Down

Miezsko felt an uneasy relief settle on him as the two headed giant crumpled to the ground. That had to be it, who else could be leading all of these trolls. But it all seemed too easy. He had just expected more from the trolls, some near-death scrape or some abnormally powerful troll overlord to contend with. Maybe its nothing though. He should just learn to take the easy victories where he could, not everything had to be such a struggle after all. They were getting stronger after all. Horrace seemed able to cut through whatever he damn well pleased these days without much effort, and Miezsko was growing more confident every day in his own battle prowess. In fact, more so than he'd ever imagined. He found himself even a little excited when a fight was at hand. His swords were beginning to feel more like a natural extension of his body, responding to every subtle movement he willed them to perform. His body felt light and fast once he entered battle, perhaps out of necessity though, for it did not respond pleasantly to unfriendly physical contact. Miezsko sheathed his blades and breathed out with relief as the tension of battle unwound itself from him.

Trippity tripper trap pranks.

The weather was starting to get cold and frosty, when the air grew crispy, and he could see his words in steam. The leaves turned from the color life to the color of money. They felt like they shattered when he flew through them. He loved to zip up and down between the trees this time of year. He climbed along a branch with his forelegs, holding a white sugar candy to his suckling mouth with the hind.

With a puff and a zip he put a squirrels acorn near a badger's den. A funny prank.

He put a baby bird in the nest of another mother bird. He tittered.

He lured a skunk into a sleeping bears cave, then bit it and disappeared. He loved to touch lives with loving acts of chaos. He fluttered about seeking out a new game.
A smell caught his attention as it lingered in the air. A smell he knew. It was the one eyed dwarf man. His favorite creature to play games with. He scampered up a tree, and followed the hanging branches to the origin of the smell. He looked into a dark clearing to see the squaty stinky one eyed dwarf man walking around slowly with a torch, looking to the ground. He was looking for something he had lost. This prank was already writing itself. He watched him silently, waiting for the moment to strike.

He huffed and shuffled about, stopping to bend over and poke at a patch of grass, only to mutter a curse.
“Pig balls. It isn't here.”
“Fuck my mother, where is it.”

“Pissing shit.”

But then the planets aligned, and a moment unlike any other presented itself.

The shitty old dwarf stomped in frustration. Dug the torch into the earth, free standing. Then bent over to search the ground carefully with his hands. His dumpy bottom stuck out dangerously close to the torches flame. This was too good. He had never been so happy.
With a cry of near ecstasy Perlavash zipped forward on swift dragon wings to deliver a knock on the head just gentle enough to topped the dwarf, ass first, onto a lit torch.

But right before his cat-thick little whip tail slapped that dwarf in the good eye, the leaves around exploded upward. Dozens of tiny net cords whipped into the air and entangled the mid-flight dragonette. He hit the dirt like a confused sock-hose full of rats.

He looked upward to see the dwarf standing over him, with a rope in his hand. A trip for this trap...He had been waiting for him. Perlavash got very scared and began crying. He wept big shiny dragon tears and wailed like a baby.

The one eyed dwarf man stood over him with a the widest, near weepy grin. A tear of joy glistened in the corner of his yellow eye. Shacken with intense happiness, the dwarf grasped for words but came up with none. He just started with a little jig, and a oddly agile leap of joy, and drew the big sharp axe off his back. He wiped away his tear of joy, smiling like an idiot, axe hefted overhead, and brought it down in a clean precise chop. Perlavash was struck and everything went dark.

When he came about, and tried to open his eyes and breath, he was assaulted with a unworldy smell. He retched. It seemed to fill his nostrils and his eyes. It was all around him. He thrashed and broke out of the net, and soft brown matter filled the air. He was covered in it. Sticky cold brown shit. He looked to see a rope had fallen, and a bag of it had been dumped from above in the trees. A clean axe mark was in the ground where the rope had been fastened. It had all been a careful trap. He had filled an entire potato bag with what appeared to be badger droppings. The worst kind in the forest. Forever sticky. Rotten with meat and garbage. But some of it seemed to be from another larger creature of some kind....

From far off in the forest he could hear the continuous bellowing cackle laughter of the stinky one eyed dwarf man.  

