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The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Tue Dec 31, 2013 5:08 pm
by Seekerthefallen
The daily dragon, the first and only source for the in-dept stories of the day to day lives of natives of Waterdeep.

UPDATE: 1/10/15

The Guild Masters of the Daily Dragon recently sent down an announcement to all columnists. After a brief pause in production, the broad sheets will once again rustle in ever carriage and table across the City of Splendors!There will be some slight changes to everyones favorite publication and all contributors are expected to abide by these rules, lest their piece fall foul of the Guild Masters...

Rules:(Yes those)

-It is still one column (submission) for one subject per columnist (Player) Per Week.
*Keep in mind, that the other rules are staying implied and in place-as followed below*

-Some readers were confused by a lack of identification, so each column should start with a title identifying the subject (PC). Eg 'Sjach Kills Several in Fireball Madness' ( You can request this left out, and/or simply titled with the Character in questions name.)

-The very minimum length of each piece is one standard Word doc page without font and excessive spacing, or approximately 600 words. No submissions of one or two small paragraphs should be submitted.
*Please understand this is a way to make some very easy free coin and should show effort and thought. *

-The pay is worked out based on the subjects average wage (average gold for their level x1). The paymaster is a grumpy, lazy old gnome, so including subject name and career fame (level) is encouraged, lest pay be docked!

-Submit all completed columns to Death Seeker or Shamsy

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Tue Dec 31, 2013 5:18 pm
by Seekerthefallen
Ziandra sat across from Glenna in the upstairs portion in the Bathhouse…

Ziandra sat across from the stout and displeased old woman. “I am sorry. How many times shall I repeat it?” Her hands lifted up the tea cup and took a sip. “You know it was the only way it would work. The longer I take to do something-“

Glenna’s hand went up to silence the otherwise rambling of the runic marked arcanist. “You could have gotten me out of bed. I would have liked to see you married off. “Snorting with broad dwarven nostrils, and narrowing her eyes. “ It would have been the least you could do. “ The old woman was watching her so intensely it was really enjoyable to make Ziandra squirm.

“ I know, and I’m sorry. “ Sighing as this was becoming a loop of guilty apologies. “In all fairness it wasn’t a lot to miss. We just hurried off to the Hospice and were married there.” That didn’t appear to shrink the situation. Leaning back in the large plush chair. “ Can I tell you about it instead?”

“Better be a good story. I’m getting older and tired by the minute.” Picking up her own tea cup. The wrinkled hands, lined with lavish rings held steady. From time to time, she fumbled with one or another of them. " I suppose I will forgive you in due time, depends on how good this is."

Ziandra began to unfold the story of the quickened union. From the jest in the tavern, to the next minute standing there with Sera and Howard for witnesses. “ So, that is it really. In the middle of the night and Sera was there.”

“So, you’re trying to get little Sera into trouble too? Sounds like you.” Setting the teacup on the little table beside her. Rocking in the finely crafted rocking chair that Zi' had made her recently. "I should have know they would be involved. You wore that new dress at least?" Watching Zi' nod, " Good, no daughter of mine is going to be married in a pauper's garb. "

“Yeah, everything is me trying to get someone into trouble. “ For a long time, they both were quiet. Then Glenna laughed, and shook her head. Reaching out and patting Ziandra on the hand. “So your not mad?” That was a hope beyond all hopes.

“ Oh, I’m going to have a long talk with your little elf.” Glenna watched Ziandra’s face flattened a bit. Then she laughed some more. “Have fun on your honeymoon, alright. I’ll send a few bottles along with you.” Stretching herself, and continuing to rock. "I knew you marry him. He's a good match, and rich."

"I'll ignore that part about him being rich, " Rubbing her face, “Yeah were talking the ship. It doesn’t even have a name. That really should be interesting. “ Stretching out and then closing her eyes. “It’s so early. Why do you like such an ungodly hour.”

“ Keeps me young.” Glenna said with a smirk, “ Now, go clean the tubs.”

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Fri Jan 03, 2014 9:02 pm
by Seekerthefallen

"He had a brother with family in Cormyr, I am told, but no one else to attend to his last vigil," Ser Andrew Momen said. "I will see his possessions forwarded."
In the cool glow of sunrise, the dead squire looked like a napping boy. His hands rested on the pommel of a silver-painted wood sword. The rigid body was wrapped in a handsome crimson shawl, decorated with the symbols of local lords the boy never grew old enough to serve. A cloth choker had been affixed by the coroner, hiding the still-bulged purple veins running from chin to chest.
"I once doubted him suitable to marry my daughter," murmured the currency merchant Pylus Silverthumb, the first of his lineage to take a second name. "But now death has made him handsome and humble. I much prefer his current state."
"It will do well to let her see the pyre," Momen advised, covering the dead boy's face and chest with a violet silk sheet. "Closure, they call it."
Pylus agreed, though he hoped the sight would renew his daughter's obedience. "Are the arrangements settled?"
"Almost," nodded the knight as they paced from the deathbed. "The overseeing holy man was assaulted last night for cheating at cards. Lost an eye and both hands."
The merchant sighed up at the sky while they walked, as if the heavens above had caused all of Waukeen's priests to be frauds. "Near the Grinning Lion crossroads there is an orator of the faith. Chants and peddles at passersby. Presents himself handsomely enough. A pauper priest for a pauper squire."
"Flamboyant creature. Calls himself the Shepherd, you won't miss him." Pylus stopped suddenly. "And Momen?"
"Remove the choker and veil. I want her to see what happens to men she falls for."

