Post by lloyd on Jul 22, 2015 16:51:26 GMT -5
These tales will be kept in 3rd person and without Vocher’s lilting speech pattern for the sake of keeping me sane. It’s hard enough as it is typing a sentence for him (for now), but I do enjoy the image it brings enough to continue doing it during sessions. That said, they're told by Vocher over campfires/wherever the party is resting (if they're resting) between sessions, so as soon as I post these, the events within the stories are common knowledge to the party.
The day could not be better. A light spring drizzle passed over the village, without blocking the sun, creating spectacular displays of light. In his village these drizzles were known as the Mushroom Rains, for they created the perfect conditions for mushrooms to grow rapidly. He took a deep breath, savoring the fresh, earthy aroma of his home, his simple leather pack on his back, sheep’s wool bedroll strapped to its bottom, waterskins hanging off the sides, and a neat coil of rope hanging right on the back. He wiggled his toes inside his new, but already broken-in boots (gods know traveling in unbroken boots is condemning oneself to a special hell), tightened his grip on the fantastic ash branch that was now his staff, and ran his hand across the family dagger’s spherical pommel, the dagger itself a broad-bladed piece of handiwork commissioned by his great uncle when a traveling northern smith came by. Held its edge well-enough, and its uses were nigh limitless.
He heard the local monastery’s bells tolling their special tune that morning, signifying the departure of another class of the traveling monks, whose calling was to walk all the roads of the earth. The money for the monastery came from the older returning monks’ very well-drawn maps that had roads not previously drawn on older maps. The Order of the Traveling Quill was utilitarian as well as spiritual, and that is why they’ve been around for as long as anyone can remember. Now, at noon, he saw the group moving southwest, and with a grin strode in their direction to catch up. Traveling with this order was well-known to be safe; highwaymen never bothered them for they carried very little coin, and the wilier criminals knew the monks provided new maps with roads not yet claimed by other ill-intentioned groups. Those few that did choose to harass the monks quickly backed down after one of the accompanying masters shows that one does not need a weapon to defend oneself. Once he caught up, the traveling master nodded at his eager grin, and they continued.
They walked for days, stopping at villages for water and any food the villagers could donate. One of the benefits of being one of the Traveling Quills is everyone knows you do everyone a service in cartography-- donating food is a simple way to return the favor. As they traveled further, a few eager lads similar to Vocher joined the traveling crowd, but these were merely well-intentioned protectors of the monks that sought to prove themselves to themselves or their deities that they were willing to do good without pay. Vocher learned from them many things, including simple medicine, and even a little convenient magic, mostly utilitarian. Among the younger initiates and the assortment of companions, Vocher quickly gained a positive reputation for the simple and catchy tunes he whistled that made one forget of the heat of the sun and the aching feet for a little, and soon was called Whistler.
However, it was not long before he was drawn away from the safety of the group, for upon a hill sat a temple of a bygone age, its stone splotched with the deep green of moss, its pyramid structure a monolithic testament to an old religious fervor. The nearby villagers stayed away from it, for every new moon, a beating of drums could be heard coming from there, and a red tint seemed to shade the bright stars. A new moon on the way, a burning curiosity led Vocher to gather all the spooky tales he could of the structure, and then tell those same tales to his usual nightly audience in the monastic group. The masters sighed and told their initiates to get ideas of going there out of their heads, but did not dissuade the others. Thus, he and a band of other young enthusiasts prepared to go into the structure the next day. The masters promised to wait a day, but no more. With the confidence only young men in their prime could have, they waved aside the warning overtones, and planned their route.
The next day, Vocher set out with his adventuresome companions up the hill towards the structure. The closer they got to it, the quieter the surrounding woods became, and their giddy conversation gave way to an awed silence as they reached the summit, and the structure rose before them in its splendorous mystery. Their panting breaths echoed off its stones. “Aye, let’s take a break o’er here and see about what we’ll do from then”, he said between breaths. They sat down, took a break, and pressed in.
The first chamber was… the only chamber. A few steps that took them about 6 feet below ground, followed by a room about 40 feet on each side, with a serpent-man statue standing at the end, its serpent head sitting atop an otherwise human body, holding a stone bowl with a slew of engravings going all around the exterior. A peculiar sense of… expectation seemed to fill the room, as the young adventurers waited for something to happen. To their disappointment, nothing did. They turned around to exit the room, went up the stairs, and exited the pyramid.
As soon as the last of them passed the two pillars that stood outside the stairs, they heard a rushing sound, like that of a flame catching on a puddle of oil, and the tops of the pillars were suddenly lit with fire. A sound of stone scraping on stone could be heard, and the entrance was soon blocked by a slab of stone with an engraving of a great snake coiled around a screaming human. Twilight was beginning to fall, and everyone exchanged nervous glances. “How much time did we spend in there, eh? Last I reckon, sun was only just past noon.” “Aye, eerie bit of-” “Head count!” one yelled, a worried look on his face. “Where’s Whistler?"
