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 quote:Magic is dying and the Magus is dying with it. We travel together to the realm of Umbra where magic was born. Fall of Magic (designed by Ross Cowman) is a storytelling game of fantasy and melancholy where we travel through a map that opens before us and closes behind. We’ll make our way from the Magus’ home at Ravenhall to Umbra, the birthplace of magic, and find out who we are, who we were, and who we will become along the way. How do you play it? The basic rules are available for free on the designer’s site here, though this doc is missing the map and some other bits and pieces. I strongly advise checking out at least the first couple of pages ("About Story Games" through to "Good Ideas"), since they get across how the game works. The full digital version of the game is available through the link above, and the physical version of the game is available elsewhere on the site. The game follows the Magus (a shared character) and their retinue (our individual characters) as they go from Location to Location on their journey to the birthplace of magic. We take turns playing out Scenes involving our characters in each Location, before the Magus moves on to the next stop on their journey. At times these Scenes help to define our characters, and at times challenge or change them:
We’ll be using roll20 for one section of the game (the Lost Islands – a deck of cards that let us randomly pick Locations when the map reaches the sea), if we decide to go there. One extra rule: no images aside from the map and player icons (you’ll see those later, during character creation). Music is fine, though. How do I sign up? Tell me a little about something strange and fantastical – a place, a person (not your character - you don't know them yet), a group, a tradition, an object, a force of nature. Tell me around it – are there legends, rumours, customs, who does it matter to, what does or did it mean? I’m looking for a group of 3-5 people (including myself) who are coming to this with a similar enough approach. I'll close applications some time within a week, giving 24 hours of warning. - Our Cast  The Magus Their companions:  Justice, Midwife of Barleytown (played by AJ_Impy)  Kabu, Raven of Ravenhall (played by Fathis Munk)  Vago, Giant of Mistwood (played by Tyrannosaurus)  Harp, Fugitive of Stormguard (played by Antivehicular)  Caspian, Crab Singer of Istallia (played by UnCO3) Friends and strangers along the way: None as of yet - The Story So Far Chapter 1: They Say You Can Never Go Back - Useful links Discord How to join/contribute to the game once it's started UnCO3 fucked around with this message at 20:18 on Jan 18, 2019 |
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Nov 4, 2018 13:42
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| # ? Apr 16, 2024 22:08 |
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For as long as any of us can remember, the birds of this land have been our friends and allies. They are clever creatures and speak our languages, all of them. We treat them kindly and they return the favor by helping us. Agile sparrows flit between townships and countries, carrying news, trade deals and diplomatic offers. Cunning Ravens sit perched above the shoulders of kings, dispensing advice. Wise Owls teach our children, preparing them for life. Some people even say that birds first taught humans to speak, while others are convinced that some ancient wizard, a friend of all birds, granted them this gift. No matter who spoke first, our lives have always been intertwined with those of our feathered friends. In recent times however, there have been more and more reports of birds losing their voices. They seem to forget how to speak our language and revert to an anguished chirping and cawing. We care as best we can for these friends and hope that this is but a transitory phenomenon. Their tiny avian shoulders carry many responsibilities in our world. I am not quite sure how long this should be, hope this is ok
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Nov 4, 2018 15:15
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That's about as long as it needs to be at most. Also, very in keeping with the feel of the game. EDIT: Here's the first section of the map (with character creation on the left, ignore for now), to give people a feel for how this works:  Ravenhall, the Oak Hills, and Barleytown are Locations, and everything around them is a Scene. For example, when the Magus and their retinue are in the Oak Hills, you could set a Scene on Harper's Road about someone your character left behind, or when they're in Barleytown, you could set a Scene in the Old Abbey about a confession. If you set a Scene while Making Camp in the Oak Hills or in the Rose Gardens at Ravenhall, then you give one of those listed Traits to your or another player's character. When the Magus is at Ravenhall, everyone sets a Scene there, then we have more rounds of Scenes until someone decides to play the Magus and travel on to the Oak Hills (in doing so, setting a Scene in the Oak Hills using the prompt 'the ending of summer'). When the Magus moves on beyond Barleytown, we move to the next part of the map (the twisting route onwards is partly visible in the top-right). UnCO3 fucked around with this message at 15:59 on Nov 4, 2018 |
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Nov 4, 2018 15:49
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I'll write up something tonight for this
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Nov 4, 2018 17:39
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If you look up at the moon and the night is clear (and you squint just right), you can see the outlined shape of a giant fish. That is Selen. He is a catfish god and he lives there. If he's real. Which he might not be. Catfish are neither fish or nor cats but something entirely different and alien. People know this but no one ever bothered to come up with a different name. Something abut the whiskers and the gills. Honestly, no one thinks about it too hard except maybe older academics and pedants. As children of Selen, all catfish glow at night. Not in the dark. But specifically at night. The light is always the same-- a soothing, soft, white glow-- but can vary in brightness and intensity. A catfish's glow is a common compliment to nighttime rituals, services, funerals, weddings, beheadings... Most temples keep a collection which they breed like koi. Rural farmers are also known to raise them. In a storm, farmers will tie one to a staff and set out to find missing, panicked livestock. They believe the light attracts the lost animals back and they are correct. They also believe the catfish will keep them safe from lightning strikes. This is not true. There isn't a religious taboo to eating them. They just taste like mud and are rarely dined upon by regular folk. Allegedly, royal cooks cover them in cornmeal batter and submerge them in boiling animal fat and serve them during banquets. Allegedly, they are delicious. No one actively worships Selen. A drowning man might throw up a prayer in desperation. A sailor might whistle him for rain. A fisherman might ask for his help. But he is a catfish god and is, historically speaking, utterly indifferent to humans. Assuming that he even exists. Which he might not.
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Nov 5, 2018 18:04
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Also great! I’m going to close sign-ups 24 hours from midnight GMT today (so about 33 hours from now). If there’s anyone else who wants to sign up for the start of the game, write something up - it doesn’t have to be long and it won’t necessarily appear in the story. On the other hand, there will be opportunities for you to get involved as a full player or otherwise later on in the story, so you can watch or do some background participation (more on that later) for now if you like.
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Nov 6, 2018 15:49
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I'm interested. I'll try to get a snippet written before the deadline.
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Nov 6, 2018 16:19
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There is no such thing as a tree. Yes, yes, I know. Leaves, twigs, branches, bark, wood, copses, forests. Not the point. Each and every single one of the things we think of as trees are all part of one and the same organism, and it remembers. It knows who plucks fruit and cuts timber. That's why they're all so respectful, that's why orchard-keepers are such a secretive lot, it's why lumberjacks have so many traditions and superstitions. You never see a lumberjack that doesn't. You can hear them, briefly, beneath the timber on top of them, but disrespectful lumberjacks do not last long. Not more than a few days anyway. The trees remember. In general, they are kind: If there's a lot of wood to be cut, if you give a good explanation, there'll be no repercussions. If you lie to the trees, though... There was this ruler once. Said he needed the wood to build houses and 'expand their living-space'. Thought he was being clever. Built up siege-engines on a scale never before seen, towers, rams, catapults, bolt-throwers. Just as they were mobilising, the trees took their restitution. There's an impenetrable forest, thick and dense, where that capital used to be. No trace of the war machines was ever found. You do not lie to the trees. Shipbuilding? That's the weirdest thing. Whenever a settlement springs up on the coast, a few generations and there's a bountiful forest in easy walking distance. Tall., healthy trees, abundant and strong, plenty of citrus groves as well for some reason, It seems the trees are really fond of travelling over water, and you'll usually see most seafaring vessels carry a potted sapling or two. It's terrible bad luck if they perish, there are ships where it is said half the crew would be willing to die of thirst rather than let the saplings shrivel and wilt. AJ_Impy fucked around with this message at 21:12 on Nov 6, 2018 |
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Nov 6, 2018 21:08
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Antivehicular, just post something before we start the game. As long as it's in the same ballpark as everyone else's it'll be fine. In the meantime, everyone (including Antivehicular), let's get on with character creation. It's incredibly brief. Character Creation Firstly, follow these instructions:  Then, pick an icon (a pair of icons, actually, so the sword goes with the broken sword and so on) from this set made from player medallions included in the full physical game:             Use these in your posts to show who’s present in a Scene. I'll make my character and pick an icon last. And that’s it. Is a raven a raven? What’s a Crab Singer? These things and the rest, we’ll find out through play.