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Sat Jan 04, 2014 12:08 pm
by Seekerthefallen
She’d spent the few rides since the last conversation with Devdan and Tahiri out of the city. Out of sight meant out of mind and the peace she could get to think. To concentrate away from the world that was filling her with weariness and it was working. Her mind was clearing from the fog that had filled it for a long time; the things in her head still bothered her, that wasn’t going to change any time soon, but at least there wasn’t anything around her to bother her physically that she couldn’t get to grips with herself. Waking brought with it new challenges, the snow had cleared to occasional shower of rain, but the good weather gave her hope. The winter would be going soon and with it a regrowth of the forest. With that… who else knew? Devdan and his ideas of how he was going to get himself his girl back, the thoughts of going to the wall frankly terrified her and filled her with dread, which was the real reason why she didn’t want to go. Seeing those closest to her filling the spaces in the wall, hearing their screams of torment as their bodies were slowly dissolved into it, their souls stuck in purgatory for eternity it made her sigh heavily and shake her head.

Raising her head she opened her eyes from the rest she’d been taking on the branch and considered the view around her. The world around her was changing and she needed to change with it. Berenind wasn’t around any longer, people didn’t seem to stick together the way they once used to. The way she was used to. The small Hin Misty hadn’t been seen in a while, and as she rolled onto her side carefully to survey the world around her the other faces of those in her past strode forth to speak with her. Fios, the imposing and surprising ice-lord, Cogath, Newt; that memory brought a sad smile to her face and all those others. But right now, Fios was one person she wished she could talk to; he hadn’t been seen around the city in three seasons though. She stared at the distance, where she knew for the city to be, the haze rising from it on the horizon and it’s thousands of people inside it. Would she ever see her plans to fruition? Would she see the walls filled with the bowmen that Waterdeep could offer if it were needed? The thought made her smile, it eventually would come to pass that problems would be fixed by those least expected, but for that there needed to be unity something that only normally happened when the entire city was threatened as a whole. Devdan told her that the nobles were still arrogant, that they still expected to not have to work for their coin, but there were others that would answer the call. Sharp eyes picked out the smaller darting shapes of the griffon riders in the air, those noble creatures that were relied upon heavily to protect the city from dragons and other things. They were still the gifts of the elves. It was funny how the race that the humans had nearly wiped from existence would be so keen to ally and offer assistance at tight times. That they were the ones who remained as always to protect those that required it. And it was with that thought in her head that she slowly sat up along the nest of tree limbs that cradled her. She’d made herself comfortable and it was lined with mosses, small linens and other branches that she’d found along the way to make it warmer and eventually more comfortable than one of the freshest beds within the city.

Her mind drifted to the newest of the new. The baton that needed to be passed, she’d have to speak with him soon. LothGar, bold and courageous, willing and eager, he needed to learn to think and be cautious before his head was lopped off from his shoulders in his haste to do the right thing. It made her chuckle quietly to herself. He was a breath of fresh air, if not a little exasperating, but he’d do. Now to only try and get contact with those she needed to talk with. Those higher up the ladder, her face twisted into a wry smile within the confines of the hood she’d pulled up on her head. If there were any left that was…..

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Sat Jan 04, 2014 9:06 pm
by Seekerthefallen
Like most mornings, Ryan awoke to the crow of the roosters. Yawning sleepily, he slumps from his bed and stumbles over to the lavatory. He pours the cold water into the large pewter bowl and looks up at the mirror. He stares into the eyes of his reflection; emotionlessly, immovable, the invisible fire in his eyes dimming for but a moment...then bunching his face up in to as much pure anger as one could muster, Ryan plunges his face into the cold water and screams, the air bubbles flowing rapidly for about a full minute until he pops his head back up and inhales deeply, his face red, mouth agape, and eyes frowning. Breathing heavily, water dripping from his beard and hair, Ryan grabs a nearby towel and dries himself off, still staring back into his own reflection breathlessly. He throws the towel to the side, and leans in closer to inspect his face, stretching his cheeks and rubbing his full beard. Satisfied that he looks decent, he procedes to get dressed, then heads on out to face the day.

