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Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Thu May 07, 2015 2:21 am
by Shamsy
Journal for M. Gustave

This really is a splendorous city. Tonight I had the privilege to be the liveryman of choice to a pair of rather popular actors. I carted them about from sundown till sunup. I must say, I have a bit of a penchant for the theater, myself, and as thespians are typically spawned by those of few means, they tend to tip liberally, looking down . Perhaps I will take a more serious look at its potentialities. What was enchanting was the young waif attending them, their hair, makeup, the costumery. She was a worker of wonders, of that, I am certain. Her name I should not disclose in these pages. She only just left my apartment. She tells me the greatest actors are the most mundane looking people, as those people can be more widely transformed by her own art. For the night, she left me her goody bag, that I might familiarize myself with its contents. I have a lot to learn, it seems. She also tells me I should shave, but I have put such careful care into my beard, that I might look every bit the grizzled veteran, gaining wary looks from those thinking to hijack either my charge or my livery itself. I have killed for lesser thoughts.

There are dyes, too, for the hair. I’ve never thought of them, personally. But we’re not talking about me being me, now, are we? I wonder what I’d look like as a blond? What about a redhead? No, I don’t have the flesh tone for that. But even that can be changed, I believe. I know there are magical means to be sure, but those are quite often foiled by the same magic which creates them. No, I prefer a more simple method, a mundane one. Simple, but effective.

Looking in the mirror, now, at a smooth face, I see what she means. It’s in the eyes. It’s all in the eyes. Windows into the heart, mind, and soul. I see that every night I watch them on the stage, the most convincing produce a look which evokes their presence in the character they inhabit. Why, I haven’t seen my chin in years. Curious.

She says to begin with a good base, and so I do. When I’m done, I’m not quite convinced, and so, I begin again. And again. And again. Eventually, I start to understand what it is I need to do. It’s all about manipulating the light.

Indeed, it is.

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Sat May 16, 2015 1:04 am
by Seekerthefallen
The Sun Elf looked around him in a state of both awe and wonder. This was his first excursion onto the Astral Plane so he had made sure that he brought those he trusted most to support him on this endeavor. He could tell Howard was nervous though he worked really hard to conceal that from Ziandra who despite what many though was actually pretty good at reading people. She did what she always did when she sense Howard’s uneasiness. She hounded him mercilessly about things that made him uncomfortable or even embarrassed. It was a good tactic because it always seemed to steady his apprentice. In fending off the teasing efforts of Ziandra his apprentice would forget about what it was that was bothering him.

In this case that was the fact that they were all in the middle of the Astral Plane getting ready to use a tremendously powerful scroll to fulfill a need for this extended family. Enialas wanted a refuge, a place where they could all work in solitude and safety. He had always planned to find a way to accomplish this task but all his research lead him to the conclusion that he was still a considerable way off before he would have the skills necessary to create a Demi Plane out of the materials gathered on the Astral Plane. He was aware that at some point he might be able to get his hands on a Scroll with the power to do this but he recognized such things were rare. He was always put in awe of the raw power held by those that wield arcane energies spontaneously or through pact like Sorcerers and Warlocks. He didn’t envy them because he enjoyed the studiousness and fastidious reliability of the profession of Wizard and the power that he held. It allowed him to exercise a great deal of control over his environment and the probabilities that affected him and his family. He did appreciate the raw power that they held and when Sera revealed a new, ability that she had uncovered Enialas saw a wonderful opportunity to accomplish his stated goal long before he had ever expected he might.

Enialas smiled as he remembered the night that he first explained the concept to Ziandra, Howard, and Sera. Ziandra looked at him as if he were mad which truth be told amused him that he was able to shock her even though she knew him so well. Howard looked more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs which was the response he had expected though he did put on a brave face and offer to help. Sera looked eager to use her new found abilities to secure the families interests as well as her own long term well-being. It wasn’t long after that Enialas had three scrolls in his possession. As soon as Sera and Enialas had returned from the efforts to locate the House Wands member he started doing what he must to prepare everyone.

He told Ziandra and Howard of his plans on his return and Ziandra immediately insisted on coming along. Howard to his credit asked if Enialas wanted him to come despite his obvious misgivings about the risk. He thanked them both and agreed that it would be prudent to do this together. He would be spending hours on end casting this spell for 7 days and he would need them to protect him and insure that nothing interrupted the casting. Once Ziandra was on board Sera naturally agreed to come along although to be honest, he didn’t remember asking her and Sera never said that she would. Enialas and the Hin had an odd working relationship that way. Enialas understood generally how Sera would react to things and she seemed to have a firm grasp on his proclivities. When they discussed future plans regarding linking thoughts in their little odd family it just seemed anathema to even suggest that Sera and Enialas would ever have their minds permanently linked oddly enough it was the same way between Ziandra and Howard. The idea just seemed wrong.