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Nov 8, 2018 10:47
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Justice. Midwife of Barley Town.
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Nov 8, 2018 12:10
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Kabu, Raven of Ravenhall.
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Nov 8, 2018 12:16
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Vago, Giant of Mistwood.
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Nov 8, 2018 17:16
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Mountains grow. They don't necessarily grow every season, or at a pace that people can follow, but they grow. They take in the trace minerals that fall with the rain, or seep out of the corpses of dead things, and they use it to replace what wind and water take away from them. This is how mountains are eternal; they regrow what is stolen. People say that every mountain has a different reason for this. The high, deadly ones regrow themselves to be constantly more treacherous, sprouting jagged stones in paths and fragile overhanging cliffs to trigger rockslides. The more gentle ones, the ones that accept humans living with and preying on them, regrow the contents of their mines, so a mineral seam might last longer than predicted. ("Longer than predicted" is not forever. No mountain can regrow at the rate that humans mine, even when the excess tailings and waste material are returned to the deepest pits, as is only proper.) Some optimistic souls believe that, with great kindness and frequent offerings, the treacherous mountains might be swayed to a more generous state of mind. If this is true, than none have managed it yet. Some mountains submit themselves to weathering and wear, slowing or stopping their growth. These low, rounded-off-looking mountains are thought by people to be the oldest of their kind, and for many this is true, but their slow growth is not a factor of age. A mountain could grow forever, if it cared to. These mountains have simply given up. -- I'll be Harp, Fugitive of Stormguard
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Nov 9, 2018 02:41
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Caspian, Crab Singer of Istallia. (not that we all needed to be from different places - in fact, it's fine to have the same title, just not the same name - but it's nice to have links to a whole bunch of places on the map) More info coming soon! For now, if you want to pick a default icon that other people should use when referring to your character (so as to not imply something you haven't already decided by, e.g., using the broken sword rather than the full one or vice versa), you can do so, and change it at any time. - Our cast: Justice, Midwife of Barleytown Kabu, Raven of Ravenhall Vago, Giant of Mistwood Harp, Fugitive of Stormguard Caspian, Crab Singer of Istallia
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Nov 9, 2018 08:53
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More info will come later in the day, but for now here's a Discord link for this (and other) games. You can join regardless of whether or not you're a player here.
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Nov 9, 2018 17:30
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Sorry for the delay - the game will start tonight. In the mean time, here's some pre-game info about various things: - How Fall of Magic will probably work best Fall of Magic is one of those games where the best parts of the story often come from things unexpectedly colliding or feeding into one another. Not every Scene has to deal with something big, and in fact most probably shouldn’t, but instead build up small, personal things that build up into something big later. This is another reason to have people play small or one-off parts in a Scene – so a different perspective can add more little details that you wouldn't necessarily have thought of yourself. Chapters The game will be split into a number of chapters, each covering several Locations. The first chapter will cover us starting at Ravenhall through to us leaving Barleytown. There'll be a break before the next chapter so that people can read back over what's happened in the last chapter, get up to date on other characters' stories, and think about where to go next. How to run Scenes There are two ways to go about a Scene. The first is to narrate it all yourself, speaking for any other characters present (but not player-characters). The second is to get on Discord and play it out with one or more other people taking on other rolls. That might mean a conversation or other scene involving different companions of the Magus, or even with the Magus themselves or a major NPC like the host of one of the places the journey will pass through. However, other perspectives are narratively valuable as well:
Here's the post format: code:How to get involved in the future
Right at the start of the game, in everyone's very first Scene at Ravenhall, add and underline a rumour your character has heard about the Magus. It can be about what they are, what they think, what they've done, or something else. Obviously, as just a rumour, there isn't necessarily any truth to it. This is something I’ve taken from a game of Fall of Magic I’ve read about, and I think it could be handy in building up the Magus a little at the start without actually committing anything to truth.
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Nov 16, 2018 18:33
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  The map opens...  ...and we start our journey at Ravenhall, present home and dwelling-place of the Magus.
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Nov 17, 2018 06:44
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The Scrying Pool Why you serve the Magus Caspian draws his indigo robes neatly about himself and sits. There’s no talk here, no words. It’s quiet enough. Only the staggered splashing of water as it overruns the lips of the higher layers of the scrying pool and the gentle lapping of waves on the edge of the lower, visible pool. Only the rippling of sorcerous blue torchlight reflected from those waves onto smooth stonework. Dark, quiet enough. Perhaps if people came here more often the scrying pool and its attendant fountains would be better-kept, and the water not so dirty, the surface not smothered with pale scum, but then there wouldn’t be this quiet enough place to come and sit and rest away from everything. Still. His eyes glance from one gap in the scum to another, picking out fragments of truth reflected in the black mirror beneath the water and avoiding the lies and fantasies caught in the froth. Istallia, Istallia, the golden towers and globes of Istallia, the sea, the hungry sea, the ravenous sea, black ink in the water, golden desert, silver seafoam, the seafloor wakes, the seafloor sleeps, the sea… it’s no use. He’s no scholar or mage, he can’t really read this tarnished pool. Not that it matters – he only looked to fulfil an idle curiosity. Just like the last time. And the time before. It’s a sick curiosity. He came here, to Ravenhall, to get away from it all. Does he really need to look back home to remind himself? He serves the Magus now, sings only as a lens over beauty, and that’s enough. It’s said that the Magus can see all future perfectly, with no need of the scrying pool, and that’s why they’ve allowed it to go to ruin unlike the rest of Ravenhall. But if that’s the case, if they have so much power, why would they allow the world to come to this? Why would they allow the fall of magic and their own death, and still – and only now – prepare to travel to Umbra? Caspian shrugs and turns away. Power must do strange things to the mind. Better to be powerless and sane, right? He sits in the blue-tinted dark a while longer.