That morning was cold and damp with a heavy fog still obscuring vision past twenty paces. Ryan clutched his warm winter cloak around himself as he walked briskly towards the Fields. The city had not yet begun to wake, the streets were still eerily quiet, not much could be heard over the sound of a heavy man in full plate walking down a cobble road. That was, until Ryan started getting closer to the dirtier part of town. Out in the fog, the sounds of a fight could be heard. As he got closer, it was obvious that it was probably a group of boys fighting. Peeking his head around an alley way, Ryan saw three boys surrounding another boy who much smaller and younger than they were.

"Give it up!"
"You're gonna die you know that right?"
"You shouldn't have come here!"

The three boys taunted the younger one. The small boy was holding a broken plank of wood with one hand, the other was clutching a fresh loaf of bread tightly to his chest. Swinging wildly, the boy bashed one kid in the head, making him howl in pain as his head starts to welt and blood trickles down his face, momentarily freezing the others. Taking this time to run for it, the young boy makes his way past his victim. It almost looks like he is going to get away, but sadly, he was wearing but one oversized boot, and he tripped and fell, dropping his loaf on the wet street. Crawling on his belly he jumps back on top of the loaf and curls up around it. The older boys laugh menacingly and start to dance around him, each taking turns kicking their downed prey. The young boy squirms and tries to block their kicks, and somehow manages to kick one of them in their no no region.

But that was his last retaliation as he left himself open for a counter attack, and took a solid kick to the midriff. Down he went, clutching his stomach and rolling around in agony. The older boys now jumped on top of him, and started to beat him soundly with their fists, laughing as they did so.

"I have seen enough." Ryan mutters to himself, and holds out a hand, whispering a bit of magic. A dark cloud forms in the fog, bubbling and warping until it takes the form of a large, dark, hungry looking centipede. "Chase them, but do not harm them." Ryan orders his summoned creature, and with a snapping maw and the thunder of a thousands legs marching the creature charges after the boys.

"A MOSTER! RUN!" They all scream when they see what is coming after them, and run away screaming for help and crying. Ryan chuckles to himself as he walks over to the poor young boy. His face is swollen and bloodied, barely able to get any breath.

"You poor lad. No, do not be afraid, that monster will not harm you nor anyone else, I promise you. Just be still while I tend to your wounds." he says softly as the boy opens his eyes wide when Ryan approaches. He kneels down over the lad, laying his hands on his face and whispers a prayer. Slowly, the wounds start to fade as the healing begins. "You have courage, I will give you that. What is your name, boy?" Ryan asks him as he helps him back up to his feet. The boy was wearing nothing more than rags in the middle of winter, with not but one oversized shoe. His blonde hair was muddy and unkept, but his face was not an unpleasant one.

With bright green eyes he looked up at his savior and said, "My name is Taylor sir, but everyone calls me Scraps."

Ryan smiles back at the boy, a thought coming to his face. "Where are your parents Taylor, do you not have a place to live?"

Taylor casts his eyes down at his feet, and meekly shakes his head.
"No sir, both of my parents died to disease. I do have a box I live in when it's safe though...."

Ryan smiles kindly at the boy, and places a hand on his shoulder. "I see you have suffered much young Taylor..." he starts to say but Taylor shrinks from his touch and looks up fiercely back at Ryan.

"Don't pity me! I am all grown up now you see! My dad told me I had to grow up when he went away, and now I have! I can take care of myself!" he shouts as he backs away slowly from Ryan.

Ryan chuckles and shakes his head. "Yes, I can see that. Tell me though, what are you going to do when I walk away ?" He asks and points to the three figures that were standing at the other end of the alley, clenching their fists. Taylor looks at them and spits his tongue out at them.

"You can't beat me in a fair fight so you all gang up on me! COWARDS!" he shouts and scoops up his dropped plank and runs after them. The other boys don't loose anytime in running away shouting. Taylor doesn't chase them, he just stops and drops his plank and looks back at Ryan. "I told you, I am all grown up now."

"Yes, you certainly are able to inspire fear." Ryan laughs as he watches the other cower away in terror. "However, you are not as good at it as I am. You see, I am in need of someone to help me with my things. Polish my armor, fetch me my wine, that sort of thing. I am not offering you charity, young master Taylor, I am offering you a job. You tend to me, and in exchange I will cloth you, feed you, and, I will teach you how to be a better fighter."

Taylor stops and thinks for a moment, looking down at his near frozen feet and grabs his empty stomach. "I suppose I could use a job. My dad always said a man isn't really a man unless he has a job......OK! I will work for you!" he says with a tone that shouldn't be known by a boy his age. He walks over to Ryan and throws out his hand. "Shake on it!"

Ryan smiles, and takes the boy by the arm in a warriors grasp. "I am pleased. Come along then, I will not have anyone working for me dressed in rags."