So his family was here on the Astral Plane standing watch for the next 7 days while Enialas prepared to cast the most challenging spell he had ever cast. It would be grueling and it would take a great deal of discipline and effort to properly craft this new domain. Enialas smiled as the others settled in. The next seven days were going to be fun.

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Sat May 16, 2015 4:10 pm
by Shamsy
The Journal of Jung Siral

Jung was growing increasingly impatient. When he was young, he would, at times, go into fits of rage at the incessant bullying of his siblings. Though dismissive of the runt of his litter publicly, his father secretly had hopes that despite his skinny frame Jung would grow to be ferocious; an unstoppable warrior worthy of his Jotunbrud father. Then Jung's mother died. Retreating inwardly, Jung became even more of a recluse than he had before. It was not long after that the tribe discovered his aptitude for magic and cast him out, the father believing the fire that had been within his son extinguished. So did Jung.

Or so he thought. He could feel that fire now, as he sat alone, staring at the fading engram on the spellbook page before him. It had started again as a mere flicker, the flame within him, and grown hotter and brighter the more Jung tried and tried to find a way to compress arcane words into another form, to change their very nature. He had failed at every turn. He knew failure was always a part of experimentation, but he'd never experienced it as thoroughly as he did now. No, whenever he put his mind to something, eventually the problem was solved. Not so now. He was starting to feel like not ever.

Feeling the fire growing, it brought back old memories, old failures, and old wounds. He closed the book violently. Running a hand through his thick hair he exhaled in frustration. Resting his head against the aged wooden planks of the wall, the makeshift cots tied together beneath him squeaked just a bit as he adjusted his weight. His eyes fixed on the glowing ember of the forge across the room, his mind working the formulae over and over, rechecking the math, taking stock of what he'd learned so far, and in so doing he became fixated for several long moments. The glowing ember seemed to pulse with its own life, as did the growing fire of anger within Jung. He stood and took a deep breath, quelling himself for a moment, taking his eyes from the still hot forge.

He'd been here for a few months now, apprenticing to a master smith who'd allowed him room and board, such as is were. This consisted of a space for his gear, a small book shelf, and a pair of cots he had to lash together end-to-end to fit his seven foot frame. That was always his problem. He didn't seem to fit in anything, anywhere. Not home, not in the wilds, and not in Waterdeep. He loosed a heavy sigh again and turned his eyes back to the spellbook. He glanced through the forge's southern window and saw the moon there, and was momentarily comforted by its soft light. In fact, as he calmed, an idea came to him.

He rushed to the book, opening it with vigor and walking with it to his nearby desk, upon which his inks and designs for various weapons and armor were arranged neatly in a very purposeful manner. He removed a blank sheaf and began with a charcoal pencil to draw a diagram, of which there were many tacked to the adjacent wall. All of them were similar, all of them had just some sort of difference, and all of them resembled the sketch Jung put together now.

"This has to be it," he said after nearly an hour. His pace was relentless, even in the small hours of the night. Taking up the sketch, Jung opened the spellbook to a blank page, which didn't take long to find, and overlaid the sketch. Comparing the space, he nodded, and set the sketch above the book on the desk for reference. He then pulled a pen from a nearby drawer, capped with a fresh nib, and uncorked a rather expensive-looking bottle of ink that stood in a small four-drawered box just at the corner of the desk. Dipping the quill, he set to very slowly, very deliberately copying the sketched spell to the spellbook. What happened next was nothing short of astonishing.

It is uncertain how much time passed as Jung so carefully crafted his work, but in the end, the diagram was flawless, and its sheer quality was testament to the long hours of study, patience, and dedication he had shown to his theory. As he finished, he stoppered the ink and set down the quill. He stared at the page and waited, knowing it would only take a moment to know whether or not his formula had been correct. When that moment came and went, the page of the spellbook was once more blank vellum, and all of his work lost.

The flame that had once been extinguished and recently rekindled in a flicker of frustration now behaved as if fanned by the greatest billows of Mithral Hall, exploding in a fiery rage unlike Jung had ever experienced before. The desk, along with everything on it, was flipped into the air as Jung's anger took complete control of him. He grabbed the nearest thing he saw, his spellbook, and immediately threw it across the room. Not a piece of furniture escaped his touch. Chairs, desks, benches, stools, anything he could throw he threw. Most of it broke. That which he could not throw he smashed against the walls or the floor. He screamed until he was hoarse. He tore books in half, threw some of them into the fire, then grabbed a sword and started hacking everything in sight to bits. When he was done with that he grabbed a hammer and sundered a great many other things, including suits of armor and weapons not only that he created, but even those crafted by the forgemaster himself. He managed somehow to topple the anvil, he broke the front door and all but two of the windows. He would not remember how long he raged, but when he found some of the master's items he could not destroy, no matter how hard he pounded them, his anger began to subside and then it dumped fully and left him out of breath completely, collapsing first to a knee and then on his face. What came next, however, he would never forget in all his life.

"What in Torm's name is goin' on here?!" That was the forgemaster's voice.