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Nov 17, 2018 06:46
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The Menagerie The last time you saw real magic I feel Iko dance along my horns while I work. He is young and cheerful and excessively curious, even by songbird standards. I like him. "Your hands," he says. "They look too big. Thick fingers, you know? Very thick. Not precious-small like me. You look like you would... crush the petals, crush the stems, crush, crush, crush everything. How do you not crush everything?" "Practice," I say. I pinch another small cluster of flowers between my fingers and begin tying them into the colorful garland with wet raffia. I feel him hop down onto the top of my head. "Can I try?" he asks. "Be my guest." He doesn't, of course. Not when there are so many questions for the universe. Crows, I've learned, love to know answers. But nightingales? Those sweet little birds delight in the simple act of the ask. Especially young ones. I guess when you only have a few years to live... Iko flits about from horn to shoulder to head to horn and back again, back and forth, while he peppers me with questions. How do you choose which flowers to use? Whatever is fresh, really. How long do you make each garland? About the width of a man's arm. Why? I think it's a nice looking length. Can you make it smaller? Sure. Do people wear them as necklaces? Sometimes. If I make them for that purpose, sure. What's the longest one you've ever made? Thirty feet or so. Why'd you make it? A wedding. Was it a nice wedding? I don't know. I didn't go. Why not? Well, I wasn't invited. I was just hired to help decorate.Is this one for a wedding, too? No. What's it for? I cock my head towards the statue of the giant. He towers over the rest of the Magus' Menagerie. His spear and shield held high in the air. Every other week or so, I hang a new set of flowers around his horns and his neck. As long as the weather holds. It should a while now. "Is that based on you?" Iko asks. "It looks like you. The face, I mean. Not just the... you know... you also being a giant..." I gaze at the statue. My brother in white marble. Standing over the men of stone as I do the ones of flesh and blood. "Similar," I say. "Sure, sure. But older than I. Much." "Wow." he says. "And how old are you?" "Ancient," I smile. "What humans are to you, little one, I am to humans. But even more." "Wow. And how many weddings have you been to?" Men, I've learned, tire quickly of nightingales. Little interrogators, they call them. Incessant. I guess when you only have a few years to live... I carry on our conversation effortlessly (absentmindedly) until Iko spots a flock of his fellows and flies off with a quick goodbye. I finish my work in solitude. I walk over to my brother. I replace his wilted flowers with my fresh new batch. The weather will hold for a little longer, I think. So few living remember him. My brother. The others, too. For the best, I think. It was a terrible, terrible war. And such an awful cost to end it. For the best, I think, that so few living remember the cost. The life of a Magus. Such sacrifice. Such a loss of knowledge and power. I don't know if our Magus will ever know as much as the previous ones. Such heartbreaking loss. But generations have lived and loved and died since then. The age of blood and fire is long past. Good, I think. For the best. Even if I do miss my brother.
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Nov 19, 2018 06:24
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Rose Gardens +Beautiful +Legendary +Fierce Eyes closed, Justice traversed the Rose Garden by scent and memory. The sweet fragrance of the damascene roses, time to bear right towards the central bed. The spicy tang of the musk roses, turn again sunwise. The faint aroma of moss rose, just three paces more. There. She knelt upon the yielding loam and opened her eyes, that the first thing she saw were the freshest of buds, only just beginning to unfurl. The three before her were healthy, no sign of wilt or aphid, an auspicious omen for the journey ahead. To Justice's mind, a good start was vital, for there was no telling what yet awaited them as they neared Umbra. It was so like the Magus to take a Midwife to the birthplace of Magic. Signs and symbology, pattern and coincidence, these were the Magus' favoured tools, wielded with unparalleled deftness. Practical knowledge, too: Many a life had been successfully brought into this world where their existence had been on a coin's edge thanks to the wisdom the Magus had imparted. So, then, symbol and debt, a favour to a friend and mentor, but what of the others? She rose and looked over the serried ranks of rose bushes, the garden stylised and shaped into a topiary semblance of their titular flower, out towards the menagerie, and to the massive, towering unmistakable form looming there. Big, unmissable, ancient, patient. Vago, the Giant of Mistwood was legendary in their own right, especially here, with that statuary freshly garlanded. The flowers would wither long before they reached their goal, but could any other mantle the marble in their stead? A giant of flesh tending to a giant of stone, with so few of their kind left in the world. Aye, that one resonated in history and echoed in the future, ripples of myth splashing outwards from their deeds, their mere existence. Mayhap the Magus intended this journey never be forgotten. She departed the garden to seek him. Applying Legendary to Vago, the Giant of Mistwood. AJ_Impy fucked around with this message at 18:49 on Nov 19, 2018 |
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Nov 19, 2018 13:18
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The Bridge Your face in the river Kabu sat on the bridge railing, peering down at the water below. The river flowed by lazily and in its clear surface Kabu could see himself. He cocked his head this way and that, and to his great joy saw that his advanced age had not tarnished the glossy black of his feathers, nor the inquisitive look in his eyes. Much as he liked to complain about it, life at Ravenhall was good for a raven. Some said this was because the Magus was kin with the black-feathered birds, going so far as to suggest that ravens played an important role in the Magus’ family tree. Kabu had always scoffed at the notion, fantasies of simple people. In his opinion, the Magus saw to it that the ravens were well cared for simply because he could truly appreciate them as intelligent conversation partners, a role most common folk were sadly not up to par for. He hopped along the railing before throwing himself off and gliding down to the river bank. He angled his head sideways and dipped his beak into the fresh water. There was an ample supply of water in the feeders high up in the rafters of Ravenhall, but Kabu had always preferred to come drink here instead. For this alone he was considered as very adventurous for a raven, maybe that was part of why the Magus had asked him to come on this trip. It had not been an easy decision for old Kabu. It was rare for ravens to leave their home, even for particularly adventurous ones. He had built his nest here with Kira, his mate, over two dozen years ago and the two had lived there happily ever since. A few neighborhood quarrels with other raven pairs, but that was to be expected. Ravens loved and supported each other, but not without much complaining and many snide remarks. The only reason he felt able to go on this journey was that he had managed to convince Kira to accompany him. As long as they were together, no challenge would be insurmountable. As long as they were together, they would be at home. Or so he hoped at least.
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Nov 19, 2018 18:35
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The Menagerie The last time you saw real magic In his menagerie, among the exotic beasts and marble statues, the Magus keeps a paddock of horses. If there's anything special about them, it's beyond my power to know; of course, I've never been much good with animals. The horses seem healthy, big sleek beasts that look like they could climb mountains, but are they magic? I couldn't say. I was never much good with that, or had the chance to be. Back at home, magic was for the Crown, and they flaunted it. The Prince favored fireworks, first for festivals and then for the great military victories he won or pretended to. By the time I fled, it seemed like there were fireworks every new moon, and it seemed like the whole city would gather to watch them. We ought to have been tired of them. We should have hated them. I don't think any of us could, though; they were just too beautiful, so huge and brilliant it seemed like you could reach up and carry them away with you. There were fireworks the night I ran away. I knew what I had to do -- I knew there was no other night that would offer that distraction -- and yet I almost stayed, just to watch one last time. They were all green and white, like water lilies floating on the pond of the sky. To see magic is to be helpless against it. At least, that's what I thought until I reached Ravenhall, until I walked in the Magus's halls, until I met the man himself. They say the Magus was a foundling, an orphan who gained his position purely on merit. I can't say for sure -- I don't know enough about how Ravenhall works to know if such a thing is even possible -- but it gives me a little hope for myself, selfish as it is. I've never been much of anyone. These days, I'm less of anyone than I've ever been. But if these horses can thrive in the Magus's menagerie, maybe I've got a chance in his fellowship. Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 22:46 on Nov 20, 2018 |
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Nov 20, 2018 03:18
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In this round I'll be playing the Magus, about whom we know the following facts and rumours, among others:UnCO3 posted:It's said that the Magus can see all future perfectly. Tyrannosaurus posted:I don't know if our Magus will ever know as much as the previous ones. AJ_Impy posted:Signs and symbology, pattern and coincidence, these were the Magus' favoured tools, wielded with unparalleled deftness. Fathis Munk posted:Some said this was because the Magus was kin with the black-feathered birds, going so far as to suggest that ravens played an important role in the Magus' family tree. Antivehicular posted:They say the Magus was a foundling, an orphan who gained their position purely on merit.