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Sun Jan 05, 2014 1:12 pm
by Seekerthefallen
Dev sighted his prey from an unseen position, he silently told himself to draw a breath and exhale before loosing the arrow. It made the soft ‘snickt’ sound and death was on its way. The snow elf was not disappointed when the arrow rang true felling the rabbit. He reminded himself not for the first time that the bow was unlike any other weapon he had in his arsenal because once loosed there was no pulling back. In melee combat or even in pugilistic pursuits you could turn aside or pull a punch at the last second but with the bow, once you let go of the string the choice was made.
The Elven Dervish wondered if that is why he had turned to the use of his cutlasses instead of the bow. He shook his head no at the thought, it hadn’t been any sort of conscious decision it had just sort of worked out that way, he realized at some point shortly before he left Silverymoon that he was more effective using a single Cutlass and later a pair of the weapons than he was using his bow. Still he hunted at least once a ride when he was not adventuring, it allowed him solitude, which he often craved as well as keeping up his basic survival skills. Dev picked up the rabbit carcass and began skinning it and preparing it for transport. The Rabbit was completely unnecessary as he had in his pack the remains of nearly an entire deer.
He was not yet ready to return to the city despite what he had told Jiriki. He had told her he was planning on returning to Waterdeep when he had left her campsite and that was true or at least he had thought it was true when he left her presence. He had started back towards the city but probably an hour after he had set his course he came to a crossroads and stopped. The left fork in the road lead back to Waterdeep the right lead further north back into the wilderness. Dev took the right fork with out knowing why.
Dev did that from sometimes, he simply did things because it felt right. His father or Uncle would have called it the Gods speaking to him without his knowledge. Dev had never believed that. The Gods barely made time to answer the most basic of prayers why would they bother providing inspiration to a Heretic that did nothing but hold them in contempt. Dev once again thought about the appealing yet dangerous path that he had decided against. There was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to pull off the theft of a century and to be able to boast about it afterward would have been sweet indeed. It also might have put the one they intended to rescue in danger. Actually it might place everyone involved marked for the Gods wrath. Ultimately that was why he had chosen against that path. He was fairly certain there was another way. With the help of his friends he was sure to find it. Dev finished preparing the rabbit for transport and turned back the way he came now ready to return to Waterdeep.

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Mon Jan 06, 2014 6:14 pm
by Seekerthefallen
Diary, 6th Hammer
Time flies here, it seems. The days are as slow as they ever were and yet the span of them behind me is far greater than I expected every time I look. Or perhaps Calimshan just made them that much slower? Here I find myself among friends in spite of my nature, or in some rare cases because of it. Runa went and joined with her elf finally, in a few ways. I can always respect seizing what you want in life and gods if she hasn't done just that.
I'm still under the auspices of her hospitality, unlimited as it is. Though my own place to stay and do business at looms on the horizon, if the builders ever finish.. and if I can ever seem to find Julia to discuss it again. I do look forward to that, having a little kingdom of my own in the city. Even in the most limited of interpretations.
Addendum: Worrisome reports about buildings falling in on themselves all over town. Going to have to make inquiries, maybe a threat or two. If I get this fest hall built and it immediately collapses in on itself I swear to the Hells and back I will make sure the one responsible ends up as my sad frightened pet newt.

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Mon Jan 06, 2014 6:28 pm
by Seekerthefallen
She walked into the non-descript looking worn store front in the South Ward. From the outside, it simply appeared to be unused for the purpose of a business. That was something she knew otherwise, and called out into the open empty room. “Might want to hurry up and come out here. I have a long order for you to handle.”

There was silence, for a long time the room stayed empty of sound and movement. Then a gruff voice spoke back from a doorway. “Who are you, and how did you find me?” The figure revealed him-self to be an ugly example of half-orc blood. He filled the archway and loomed over her with a deep dark stare.

“Who else would come here?” Standing a mere four and a half feet tall the little Elvin young woman just held a stare back. “I want all my clothes tailored to fit my new form.”

“Who are you and what right do you think you have ordering me around. “ He came right up to her; he was over her height by two feet at least. Surprisingly he was well groomed and pleasant in scent. “I am not your servant goldy."

“For the love of the mistress, it’s me Ziandra. “ Standing there and looking more annoyed, “I guess the sheer lack of sense, hasn’t changed. “

“You think I am going to believe this, is Ziandra?” Pointing to the elf and poking her in the ear, which was admediantly swatted away. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because only I know my mother is the squeeze between your knees. If you don’t start being nice to me, I’m going to tell her you called me a racial slur, greenback.” Staring up at him, her eyes turned from green to amethyst in a half-second.

That caused him to step back, that and the fact she alone knew the intimate matters of Lyanna and himself. “Zi, what the hell did you do to yourself? You really did it.”