A grim tattoo started echoing around the pyramid, and everything looked a little redder...
The day could not be better. A light spring drizzle passed over the village, without blocking the sun, creating spectacular displays of light. In his village these drizzles were known as the Mushroom Rains, for they created the perfect conditions for mushrooms to grow rapidly. He took a deep breath, savoring the fresh, earthy aroma of his home, his simple leather pack on his back, sheep’s wool bedroll strapped to its bottom, waterskins hanging off the sides, and a neat coil of rope hanging right on the back. He wiggled his toes inside his new, but already broken-in boots (gods know traveling in unbroken boots is condemning oneself to a special hell), tightened his grip on the fantastic ash branch that was now his staff, and ran his hand across the family dagger’s spherical pommel, the dagger itself a broad-bladed piece of handiwork commissioned by his great uncle when a traveling northern smith came by. Held its edge well-enough, and its uses were nigh limitless.
He heard the local monastery’s bells tolling their special tune that morning, signifying the departure of another class of the traveling monks, whose calling was to walk all the roads of the earth. The money for the monastery came from the older returning monks’ very well-drawn maps that had roads not previously drawn on older maps. The Order of the Traveling Quill was utilitarian as well as spiritual, and that is why they’ve been around for as long as anyone can remember. Now, at noon, he saw the group moving southwest, and with a grin strode in their direction to catch up. Traveling with this order was well-known to be safe; highwaymen never bothered them for they carried very little coin, and the wilier criminals knew the monks provided new maps with roads not yet claimed by other ill-intentioned groups. Those few that did choose to harass the monks quickly backed down after one of the accompanying masters shows that one does not need a weapon to defend oneself. Once he caught up, the traveling master nodded at his eager grin, and they continued.
They walked for days, stopping at villages for water and any food the villagers could donate. One of the benefits of being one of the Traveling Quills is everyone knows you do everyone a service in cartography-- donating food is a simple way to return the favor. As they traveled further, a few eager lads similar to Vocher joined the traveling crowd, but these were merely well-intentioned protectors of the monks that sought to prove themselves to themselves or their deities that they were willing to do good without pay. Vocher learned from them many things, including simple medicine, and even a little convenient magic, mostly utilitarian. Among the younger initiates and the assortment of companions, Vocher quickly gained a positive reputation for the simple and catchy tunes he whistled that made one forget of the heat of the sun and the aching feet for a little, and soon was called Whistler.
However, it was not long before he was drawn away from the safety of the group, for upon a hill sat a temple of a bygone age, its stone splotched with the deep green of moss, its pyramid structure a monolithic testament to an old religious fervor. The nearby villagers stayed away from it, for every new moon, a beating of drums could be heard coming from there, and a red tint seemed to shade the bright stars. A new moon on the way, a burning curiosity led Vocher to gather all the spooky tales he could of the structure, and then tell those same tales to his usual nightly audience in the monastic group. The masters sighed and told their initiates to get ideas of going there out of their heads, but did not dissuade the others. Thus, he and a band of other young enthusiasts prepared to go into the structure the next day. The masters promised to wait a day, but no more. With the confidence only young men in their prime could have, they waved aside the warning overtones, and planned their route.
The next day, Vocher set out with his adventuresome companions up the hill towards the structure. The closer they got to it, the quieter the surrounding woods became, and their giddy conversation gave way to an awed silence as they reached the summit, and the structure rose before them in its splendorous mystery. Their panting breaths echoed off its stones. “Aye, let’s take a break o’er here and see about what we’ll do from then”, he said between breaths. They sat down, took a break, and pressed in.
The first chamber was… the only chamber. A few steps that took them about 6 feet below ground, followed by a room about 40 feet on each side, with a serpent-man statue standing at the end, its serpent head sitting atop an otherwise human body, holding a stone bowl with a slew of engravings going all around the exterior. A peculiar sense of… expectation seemed to fill the room, as the young adventurers waited for something to happen. To their disappointment, nothing did. They turned around to exit the room, went up the stairs, and exited the pyramid.
As soon as the last of them passed the two pillars that stood outside the stairs, they heard a rushing sound, like that of a flame catching on a puddle of oil, and the tops of the pillars were suddenly lit with fire. A sound of stone scraping on stone could be heard, and the entrance was soon blocked by a slab of stone with an engraving of a great snake coiled around a screaming human. Twilight was beginning to fall, and everyone exchanged nervous glances. “How much time did we spend in there, eh? Last I reckon, sun was only just past noon.” “Aye, eerie bit of-” “Head count!” one yelled, a worried look on his face. “Where’s Whistler?"
A grim tattoo started echoing around the pyramid, and everything looked a little redder...