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Nov 20, 2018 14:47
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The Scrying Pool Why you serve the Magus Justice proceeded towards the Scrying Pool from the Rose Garden. Unlike the latter, this place had seen more than its share of neglect of late: few could face the future unperturbed, especially those who glimpsed the truest sight of it. The weight of the unresolved was heavy upon those with power. Justice was uneasy near it, for she and her abilities dealt with the edge of life and death, unmatched joy and unbearable sorrow, and glimpsing what might be did not help. Nonetheless, the first thing that drew her attention was that she was not alone. Caspian hurriedly gets to his feet as the midwife enters, and gives a slightly stiff, awkward half-bow, coughs, and gestures to the pool. "Go ahead, I only paused here to rest a while. If you'd like to be alone, I can leave--" She waved away his offer offhandedly. Her work involved people, at their rawest and most real, and an extra presence was a comfort rather than a hindrance. "It's all right, Your presence in an unexpected boon, auspicious and welcome. As we are to travel together, to be here at the setting out, at the looking ahead, aids the visions, and soothe the noise. What we do together comes to the fore rather than our separate lives. How are you handling it all, by the by?" "Well." He says, and gingerly sits again. "Um. That is to say. I'm not untroubled, but what will come will come, and I suppose I can't really help that." He flicks his eyes down to the pool and they bounce back before they spy anything coherent. "Rather, I'm a little more preoccupied with how best to help you and the other esteemed travellers - Vago and that raven the Magus is so fond of, the wiser one. I'm afraid all I can offer is my singing voice, but if there's anything I can sing along the way to ease your burdens, then by all means, ask away. Ahah!" She smiled, kindly and with a hint of mirth in the corners of her eyes. “The Magus chose you just the same as he chose us, and any of us could have said ‘no’ were we so inclined. We serve willingly, best as I can see.” She focused on the pool, the eddies of fate and time within, filtering out the might be and the mayhap. In truth, the path was hazy, much still to be determined, but she was tasked with trying. Without looking up, she said, “I never shared why I chose to serve, why I’ll trek to the umbra. The Magus and I go back a ways, when I was in my youth and first had an inkling of the Gift they sent me here. There was little the Magus taught me, but much I learned from them, some lessons only occurring to me years later, seeds planted deep. A debt of gratitude, a crop of lives won that’d be lost otherwise. When the Magus asked, it was an easy choice, though there’s fewer new souls in these parts than back in Barleytown.” Caspian leans in and loosens up a little as the midwife talks. When she's done, he mulls her words for a moment, turns to the pool, and then speaks: "Thank you for the vote of confidence. Even so... you've done so much more good than I ever could. Just as much as you follow the Magus, they must trust in you, or that's the way I see it." And with that, he gets to his feet. "I really should go and finish my preparations for the journey ahead, but thank you... ah?" “Justice.” She replied, a little chagrined even after a lifetime. “My parents named us for virtues and the like, there’s a fair few of my siblings worse off. Caspian, isn’t it? ‘The singer whose voice eases the most troubled souls and could part an angered forest’?” He blushes slightly. "Caspian, yes. I'm not so sure about the rest. And about names, I can understand somewhat. My--people like me are named for seas, like the shallow seas, and then the deeper and deeper ones below. Some of them can be rather unwieldy, as names go." "I look forward to travelling with you, then. May your preparation be easy and thorough." She said, as he took his leave. AJ_Impy fucked around with this message at 23:46 on Nov 20, 2018 |
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Nov 20, 2018 23:39
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The Rose Gardens +Beautiful +Legendary +Fierce On his way back to the conjugal nest, Kabu landed in the Rose Gardens. He hopped through the alleys, cocking his head this way and that and looking for a rose to pick for Kira. Only the most beautiful flower would do for the most beautiful raven. As he rounded one of the bushes, he caught a glimpse of Justice leaving the gardens. He did not know the midwife personally but had heard the Magus talk of her and had spotted her a few times during previous visits to Ravenhall. While there were many visitors coming to Ravenhall, Justice stood out in his memory. Kabu suddenly realized that it was because in a way, Justice was beautiful for a human. Not physically of course, long fleshy limbs and smooth skin did very little for Kabu, but rather in the way she acted. The way she carried herself and took in the world around her. There seemed to be kindness and joy in all her movements, support and comfort in each of her words. He had met nice and kind humans before, but somehow had not felt the same about them. He couldn’t quite put the talon on why. In any case, Kabu figured there would be time enough to observe Justice during the trip to Umbra. Still he was intrigued why this realization had struck him at that exact moment. He hopped along, lost in his thoughts, completely forgetting what he had come for. Applying Beautiful to Justice, Midwife of Barleytown
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Nov 26, 2018 20:31
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+ Legendary The Bridge Your face in the river Piece by piece, I carry the Magus's mighty, multi-storied wagon to the bridge. The wheels in one trip. The painted boards in another. The colorful flags and banners under one arm. Chairs. Tables. Ladders. Bookcases. Books. Scrolls. Bottles. Bags. And a hundred other things. I suspect it will take me a full two days to get everything outside. And that's before I even start to assemble it all. It is magnificent, of course. The wagon. As is "proper," I suppose. But it is also a silly amount of work to get ready. The original cart was far easier. Smaller, too. More manageable. Less things. But that was... three... maybe four Magus ago? Yes, four, I think. Four. She had a much more humble aesthetic. Lovely woman. Wove a crown of flowers into her hair. Tied garlands with me sometimes. When she wasn't too busy. Then her successor came along and thought it would be tremendously clever to create a new wagon -- one precisely the correct height and width to slide though Ravenhall's gates just so. You can hardly get a piece of paper between the wood of the wagon and the stone of the wall. Which is fine, I think, when one is driving it by magic. Impressive, even. But I pull the wagon now myself. And I won't play the fool in trying to get the angles exactly right so it'll fit. Easier to just assemble it outside. Assemble it here. I take a moment to rest. I lean over the bridge and reach down into the river, interrupting my reflection so I can cup some water in my hand. I drink.
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Dec 4, 2018 05:06
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The Bridge Your face in the river They're about to start building the wagon. By "they," of course, I mean the giant: the same one I saw in the Menagerie (if there are even any others) -- Vago, I believe his name is, one of the legends of Ravenhall. The cart is on his scale, a huge beautiful thing that seems built to his scale near-precisely. It's got the scope of this place, majestic even in its gaudiness. Everything at Ravenhall is like that: outsized, almost fairy-tale. I turn away and glance down into the water, where my looks back at me, coarse and humble. A plain, weathered face, never pretty even before I took to the blade and then went on the run. Even my scars aren't worth noting, little things from misadventures I don't remember. I don't fit here. Of course, I don't fit anywhere -- how is this anything new? The people of Ravenhall have been kind to me. They haven't asked questions. I've spent too much of my time here recuperating from all of those scarring little misadventures -- and frankly, I've spent too much of it brooding. That's not a luxury I'll have soon, and it's time to stop pretending it's even something worth indulging in. I didn't come here to die. (Did I?) What I wanted all those weeks ago doesn't matter. What I want now, and what I need, is to start being a part of this journey. I approach the disassembled cart; the giant is taking a well-deserved rest, but I can see others ready to begin work. "So," I say. "How do we put this together?"