“Let’s skip the joy and celebration. My clothes don’t fit. You know how I hate that.”
He laughed, and slapped her back. “Let me get you a drink and we will fix them right up.” Only she would have such a secret orc tailor.

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Tue Jan 07, 2014 4:14 pm
by Seekerthefallen
It is an flash to his early life when he was very young and lived in another city. This is before several important events in his life that I will be outlining in the next few journals. Anyway, here is the entry (written from a third person viewpoint). It is grammatically correct to Aussie English (we have a mix of US and UK spelling in our words).

Loth'Gar; The Early Years and the Pain of my Soul

He ran through the streets, the knife in his hand still bloody, held away as though to deny that it was his. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, the freezing air making his chest ache and causing puffs of steam bellow from his mouth like some sort of ragged animal. Maybe he was a ragged animal. He certainly felt like one at that moment. As though noticing it for the first time he looked at his hand and the sticky blade it held. It shook with a mixture of anger, excitement and probably fear if he admitted it. He'd been running a long time through the dark streets, ducking through alleys, darting around mounds of rubbish, his pursuers always hot on his heels like some sort of demonic hounds. Standing straight he tried to quiet his screaming nerves. A minute passes and his breathing eases. He's a good runner, strong and fit despite his age. Whatever that is.

As his breath returns, those damn shakes won't stop. His mind races and adrenaline still pumps. But no matter. He straightens up, looking around. Hm, familiar enough but not safe territory. He'd better make his way home, such as that is. Rounding a corner he thinks to wipe the knife, put it away. It wouldn't do for a known trouble maker to be seen walking the streets with a bloody weapon in hand. Would be more than a night in the cells for that offence. A few more steps and the sound he had been dreading reaches his ears. "There he is! Over here! He's over here!" Without looking he takes off again, ducking behind an empty cart and darting across into another stinking alleyway. He knows who chases him and what will happen if he's caught. What used to be settled with a few street kids in a punch-up had escalated so quickly into a deadly game of rival gangs. Kids became men, whether they were ready or not. It was no longer about eking out a living. It was about survival. And he was a survivor.

On he runs, the pursuit close on his heels. But he is fast and long of limb, darting here and there, throwing off all but the most determined of hunters. A crossbow bolt clacks off a brick wall to his left, another reminder that the odds are higher, the game deadlier than before. With a last burst of speed he reaches more familiar grounds, his ground. His home. While the ordinary citizen of the Sword Coast may not know it, ever petty street thug can see the signs clear as day. A small carving on the stone there. A couple of nails on that post there. The hidden but meaningful markers act as a warning to those who should know better. This is our turf and we will defend it. His pace slows, confidence now returning he is in familiar ends. He turns, panting again to regard the end of the narrow, dirty street in this small derelict part of the city. Around the corner come his pursuers. A small and dirty human child, though it could be a halfling. An older, tall and skinny human male looking to be in his late teens. A girl, long of limb and strong looking, wearing a rusty chain mail shirt that looks to have seen better days. The probable halfling carries the crossbow, which he hastens to reload as they advance, panting after a long pursuit through the streets. They see the signs and hesitate a moment. but it is only a moment. Two of there's lie low, possibly dead or badly wounded. Another is beaten, and badly. That insult and the anger it causes bring them forward. After that chase, how could they turn back now and still walk the streets with their heads held high? Trotting forward, the three advance, but the young half-orc stands his ground. This is his street now.

The halfling raises the bow at his target as he advances, the two humans fanning out like a pack of dogs to encircle their prey. The prey is shaking, he must be scared stiff because he doesn't run. Sighting down the stock, the halfling prepares to return the favour. He is beaten to the punch. With a twang! a dark bolt flies from the shadows of a nearby window, striking the halfling in the shoulder. His own shot goes wide, into the shabby wooden door of another abandoned row house. As the halfling falls to the ground, crying out in pain there come shouts from the houses around the interlopers. Three scruffy looking teens rush forth, equip with a smattering of clubs and assorted armour as they have scavenged. Their breath blows hot in the frigid air, making them look like some snorting beasts from the pits of hell. The intruders back of quickly, raising their own weapons, not running but obviously outmatched. The three fresh combatants fall upon them, punching, clubbing and kicking at them mercilessly. They fight back, even dropping one of the attackers with a club to the temple, but they are tired after the long pursuit and in hostile territory. They fall back, scooping the crying halfling up as they run. There is no pursuit, whoops of victory are the only things that follow them as they pull out. Gathering their wobbly companion, the three approach, cheers of victory and words of congratulations thrown around.

Within the hour the whole gang are assembled around a great fire. Alcohol and less legal substances are all around as a great celebration occurs. The girls dance and flirt while the boys fight, wrestle and party. Word has come down that the gang killed tonight. A blow was struck, blood was shed and it will be remembered. There is talk of more attacks. It is only the beginning. That night he earned his scars. The Waves mark him forever as one of them. He has killed for them. They will kill for him. Deep down a part of him dies, but he doesn't realise it. Why can't he stop shaking?