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Mon May 18, 2015 2:14 am
by Shamsy
Loth'Gars Journal: A long walk Home

It was a long slog back to Waterdeep for Loth'gar and his battered party. A gloom hung over the half-orc with the knowledge that four had set out yet only three returned. The reassuring and steadfast comfort of their paladin companion was sorely missed. With another heart-felt sigh Loth'Gar lifted his head and resolved to march on until they reached nightfall. All was not lost. They had failed to destroy the cult entirely, but they had caused significant casualties to the small band and ultimately, while they had gotten away, he doubted they would be plaguing Daggerford for some time. They had also failed to properly deal with the traitor that they knew was amongst the towns ranks. Of course they had managed to narrow the suspect list, but it left a sour taste in the back of his throat that they had not been able to bring justice to one so deserving. He shrugged, holding a silent debate and thinking through all that had happened. They had limited success, at a steep price, but success none-the-less. And of course, Bill was gone, but not forgotten or beyond reach.

While he did not understand all that had happened, it seemed that the dragon the cultists were attempting to woo was at least not cruel or perhaps even evil. It had spared the cult, taken Bill (though promised she was alive) and even hinted that it was working on some sort of plan to 'save the North', whatever that meant. That the dragon had refrained from simply killing and eating them all gave him hope. They had been offered an ultimatum, and it was one that the half-orc certainly planned to explore further. For the hunting of the dragons enemies, the party would have Bill returned from wherever it was she currently resided. Of course, rash though he may be, Loth'Gar was hardly about to go after someone he knew nothing about. The whole 'Dark Lady' title made him uneasy, and he doubted this woman would turn out to be a saint, but one needed caution and a cool head at times, and this was one of those times. They had asked a few questions at Daggerford and wracked their own brains for an answer, but it seemed that this would require a little more time and resources were they to try and unravel the mystery.

To this end Loth'Gar had already tasked Lady Kyle Pond with tracking down as much information as she could and had provided her with an address he could be contacted at should she uncover anything. He also planned to use his own network of informers and rumor mongers to see what he could discover about the 'Dark Lady'. Nurvureem was a unique enough name and no doubt while he would have to trod in some unpleasant places, one of the less desirable in the city would know of her. More of a mystery was this Andrathanach and his so called Order of the Emerald Scale. Surely a dragon worthy enough to attract the fanatical attentions of the cult MUST be listed somewhere in the annals of history? The half-orc doubted that he would find anything through his network, but perhaps a visit to the library's of Oghma would yield better results? Now that was a job he REALLY wasn't looking forward to. Sitting in a musty room with musty books and no sun or fresh air. The thought of it prompted another sigh, but he was determined not to fail Bill and if it meant a few days in a dingy cupboard, so be it.

There was of course one more mater that required attention. An unfinished score to settle with the cult. As he walked, Loth'Gar found his hand resting on the cold hilt of the pick he had taken from the dead cultist he killed. He still remembered the burning pain when he had one just like it buried deep in his back. He didn't realise, but a look of anger flashed across his face for a moment. But it wasn't the lackeys he needed to pursue. It was that bastard assassin, who had so easily outmatched them i stealth and deadly combat prowess. That was not something the half-orc was about to forget, and he found he had a deep seated need to exact revenge on the vile man. That fire burned hot, but it was suppressed for now, waiting to explode when they surfaced next. Another task for the network he supposed. No doubt the Cult of the Dragon were known in a few unsavory circles.

There was a lot of work ahead, most of it unpleasant, but Loth'Gar was determined not to let the injustices these people had wrought pass. The only thing burning brighter was his desire to return Bill home.

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Fri Oct 30, 2015 4:27 pm
by Seekerthefallen
Tick Tock...Tick tock..

She really hated the sound of that clock. It had just about one good thing about it, besides working. It, with that drumming click and clack kept her aware of the length of day. She was a creature of the night, and even though it didn't take anymore effort then to peer out a window. Looking at it, at least meant she could lounge in bed and do nothing.

"Another day..Another night." She said to herself in her native tongue, and picked up the glass of wine beside the bed. It was red, always red. Unless, there was anything better. It worked well enough to sate the dryness in her throat. "I wonder if I should go out tonight. I think I need a bit more coin, and wine."

Slowly she rose from her bed, glass still in hand. Her feet moved bare and silent against the wear of her floorways. Reaching up she scratched a hand through her hair, moving it to one way or another. All around the natural flow of her horns. "I think I will go out. I want to speak to those that listen to shadows again." That was the best she could think of herself, a shadow of something.

Stretching out, her tail flicked around behind her. It was no different then a cat in someways. Swishing and offering an alluring movement, like a snake dancing to a charmer."I want to speak to the one that shoulders great things, as well." Her meetings with people had been surprisingly more positive. However, two people didn't exactly fix her overall hatred of the rest of them.

"I guess I should dress and make the best of the evening, the sun will be down soon. I need to get more coin. " That would repeat as much as it needed to get her to start being motivated.