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Dec 4, 2018 06:58
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With preparations complete, we leave Ravenhall for Barleytown, making our way through the Oak Hills...  The Oak Hills The ending of summer These days it's a long two days' travel to Barleytown, even with a giant pulling you along. The pace has slowed now in the evening, as Vago shields his eyes with one hand and pulls only with the other. At least the Magus and everyone else in the wagon is afforded a little respite from the spite of the low summer sun. Waves of light roll along from the horizon and crash against the closed-up front windows and leak through the wooden shutters and seep into the wood, colouring it amber and cerulean, but inside the wagon proper there is blessed candlelit darkness. The Magus herself is hunched over a book on the dining table in the common quarters. She came down from her private library some hours ago, only to read by herself. She's wearing a coat of dark green wool and a severe, harried expression. She's always had crow's feet, even when she was young. Back then they'd surface with every stubborn frown or impish grin or triumphant laugh, and nowadays... well, with every stubborn frown. Her eyes flit about the words, piecing together some arcane secret or other, before she flips the page again. But this time she closes the book, bringing the full weight of what she's read so far thudding down onto the third or so left to go. "Justice." It was a request or a question, even if it didn't sound like one. The Midwife attended attentively, looking up from her own studies (You never stopped learning, and could never say where the knowledge that might spare a life might spring from) to draw near to the Magus. Her answer might have been a question, if not for the downward inflection born of trust and loyalty. There could be but one answer to that call. "Yes, Magus." The Magus rests her eyes a moment before looking over to Justice, and then she speaks. "How old is the last child that was born at Ravenhall?" She answered without hesitation, "Elissa Rowanwell, born to Carea Rowanwell six months and thirteen days ago. There is a possibility that Agnesia of the three gables could have bourne hers already since we left, but it would be a tragedy if it was so, too soon by any measure, and when last I checked they were hale and hearty." "And this girl, did she take to her mother's milk?" The Magus fixes the midwife with her eyes. "How soon did the mother recover? How many nightingales sat on the sill to watch? What did they ask you, and what did they ask the father, and what did they ask each other? Which way did the wind blow on the day it happened? What was the colour of the sky the previous and next mornings? Tell me." "She did, favouring the left breast first. The mother took two days to be up and about, and two months to raise her mood and wakefulness. There were between three and seven nightingales on the sill from labour to the afters, five at the moments of birth. They asked after the child's siblings and their caring kin, they asked the father of his mood, they asked each other for space and room, and to stop jostling. It was a nor-easterly breeze, gentle and crisp. Cerulean prior, a pink haze subsequent." Justice rattled off, for the details of partuitomancy were long an aspect of her craft. The Magus' expression softens in a way that only those familiar would spot, and she drums her fingers on the book, correlating its ancient wisdom - on, of all things, prophecies gleaned from conversations with nightingales - with new portents. "Yes. Yes... Not too bad, all things considered. Not auspicious, but hardly dire. Yes. Make sure to feed any sparrows we should meet along the way to Barleytown, and tell me at once if you feel a south-easterly wind. Yes, and pour out a measure of blue ink mixed with three measures water in the morning, into the soil. Keep an eye out for foxes, too, though I shouldn't expect to see any this far out from Mistwood." With the conversation spent, she picks up her book and makes her way back up the ladder, but halts just after her head disappears from view. "Oh--Rowanwell? Rowanwell... Well done on the delivery. She was supposed to die, and the mother not long after, and then the father, he... Never mind." And then she's gone. Justice could not help but smile at that: Keeping her charge, both of her charges on this side of that one line was the ultimate execution of her calling, and the truth the Magus spake was truly a reward. She resumed her studies. Above her comes the muffled sound of wooden shutters being opened, and the Magus calling: "Vago! You can rest now." The last sunlight ebbs from the sky in bands of ruby, amber, verde, and indigo, and the wagon comes to a slow and gentle halt. UnCO3 fucked around with this message at 20:12 on Dec 6, 2018 |
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Dec 6, 2018 20:06
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From this point on people can join the game as further companions. For more info, check out the links at the bottom of the first post, and check in on the discord.
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Dec 6, 2018 20:07
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+ Legendary Making Camp +Wealthy +Cunning +Kind “Word travels fast,” Harp says. “Always,” I say. A small contingent of farmers watch us from a nearby hillside. No doubt the result of some small, excitable bird flying ahead with the “good news” of our arrival. Soon they’ll come closer, curious and hopeful of catching a glimpse of the Magus herself. Some sweet child, emboldened by youth, will lead the way, I’m sure. But for now they lean against their staves and scratch their beards and whisper amongst themselves. And watch us. Mostly they just watch us. “Are you ready?” “Just a moment,” she says. She alone came to help me set up the wagon for travel. An unnecessary gesture but appreciated. Time consuming for us both, it was. Generous, she is. Clever, too. Quite. And she has such small hands... “There are two tricks to setting up a Magus’ camp,” I say. “The first is to make it look like magic. The second is to remember that it 100% isn’t.” Inside the towering, multi-storied wagon is an elaborate fly system. Rope lines, blocks, weights, counterweights. Of course, no one really knows this. Trade secret, it is. Because when done correctly, when the right levers are pulled at the right time, the wagon almost instantaneously transforms. Walls expand out. Awnings sprout up. Doors and windows appear. It’s really quite theatrical. And if we keep a couple of hot coals in a cooking pot -- which I always make sure we do -- then we can have the chimney spouting up pleasant little puffs of smoke in no time at all. “Are you ready?” I repeat. “Hold on, this cord’s twisted. Blocking the progress of one of the counterweights. … There. Ready.” She really is quite clever. Applying Cunning to Harp, the Fugitive of Stormguard.
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Dec 8, 2018 22:14
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By Firelight A comfort from home When the wagon first reassembles, Caspian gawps - but then he spies the hidden ropes and strings when he steps back inside, and it all makes sense. Elaborate theatrics are common to all those who wield magic, it seems. Though they hold his interest, they don't exactly dazzle him the same way they do the farmers and children - then again, these illusions aren't for his sake, so what does it matter if he sees behind the curtain? While someone else prepares dinner, he steals away to his cabin - now a well-windowed twilight-coloured room - and fishes out a rippled, blue glass jar from his possessions. The insides are murky - scaly - was that an eye? - and the jar comes bound with a utilitarian steel skewer. He returns to the dining hall-kitchen and pulls up a chair by the stove, amidst hanging onions and garlic cloves and drawers upon drawers of vegetables and spices, all orange, red and white in the firelight. He takes a look at the jar, rolls it back and forth in his hands for a moment. It smells of the sea and the shore, and his nose picks up that faint aquatic odour of acrid air even over the mingling incense and bubbling stew scented with anise and cinnamon. Sometimes there's no escape from home, and sometimes he carries it with him willingly. He pops out the stopper and picks out one of the things inside with the skewer... Pickled pygmy cuttlefish (you have to crunch the bones). Experience has taught him that nobody else enjoys the flavour, but at least the smell is tolerably briny rather than the wafty fermentation of some of the other famous or infamous Istallian delicacies. He doesn't get through many of them before someone - Harp - taps him on the shoulder. They need more people to help cook. Oh well... freedom from physical labour is a privilege only afforded to the Magus, it seems.