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Tue Jan 14, 2014 8:28 pm
by Seekerthefallen
The light slipped into the room, and basked her face with the smallest bit of warmth. It was nice to think that just for a moment, spring could be just on the horizon. She wondered how many springs for her now, not just several centuries but lifetimes in her future.

Her hand lifted up allowing herself to bask with this new light. This was the first time in a long time, she’d stayed in bed. Her new flesh was a curious sight that was just as unique as the one before. Her skin was changed by her blood, even in this body. What had once been pale as snow and shimmering like a carved opal. Was now a warm tanned color, coppery but with flecks of gold and other sparkling metals.

It wasn’t the only thing that was changed, but for now it was something to focus her attention on. How could someone be born twice and be so different and yet the same. There was a soft giggle from her, even that sound was unfamiliar to her. It was soft as a whispher and full of life, not the near demonic tones she’d held for so long.

“Focus, focus. “ She said outloud, as her eyes narrowed in on just a small spot on the back of her hand. That is where she could make out the lines in ways she had never before. Tiny marks, variations her previous eyes would have never been able to see. Her eyes flittered around the room, little flecks of dust. Everything was crisp beyond even using her special glasses.

“I wonder how much I missed seeing in life.”

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Wed Jan 15, 2014 7:08 pm
by Seekerthefallen
The sun rose above the city. HIS city… the city of splendours, the leap and swirl of the wind moving the clouds across the sky caught his attention and he did up the last of the buckles of his saddle. Then grinned and pumped his hand in the air twice to give the command to jump. The wing rose, claws digging into the rock to take them to the edge of the ridge. At the top, he glanced around, watching as the sun rose just that little bit higher into the sky bringing with it a fresh glow to the sky, the odd half rose half orange glow to the sky and with it, the almost yellow tinge of the sky that came with it, the sun rising higher signaled him, it called to him.

He could feel it, he could taste it, that change in the air almost as if a bell signaled for him to make the first move and he pumped his fist once more, then signaled with two fingers for the first half of the flight to take the leap, watching keenly with sharp eyes as he saw them glide over the edge of the ridge before dropping at breathtaking speed and wings opened up to bring the griffons to flight status into the air above Waterdeep. Then it was his turn, again he felt that rise in his heart, THIS was what he lived for, this was what he breathed for every day of his life for as long as he could live, he felt those powerful muscles bunch and contract… then they were falling as well, the rock racing past them at a death defying speed, and the lift as the wings caught the air and snatched them aloft above the city. Above HIS city, his home, his splendours.

He would never cease to marvel at the power of the griffon that he rode, just as he would never cease to be heart filled when he saw the sun rising slowly into the sky and catching, glinting on the spires of the Morninglord. Yet again, the patrol was airborne, wings powerfully beating in time as they flew out once more to rule the skies in the duty they felt a privilege to perform. From the shining sparkling sea, over the ranging hills and flatter plateaus, to the winter forests that held their hidden treasures.

The new season was coming; with it, Chase felt alive.

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Thu Jan 16, 2014 8:26 am
by Seekerthefallen
The Hin looked out over the city streets with a great many things weighing on her mind. Floating high up, attended to by her fiendish associate, watching people move about below her looking tiny from the altitude. The only time she ever got to feel like she was big in comparison to anyone really. Odd thoughts like that wandered into her head when she did this sort of people watching, and serious ones followed them not infrequently.
Serious thoughts. What was she going to do about that mess with the undermining? The only individul she could go to had come up with nothing. Sera fidgeted uncomfortably when a breeze knocked her off center and she started drifting over toward the docks. She could mostly tell she was getting closer by the smell.. salt, fish, and desperation. What was she going to do?
The docks.. she should probably stop by the apothecary again soon, shouldn't she? That might be prudent, and perhaps the urchins had heard the name 'new dawn' before. It at least gave her something to do other than float there, and an excuse to land.. which she'd have to do anyway because she was still slowly drifting and had no desire to go float out to sea. Small feet landed on cobblestones, and minutes later a small hand knocked on the apothecary's door with purpose.

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Fri Jan 17, 2014 8:14 am
by Seekerthefallen
Part Two: A few weeks later

He ran through the bustling streets, deftly avoiding carts, stalls and citizens going about their everyday business. Close on his heels a whistle sounds and a cry of "Over here!" Swift pursuit can be heard, staying even but not getting any closer. At least he thinks so. Hard to tell with all the noise of the street around. "I seem to be running all the time of late." he mutters to himself. With steady breathing and long strides he plots the destination. Temples, he needs temples! He comes to the realisation just in time to take a quick left before he plunges of course. He hopes that his sudden change of directions will throw off the pursuit, but these mercenaries seem pretty competent, at least more so than the usual thugs and lowlifes he has to avoid.

