." he muttered under his breath.
Watching the FLAME wave his hands as he spoke, the people around him listened with earnest - curious to see what the stranger brought with him. Standing atop the fountain, he spoke of remaking the city into a paradise to rival any of the great cities of the Realms. Some of the people around Krogenar looked on suspiciously - but others were curious.
"A paradise? ... What's he on about? .. like New Thalos ... or Westbridge... what's this western bridge?..."
As they muttered, some cried out in concern when the speaker lifted a ringed fist, and his eyes shone with a crimson light that was matched by the ring he wore.
A wash of heat rippled through the air, melting some of the snow on people's coats, soaking them with water. Icicles hanging under the eaves of a nearby tavern dropped like deadly pikes, nearly spearing some greybeards who sat underneath, listening. A small wail caught the strider's attention amidst the chaos.
Atop her daddy's shoulder, a 5-year-old girl watched in horror as her ice cream cone melted under the furnace-like heat, dripping down her father's winter jacket. Her small, cherubic face turned scarlet - nearly losing her breath from the effort of crying. And then the tears began streaming down her cheeks, her little shoulders shaking as she cried.
Frowning, Krogenar looked back at the speaker.
"We do not, however, wish to force governance upon you by force..." Raising an eyebrow, he smiled - waiting for the inevitable rhetoric about Istishians. "We are aware of the lies which have been perpetuated by our rival, the Church of Istishia, in attempts to befoul Lord Flame's honoured name..."
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