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Dec 13, 2018 03:55
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Harper's Road Who you left behind Kabu jerks his head to the side, breaking off the oak twig he is holding in his beak. He lets himself glide down into the grass and adds it to a growing pile of twigs. The sun is rapidly disappearing behind the Oak Hills, bathing the trees in a warm glow. The light has that peculiar quality that Kabu has always associated with the end of summer. To him sunsets were always particularly warm and glowing at that time of year, as if the sun was doing its best to stave off the encroaching night that would soon dominate the day. After picking up as many twigs as possible, Kabu rises above the trees with a few beats of his wings. He flies in a large arc before spotting the road that dips and crests among the hills, and in the distance a thin plume of rising smoke. As he nears the wagon he sees that it has stopped for the night. Down there on the ground, most of the sun is gone, blocked by the hills and trees, but up here in the sky, the light is still fighting. Kabu stops beating his wings and lazily glides towards his destination, basking in the last sun rays. It seems like Kira has had the same idea, Kabu spots her flying in circles above the set-up wagon. He rushes towards her and barrels past in a mad wing-tucked dive before spreading his wings and abruptly looping around. Kira had chased after him, as he had expected and as they come face to face they interlock talons and dance across the fiery sky, letting go and coming back together. When the sun is finally gone, the two ravens land atop the wagon, near the beginnings of their new nest. Kabu drops the twigs and Kira starts working them into their new home. “It took you long enough, I was starting to get worried about you.” She says, chiding him gently, a bit out of breath. “Sorry about making you wait, but there are so many things to see here. The trees feel so different from those back in Ravenhall. I am starting to think the swallows have it right.” “Hah, are you going to start migrating with them? If you hurry you might still catch a flock.” “I think that is a bit too much traveling. There is something to be said about coming back home to your cozy nest at night.” “Speaking of cozy nest,” Kira points at the pile of twigs with her beak, “this one is far from done and I need a few smaller pieces to continue.” As Kabu starts breaking some of the branches into smaller parts, his mind wanders back to their nest in Ravenhall. A true masterpiece of a nest, in his eyes it was the finest one he had ever seen. Kira had been steadily improving it over the last dozen years and if there was one thing both ravens had regretted to leave behind, it was their home. Contrarily to humans, raven families did not stay together and Kira and Kabu’s children had left Ravenhall many years ago to find their own life and partner. They had considered to try and take the nest with them, but over the years it and the tower it was built in had become too interlinked to separate them. So now they had to start anew and while the beginnings looked promising, it would be a while until they started to resemble their old home.
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Dec 14, 2018 11:18
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+Cunning Making Camp +Wealthy +Cunning +Kind Cooking for the whole camp is nearly as theatrical as unfolding the wagon. Travelers from Ravenhall put great stock in choosing their own food, and so a dozen cookfires are set up: one large central one, for preparing the large pot of mutton-and-root-vegetable stew that will feed those without strong opinions, and many smaller ones for those who are cooking for themselves. Getting the stones aligned and the fires burning is the work of many hands, and I track down Caspian in hope of more help. In time, this'll be easier, but right now I'm fighting against exhaustion, and I'm not sure I'm winning. Once the fires are lit and people start to bring out the pots and pans, I take a seat on a rock and exhale. All this trouble for food? There are a lot of people to feed, but even so... there's just something about it I'm not sure I understand, or understand yet. At home, food was what you had on hand or what your coin bought in the market today. I had favorites -- there was a stall in the market that made peppered squab, and sometimes when I smell meat frying I miss it powerfully -- but usually I ate what I could, and as much of it as I could while I had it. That was what food meant. For my fellows, it's about something bigger: the taste? The memories the tastes conjure? It's not stupid, it's not crazy, it's just... hard to think about as something that could be mine, too. There's a sudden smell of something salty, and I realize Caspian is sitting next to me, crunching on something from a jar he's carrying. Pickled seafood? It smells... different. The cooks of Ravenhall make sweet preserves, not pickles, and at home I didn't often have the money for a jar of anything preserved. I figure it can't hurt to ask if I can indulge some curiosity. "May I?" He nods, with his mouth full, and hands me a steel skewer. The thing I pull out of the jar is long and segmented, with a shell that crunches between my teeth. I'm not sure it tastes good? But it tastes interesting. I'll remember this, and tonight. Applying +Kind to Caspian!
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Dec 17, 2018 05:04
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+Beautiful At Dawn Your morning ritual Justice was warming herself by the fire, when one of the locals approached, their features beset by worry and stress. A helpful sparrow that she had fed en route had spread the word of her presence with the Magus, allowing a shoot of hope to sprout from the mire of fear. He ummed and urred too and fro, alternately fretful and fearful, before breaking the silence. "'Scuse us, but we know your trade - we heard from the birds - and you might be the only one who can help us. We'll pay, 'course. Grain, barley, milk, leather, cow, whatever you need. Just... we need your help. Please." Justice rose, smiling professionally and inclining her head respectfully to help put the man at his ease. She glanced around at her companions to be sure they knew of her disposition should the matter be raised, and answered, "Of course. Show me the way, and I will see what I can do." The farmer guided her out, past the rolling hills, and into the moonless darkness. Despite the lack of any light, it seemed both he and the midwife know the lay of the land by heart. Not more than half an hour of barely-broken silence later, she saw at last that they were travelling towards a distant constellation of flickering lamplights. As they came closer, the specks of light slowly settled into the familiar shapes of a farmhouse and barn. With a knock, the barn door opened, revealing a warmly lit, yet painful tableau: a cow on its side, attended gingerly by farmhands, swollen with child and uncomfortably snorting and flicking her tail. Everyone looked up at Justice's arrival, eyes bursting with desperation and, in some cases, recognition. After the silence of the journey over, the farmer overflowed with words: "She's just in here, but she's not well. She's very late, we know, very strange, it'd be tough to keep a summer calf going through the end of the year, but the bigger problem is, see, the problem is, the calf isn't coming out right. Tail first. I thought... we thought... if we can't find help, we'll lose the both of them." Justice followed, swift and sure. When her services were needed urgently, it meant that multiple lives were on the line, and given what the loss of a cow and calf could do to a small homesteading, the ripples could spread far and deep. Instantly, she was fully her profession, resting a hand on the labouring cow's flank, and visually assessing how far along things were. She frowned, but didn't let it cross her face: There would be a price to pay come the morning, there often was, but for now she needed to put in the hard and dirty work. "You. A bucket of water. Hot enough to scald, now.You, a pair of sturdy ropes, clean as you have, loose noose at one end. You, head out to the sycamore tree by the yard. Bow to it, then tell it and the raven in its branches that Justice wishes to parley at dawn." Once the bucket arrived, she gritted her teeth and plunged her arms in to the elbow, scalding them more than a little but trading that pain and inconsequent burn for lives and livelihoods. Then, the moment of truth. Singing a soothing lullaby to the distressed animal, firmly manipulating the stuck calf, reversing its egress and pulling free first one rear hoof then the other, with the ropes doused in the scalding water. Once the legs were clear, she secured the ropes to them, and selected two of the bystanders who seemed strong and smart enough. "You and you. One rope each. I need a steady, firm pull, no jerks or jounces, slowly putting more of your weight behind it." The two wiry farmhands proved competent for the task at hand. The farmer and the rest stood to the side in hushed silence, but Justice's chosen helpers watched her keenly and warned each other any time the scalding hot rope slipped through their hands, leaving the midwife free to focus on the problem at hand. Slowly, but surely, the calf's hind half came free. Its legs still feebly pulled and shook with life, and the mother now only grunted and softly cried and kept still. In a moment of silence, a second's respite, everyone heard another voice join the mother. The calf, at last, began to cry, muffled though it was. The cord must have been severed by the pressures of birth, and it breathed whatever meagre air could seep inside its mother's body. Then came the penultimate challenge - guiding the calf's forelegs and head free of the birth canal. With the rear half clear, it was a matter of keeping up the tension on the ropes, making sure the forelegs weren't unnaturally jammed Time was of the essence, with the cord severed they didn't have long at all to get the head clear and clean. "Keep it up, strong and steady, don't ease up now. No tugging, just a steady pull, gently does it. " The tone of voice in which she gave the command was calm and in control. The truth of the situation was on a knife edge. Everyone seemed reassured, and after the brief rest the farmhands resumed pulling. Inch by bloody inch, the calf and the first fragments of afterbirth came free. Inch by inch the sky turned a bold red, great gashes of amber cutting across the far edges of the clouds. The work was slow and precise, incredibly precise, and incredibly tender, all of which just made it all the slower, but Justice's hands worked as if by magic as she guided the calf free - and then, there it was. The small, frail body drooped onto the dusty floor, skin slicked with afterbirth picking up the dirt as the chest slowly worked up and down. Its mother turned itself and slowly began to lick her child clean. At the same time, there was a great breathing-out - soft laughter, murmurs of relief, pensive breaths finally let loose, a great collective sigh in the barn. The first rays of autumn dawn brushed over the farmer's face as he came to Justice. "I can't... I just... Thank you. Name your price, I'll see that you get it." Ah, the price. She glanced up at the crimson sky, knowing that that payment would be due come the morning, for trifling with life and death was no simple matter. "Send someone to where the Magus is encamped, and ask those around the fire what supplies they need for the road ahead. I'll be keeping vigil here 'til dawn, make sure mother and child are staying strong." Time passed. The moon descended, and finally, presaged by a dawn chorus, the sun began to rise. Justice checked on the cow and calf one last time then headed out to the sycamore in the yard, curtsying deeply before it. "I bid you greetings and come in supplication. Two lives were spared this night, two deaths averted. I offer of my lifeline in recompense, a measure of time granted to them. I have spared the mother, let them kindle life anew. I have spared the child, let them live out a fresh set of days. If you would seek a boon of me ask, or let your silence be the seal on the matter." The raven hops down to a lower brunch and speaks for the tree: "There's a lonely seed down by the roots. You'll need to take it on your journey and plant it in the good black earth over the sea. Good luck -" it bobs its head and turns, listening to the tree "- and be wary of the trees you meet there. Last known, they were not of the good mind. Goodbye!" Job done, the bird flaps up and away into the wind. Justice knelt before the tree and intoned the coda for the ritual. "So it has been said, so it shall be done. Lives are saved, death's grasp staved, path undaunted, seeds to be planted." She claimed the seed and gathered it close, rising up, curtsying one last time, then returning to the Magus' encampment. Wearied and worn, she would be of little use on the next leg of travel, but life and death did not wait, and few knew that as well as the Magus.