Thinking back he wonders how exactly it was that they found the small crews hideout. While anyone with an ounce of street smarts would likely be able to locate the territory of his gang of street kids, the hideouts are always a carefully guarded secret known only to members. There could have been an informer in the ranks of course. With the crack down resulting from the recent violence some of the less dedicated may have sought and easy way out. It had happened, not in his crew as far as he knew, but several of the other gangs had been 'forcibly disbanded' and rumours flew fast and thick about who may have been responsible for bringing down the semi-secret organisations. Ah, could always have been magic of course. He knows there is at least one mage in the band of mercenaries. He winces as he remembers what happened earlier. The lack of concentration nearly ends in disaster as he narrowly avoids a head on collision with a fat bumbling priest choosing that precise moment to also round the corner. Swinging around three hundred and sixty degrees, he bypasses a full collision, just bumping the man as he brushes past. Jogging backwards he sketches a low bow to the man who huffs but accepts the apology with a small bow of his own in return. Turning back around, the half-orc takes off again at full pelt.

As he moves a couple of streets into the neighbourhood, he sees what he is after. A gaggle of beggars from all races and of varying age loiter around a small and rather plain temple. Well, not the most impressive affair, in fact probably the shabbiest place in the district, but it's the crowd he is after. While the bigger temples attract their own assortment of beggars he's not exactly in a position to be picky here... Pulling his rough spun brown woollen hood high to hide his face, he slows his scramble to a gentle jog and a slow shuffle as he enters the crowd. Now, up near the back, that'd be best. He doubts the band that chase him would be willing to push past this lot for an unidentified vagabond of mixed blood heritage. Trying to regain his breath while simultaneously not breathing in the smell of garbage from those around, he moves towards the temples side door where a shallow alcove offers some cover. Whether subconsciously or consciously, the crowd part to allow one of their own through. Perhaps sensing his plight, the crowd bunches together, making it more difficult for pursuers to pass or see individuals. Having made the alcove, a rough-cut man with scars and wear to prove a hard life scowls up at the young one approaching his chosen rest. There is a moment of eye contact before the man stands, a good hand above the half-orc despite his youthful stature. A ratty man with a terrible stoop and a dwarf that looks all scraggy beard step to either side of the half-orc, cracking knuckles as they do so. The tall leader of the trio looks down, that scowl remaining while he swishes something in his mouth a couple of times, spitting out a wad of black chewing tobacco to the side. His fists clench before he says in a gravely voice "Get in there lad afore they be catchin' wind a ya." He motions the youth into the small shelter, taking up a position just in front, his two companions either side, arms crossed and facing out. Not fool enough to question the luck of the gods he slides into the deeper recess where the shadows hide him from the sun light.

As he waits minutes pass, perhaps hours. It cold be a few seconds for all he knows, so intent on listening and watching he is. After what feel like a lifetime there is a disturbance on the perimeter of the beggars crowd. Just his luck, they must have hounds or magic to guide them. Now those gods he had praised but a moment ago turn their capricious backs on him. He mutely curses the betrayal... There is a lot of jostling as the crowd are forcibly parted, offering protest and not making it easy by any means, but the shine of mail and flash of steel wins over the instinct to protect their own. Edging as far back as possible and ending flush against the cool wood of the door, he can go no further. Trapped. The men, all hardened mercenaries by the looks of them, reach the three toughs. They way they carry themselves and are equip suggests that they may have been soldiers or perhaps guards before they signed up. Despite this the trio stand firm, eyes locked with the mercenaries. A couple of the mail clad men move forward threateningly, causing the trio to reach for weapons should the need to defend themselves occur. They are poorly armed and lacking any armour compared to the mercs but they stand that little bit straighter, prouder in their role as guardians. Before threats and violence can break out a hawkish man appears at head of the mercenaries. Un-armoured except for a light looking leather vest and thick, practical robes he has the bearing of a battle wizard. Fighting the years that well in his eyes as he remembers the groups first attack on the hideout, he pushes the memory aside for another time, when the situation is not so dire and death not so close. The hawk faced man makes placating gestures and mumbles something to the trio, though they do not move aside. A purse appears, full of coins from the look of it. Against all expectation his defenders just stand tall, ignoring the obvious bribe for cooperation. With a mumbled curse the hawk man squints past them into the alcove, but his day time vision cannot penetrate the deep shadows of the corner.

As the hawk retreats behind his steel clad friends, it looks as though violence will once again break out. That is until a strong but gentle voice rings out, seemingly above all others. Everyone turns to look at the source, towards the front of the temple, though there is no view for the shadowed watcher. As he waits, pressed into the shadows, he feels the wood of the door disappear and a firm hand on his shoulder, pulling him backwards and inside...