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Jan 3, 2019 10:28
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Passing through the Oak Hills, we cross into the amber fields of the Barley Lord... Barley Town The hospitality of the Barley Lord The approach to Barleytown was obvious: Vast tracts of land thick with amber grain, billowing and roiling in the breeze under the watchful perception of the occasional copse of trees. The outlying farmsteads were getting closer together,and the occasional family came into gawping range as the vasty wagon and its massive hauler continued on in the direction of the town proper, two- and three-storey buildings hoving into view. A horn blew from somewhere within the town and an honor guard escort of "knights" rode out to meet them. The riders were barely older than children. A brother and a sister, by the look of their similar features. The same small, slightly upturned noses. The same freckled spotted cheeks. The same rustic brown hair, shoulder length, the color of bark and dirt. The faces of their wooden shields were painted to look like barley fields. The brother carried a long stick like a spear. The girl chewed on a blade of grass. "Dad said a finch said the Barley Lord said a goose said you'd be coming," she quipped. "Follow us!" "Follow us!" her brother repeated enthusiastically. "We'll lead you right there! We know the best route!" The best route, of course, was straight ahead. But Vago the Giant thanked them kindly for their help all the same. As the wagon rumbled through the town, families stopped what they were doing to watch. Some threw flowers like it was a parade. Vago waved. But if the people were hoping to see the Magus, she stayed hidden inside and out of sight. As incorrigible gossips as the finches may be, they certainly weren’t wrong. Barleytown, like its beer, was steeped in the old ways, of trust and hospitality, of respecting the trees and heeding the birds. And when such an august personage as the Magus herself came to town... The Barley Lord was standing outside the town hall, a place of assemblage as well as official business. Brown hair was common here, though his had verges of steel at the temples. Plentiful food had warred with honest work over his physical frame, resulting in someone physically large and as solidly built as a keg, banded with iron but containing a plenitude. He bowed low before Vago and the wagon of the Magus, declaiming with a voice trained to carry, “Welcome, welcome! Our hearth is yours, our table shall be set for you, fresh salted bread and cooled beer await you. We are honoured to have you here.” The Barley Lord opened his arms for dramatic effect and, as if on queue, possibly even on queue, a circular door opened up on the side of the wagon. A set of small stairs rolled out like carpet and the Magus stepped down them. She walked unhurriedly to towards the Barley Lord, reached up, and patted his cheek in an affectionate, grandmotherly way. She was young enough to be his child but she'd always carried the presence of someone much older. Some unseen burden or weight that aged her in a way that was difficult to place or describe. "Good beer, good year," she said. A prophecy? An adage? A simple, short, well-wishing? The Barley Lord's broad smile and wide eyes implied his belief that more words were forthcoming from her. And he waited. But the Magus stood there and said nothing. "Ah, yes," he said finally, clapping his hands together. "Good beer, good year. Welcome, welcome! Come inside!"
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Jan 16, 2019 20:52
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+ Legendary Swine Hill A battle fought long ago The two "knights" follow me as I walk. The siblings. They're trying to be quiet about it. But they're on horseback. And they keep riding up and down the same paths around me. Making passes. I can see that they're daring one another to get closer. I stop and I wait until I catch their eye and then I motion them to me. Their approach is slow. Cautious. The boy has his stick cocked in his arm like a lance. Good form, too. Maybe he was taught once by a passing knight or a retired soldier. The girl has... an actual sword. Interesting. The boy stops someways away but his sister rides closer. Almost within reach. "Good morning," I say. "And a fine one, at that. Is the weather always so fair upon this stretch of land?" "What are you doing?" she asks, her eyes narrowed. "Going for a walk," I say. "Would you care to join me?" "Is it true that you eat men?" she asks. "That you're a man-eater?" "No," I say, shaking my head. "I don't eat men... But... children?" I wink at her brother. "Now that's a mighty fine meal for a big, scary giant." "We're not children," she says quickly. "Then you have no reason to be afraid. Would you like to walk with me?" Neither of them respond. I smile and turn my back and I continue along the path. After a moment's pause, they spur their horses and begin trotting beside me. The boy keeps his sister and her horse between us. "Are you man or beast?" the girl asks. "You look like a man in the face but... you have horns like an animal." "Is a bird, man or beast?" I reply. "It has the voice of a man but the feet of a lizard. No, a bird is a bird, a man is a man, and a giant is a giant. And I am a giant." The boy clear his throat. Unlike his sister, his voice is shaky. "A finch said you were a man-eater," he says. "Really?" I say. "Was it the same one that told you the Magus was coming or...?" "I- I don't know. I have a hard time telling them apart." I laugh. "They have a hard time telling themselves apart, too!" And then the children laugh, too. The rest of the walk is pleasant. I ask them about Barley Town. About their parentage. About their hopes and fears. Conversation always comes easy with children and birds. They ask me about monsters and legends. They don't ask me about a war. Which means it truly has been forgotten. Which is nice. Everything has changed. Even the names have changed. When we arrive at "Swine Hill," I sit down. Using one hand, I dig a line in the earth. And then I fill it with seeds from my bag. Assorted flowers. I doubt they'll grow here but... unlike humans and their funeral pyres, we giants bury our dead. And the bones of some of my kin reside deep in the dirt beneath us. I glance at the children. I'm sure some of their ancestors do, as well. Unintentionally. Many, many, many, many, many years ago, this wasn't a town of beermakers and barley farmers but an entire kingdom. With an army. And a castle. And my people and I came in and we crushed it all to dust. Not a single stone remained of it. And this hill was where the king made his futile last stand. King Swayne. Swayne's Hill. Swine Hill. One day it might not even have a name at all. And so it goes. "What are you doing?" the girl asks. "Planting some flowers," I say. "Why?" "I like flowers," I say. "Would you like some seeds? Perhaps take some home to your mother?" She snorts. "What good are flowers? We only grow useful things in Barley Town."