Impatient with these thugs, likely criminals he thinks with disdain, Bredox 'the bird of prey' Felendoor takes a breath to order his men to attack. After all, are they not paid to eliminate this cities scum? At that point a man in a simple white smock calls out and Bredox cannot help but heed the summons. An elderly priest by the looks of him, and one fallen on hard times. His sneer he doesn't bother to hide. "Priest, you have a known criminal in your midst. We have papers for their arrest and the law as our backer." That should shut him up. But instead of falling back in shock or perhaps, Brefox had hoped, fear, the priest simply motions Bredox forward, towards the open doors of the temple. "Please do search if you like, for we wish not to trouble a fine band such as yourself." And with that the man steps aside. Confident that his divinations led to this place, Bredox strolls regally past his mundane companions and into the church, the rest of the company falling quickly into place just behind him. Pausing a moment as his eyes adjust from the harsh outdoor glare, the wizard surveys the interior of the temple. His sneer only deepens. A single (albeit large) room makes up the single story temple. The fittings, such as they are, look old and worn, though sturdy. A few benches line the right isle, empty and the left wall composes simple but clean cots, nearly two dozen of them all told. The rear of the building holds a simple wooden book stand, perhaps where sermons are held, and a small kitchen and pantry area. A couple of junior priests are setting clean sheets on a cot, but pause in their duties to stare at the haughty man in the door. Strolling in and feeling far too important to pay any respects, the wizard goes straight to the pantry and storage bins at the rear. "I know you're here thief, criminal! You may as well give up now and maybe they'll spare you the noose." He throws open the pantry first, then a couple of barrels. "Get in here and search dotter-heads!" he snaps, finding both empty. His company enter, though they offer the priests their respects and even a low bow to the god as they begin their search. A few frantic minutes pass before the elder priest shuffles his way back in. "I assure you master wizard that our humble church has had no visitors except for the crowd you see outside." he says in a firm but gentle voice. Tossing a couple of fish from the barrel he was searching to the straw covered dirt floor, Bredox curses as his men each shrug and hold out empty palms to show they have found nothing. A look of rage and humiliation on his face, the wizard storms from the place, roughly shouldering aside on of the acolytes. "Move boy!" He snaps as he leaves, impatiently beckoning the mercenaries to follow. He heads out and around the back, a faint "They must have slipped around the back." echoing back.

As the last of the men leaves, offering a hasty apology to the elderly priest who smiles in understanding, the wooden doors are closed again. The elderly priest tisk tisks. "Hot headed fool mages and their petty arrogance." He mutters as he joins the acolytes. "Now, what do they call you son? He asks they young half-orc, wearing the smock back to front he notes. "It seems Ilmater has blessed you this day. Come with me, we have much to discuss and you have much to learn."

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Fri Jan 17, 2014 9:09 am
by Seekerthefallen
Change. Change everywhere. Nothing was the same anymore, and it seemed like that was the only thing that would stay the same.

He'd come a long way since he'd first shown up in Waterdeep. Was he still the same person? He was fairly sure that the old Howard, the one who stuck to the straight and narrow and did what was best for him, was long gone. He wasn't sure what he was anymore, or what really drove him, but figured this was normal for someone his age. Heck, someone he considered about as close as you could come to a sister had just up and changed her entire look (and he didn't mean fashion style). That technically rated more unsettling than being killed and coming back with an ages-past demigod's mark.

He glanced from the open book on magical theory to the one under it on the local layout of the Trades Ward, then his eyes strayed to the small, closed volume of poetry. He hadn't managed to do anything more on that front, either.

Howard had a LOT of irons in the fire, and no sign of that changing any time soon. Unfinished Business was probably the only other constant that would be filling his life.

Re: The Daily Dragon: Journals

PostPosted: Sat Jan 18, 2014 2:02 pm
by Seekerthefallen

"His name was Riven, but you will call him River as often as possible." Ser Andrew Momen felt dirty all over. He had served Silverthumb for nearly a year and had though the merchant sent him on dirty missions, never had he insulted the dead. He was not good at hiding his distaste.

"Mistaken name and no family present?" dutifully asked a fellow with thin dark lips, tall and slender with a beauty that would melt hearts. Such a priest could lead women to their willing dooms -- and something inside Momen told him the priest already had. The knight looked away from the enthralling stare the shepherd leveled on him.

"Only a romance of his. The dead squire is to be humiliated, the ceremony a ridicule. Are you up to the task, priest?" Momen knew the answer, fishing in his pocket for the dirty coins. "My liege wants this ridicule known throughout the city."

The shepherd let his slender fingers rest on the knight's outreaching bribe, humored by the uncomfortable gesture. Silence carried its own charm and the agreement was made with little more than a coy twist of lips.

"I said: are you up to it?" and the knight turned burning eyes on the preacher of Waukeen.

"Your liege will have his ridicule," sang the serpent.