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Jan 18, 2019 18:14
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+Kind Inn of the Axe and Fiddle A song of your people The inn. He didn't come here with any purpose, but then neither did he have much anything else in mind to do in this town, and his feet followed the sound of song, as out of tune as it was, and he found himself here. Everyone's crammed in - the harvesters and graziers, and cobblers and milliners, Caspian, the carpenters and stonemasons, and all the rest together. Ruddy, bronze, stout and fiercely built, men spilling over and out of themselves, and on the edge of the bench, Caspian. He has to lean out of the way just to fit in. Last in are the lamplighters, finishing their rounds as day turns to dusk. The room is practically ablaze with mirth, with everyone along the bar swaying as they sing and drinking whenever they can. It's not an exquisite song, nor technically-sung, nor particularly high-minded, but... it's over. The men shake with laughter and the sturdy beams overhead seem to join in - but maybe that's just the beer sinking in. Well, things are quietening down a little as the men turn to each other in conversation. "Quiet as a mouse in the granary, traveller, aren't you! You must know a song or two yourself, surely!" Oh. Oh dear. Caspian coughs and shakes his head. “Oh, don’t be shy, traveller! It matters not if you sing well or strain our ears, the beauty is all in sharing story and song. You are welcome here among us, will you not join our good natured revelry? Here, share a song from afar, and we’ll share a tankard of our finest in your honour.” Offered the one who seemed to be the ringleader. "Well, ah, this isn't really-- this isn't the right sort of place for-- well, I suppose it couldn't hurt to-- the stonework, though, it's not..." his eyes dart between the man, his drink, the taps, the glint of lamplight off spots of red resin in the bartop. Acoustics be damned, if he can't sing for a crowd at an inn then how can he call himself a singer? "... If you insist, then I suppose I could. What would you like to hear sing? Home, the road, the forest, or...?" “We’ve sung of our home, so let’s have an earful of yours, fair as fair does.” Replied the ringleader, backing off a little given the accession. Caspian nods, uncertainly. Well, ale smoothes the mind much as it does the voice, he thinks, as he shuffles to his feet. Some of the drinkers take note and watch him as he straightens up, steadies himself with one hand on the bar, then opens his mouth-- Song flows out like water, wordless and clear. His growing audience doesn't quite understand this language of syllables that never coalesce into words, but they talk and whisper among themselves that he sings of his home - joyful, intricate, soaring - and what a place it must be, if it sings through someone like this? Home is He slowly turns his head as he sings, first looking along the bar, then out to the rest of the crowd packed in the Inn. At first they quiet down a little to listen to this unfamiliar style, then they set down their tankards and coins with a click and clack that cuts through the music, and at last they hold still and near-silent. Their remnant breathing, far from offending, follows along with his music. Soon it all joins together as one tidal sigh, in and out, and in and out, and in and out again. Something in his song goes in with it, and stays there, inside, with them. Home is The song continues with this new underscore - soaring, towering, bright and brighter still, rising out of him like a wave thrusting up a cliff, ravenous white water and grasping hands tearing the lowest of the lowest bricks-- Home is not a thing you can choose, or replace. His voice falters and the spell is broken. All things came from the sea, and to the sea all things shall return. The beer flowed freely after that, the promised tankard multiplying, bringing all its kith and kin along with it. Caspian had made an impression that would last long in the memory.
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Mar 3, 2019 08:57
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We've agreed that the thread is on hold (hah) until the start of September - just bumping in case it would've fallen into the archives by then.
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Jul 3, 2019 23:51
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+Cunning Mathilda's Farm What she thinks you need I asked how I could make myself useful, and now I see what I get for asking. I've always thought of old people as shrunken, but if the mistress of this farm has shrunk in her old age, she must have started at about Vago's size. Mathilda's tall, broad, and snowy-haired, and she's doing the lion's share of the work hauling supplies into her wagon. I came with a supply list, but Mathilda's doing the choosing. There's the flour and weak beer I expected, and then the welcome surprise of flaxseed oil and goat's cheese, but after that it's been lengths of linen and wool, along with skeins of yarn and thread. "Travelers need new clothes," Mathilda tells me as she hefts a bale of wool into the cart. "All the time! The weather always changing on you. Linen's light and cool, wool's thick and warm. You'll want warm blankets once the chills come, dear; trust me on this. I've got a few set aside for market. Shall I add them in?" Mathilda's Farm, I learned upon arriving, is mostly in the fiber trade. There's barley -- it's Barley Town; there's probably some sort of law -- but most of the fields are flax, or grazing for big, four-horned sheep with storm-gray wool. The fabric her weavers work is coarser than what I've seen at Ravenhall, which favors the silken, but the lot does seem sturdy. She's got a point about the weather. Mathilda returns with her "few" blankets -- another heavy bale, at least a dozen or two. "There we are," she says as they take up the last of the space on the cart. "That should keep you all cozy and dreaming, eh? Shame I don't have one big enough for your giant, but you'll have enough wool to fashion one as he needs it. And enough thread, for fortune's sake!" I think she may be right. I'm not sure if Vago needs such a thing, or would want it, but I'm sure he'd be glad to be thought of. "One last thing," says Mathilda, and returns carrying a leather-wrapped parcel. "Incense, oak wood and lavender oil. Too simple for a Magus, but you've got to carry a bit of beauty with you, when you travel." She carefully secures the incense among the parcels, then turns to me and presses something into my palm -- a gold coin. "Darling," she says, "you ought to buy yourself something nice. Take this to Florian the jeweler and pick a bit of beauty for yourself, won't you? You're such a sad little thing." I've barely spoken to Mathilda this entire time -- she's not the kind of figure who lets you get a word in edgewise -- so I don't know what's made her decide this. Do I wear it in my face? I've got to. I don't have time to think about that. But maybe I'll have time for that jeweler, back in town.
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Sep 6, 2019 08:59
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+Beautiful The Old Abbey Confession Justice had come to Barley Town, but it was far from the first time. This was where the Midwife was from, where she had been born, where her powers had first shown through, before going to the Magus. For the others, this was a strange town to pass through, a place to visit, and perhaps remember, perhaps forget. For her, on a deep, fundamental level, it was home. Thus it was that she took some of the time granted to her to trek up to the old abbey, bowing to the two gnarled yews that stood vigil either side of the entrance to the burial grounds near to the large, friendly, well-worn structure. This was a pilgrimage of sorts, passing by the stone markers she had known all her life, and progressing beyond to the ones new to her. She had a handful of pebbles collected along the way, and reverentially placed them upon certain graves. A canny eye could perhaps pick out the determining factor, the commonality of the ones honoured. Two names, one date. Two names, one date. Three names, one date. Two names, a couple of days apart. The uppermost was always a woman's name. When she was done, she knelt on the soft loam a short way from the new graves and focused on the ones among them surmounted by the pebbles. This, then, was the price. The cost of the Midwife of Barley Town going to study with the Magus. All the lives she had saved there, all her learning to save lives, was counterweighted by these double-occupancy tombs before her now, few in number but heavy on her heart. So, she sought shriving, and spake to the sepulchres with the trees and birds to witness. "I was not here for you. I was not here for you or your little ones, for I went away to better learn my task, and to save other lives than yours. But that meant I was not with you when you needed me, that the duty was not done successfully. Mayhap in your case I could have changed nothing, for not every tussle can be won, and not all babes born well. We can never truly know, for I was not here, and no platitude can change what happened. Know I carry the weight of you with me to the end of my days, and know I will do my duty at every opportunity afforded to me. You owe me no forgiveness nor understanding, you may not even know that I could have been there in the might have been, but your names, and your lost ones' names, are etched on my heart." Confession made, she rose and dusted herself down, before heading back to the land of the living.
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Sep 8, 2019 23:05
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