Thorian Toredur: My Queen, My Queen

Dearest and most exalted Queen Telandia of Kyonin,

I, Thorain Toredur, your servant and kinfolk write under the blessing and bounty of the newfound Kingdom of Niscera. Little more than a year ago I was a student at Kyonin's illustrious College of Magic without parallel in all the kingdoms of Golarion.  I left dismayed with the stringent magical and social customs of our people, customs which you have endeavored to change. Therefore, I write to you, queen of my people with an opportunity to perpetuate that change.

With a charter given to us by the Sword Lords of Brevoy (whether it was theirs to give or not) we pacified the land of murderous bandits and nefarious mites, we have slain lizard warlords and twisted bear spirits. Now the land lays in our hands, with support from the Sword Lords we have begun to shape the green belt to our visions, and yet it feels empty at it's heart.

This land was once a kingdom of the Elves. Our people walked these plains and forests, crossed it's rivers and streams along side the ancient fey creatures which have called them home for centuries. Niscera begs the return of our kindred. We are a new nation, and would benefit from the wisdom, skill and grace of the elves. In addition, we would benefit from an alliance with Kyonin. These lands are in strife, evil it seems has taken hold to her roots, yet we seek to destroy it. This task is more difficult than it would seem, even with a servant of Iomedae as our figurehead and leader. We need the presence of elves in this fight, long servants of good, and nature.

The people of Niscera are young and nieve, and being so; easily swayed. This is an opportunity for humans to be directed toward the inclinations of the elves, to preserve nature, and not to be at odds with it; we live in the kingdom of Erastil, and I believe would take well to his teachings teachings which our people know well. Furthermore, there is a vast wood known as the Narlmarches where an elvish presence would be welcome. The wood is vast and densely inhabited with Fey and rich in wildlife, in addition to an ancient temple to Erastil which crowns the center of the richly verdant forest.

Lastly, I would address a personal issue. When I left the college at Kyonin it was in dismay, fleeing as a fledgling flees a hungry hawk. I ran blindly through these lands in search of myself. I have found a part of who I am, and discovered that while at odds with our people in some ways (you may inquire with the Arch Mage) I cannot be without my own kind, I am elven, wether others believe so or not. In this vein, I am beginning an academy of magic and would open an invitation to those of Kyonin who wish to study the arts of magic, an art which I have approached from a very different dogma than that of our Kyonin university, they are welcome and need but seek the great sycamore of the Kamelands, a tree which dominates her skyline.

May Calistra avenge our fallen and Desna guide our way.

Your servant,

--Thorain Toredur

Hargulka's dream

In his dream, their skulls broke apart like so many red messy puffballs.  Human barons and Swordlords, Dwarven mercenaries, Elven archers, Halfing bakers, wandering Gnomes...all were smashed to chunky gibs under his reverberating great club.  And they kept coming to take away his power like the fools that they were.  But Hargulka, King of the South, destroyed all who challenged his reign. 

This was another good dream.

The warty troll grumbled in satisfaction, cheesy toes wiggling pleasurably.  It was not often that he had these good dreams.  His bad dreams had come more frequently as of late.  They echoed out of a nightmare world, deep with the forest, where a strange lilting voice pushed him in desperation to control the Narlmarches and compete the colonizers in the Kamelands.   He didnt like that otherworldy compulsion turning him into a lump on a throne, sending out his trolls to harass logging camps and take tribute from lizardfolk.  He prefered these dreams where he could kill and pillage with his own two clawed hands.  And smash some heads, of course.  That abnormality, Nagrundi, always wanted payment in intact skulls for whatever dark magics it worked.  And Hargulka begrudgingly obliged.  Having a two-headed henchman helped keep the rest of the lot in line.  But it left Hargulka with very few skulls to smash.

Just then, that two-headed stereo voice gurgled through the cave and down into Hargulka's throne room.  His sticky yellow eyes popped open in annoyance, pleasant dream interrupted.   Nagrundi roared once again in anger.  Hargulka idly wondered if one of the troll brutes had got on their bad side again.  He hoped not.  Hargulka needed all the trolls he could gather if he wanted to take over more than a cold rocky Dwarven hole in the the wall. 

Snorting loudly, Hargulka sat up in his chair and grabbed his club.  Maybe he would go talk to Nagrundi about interrupting his sleep.  Or he could just send his number two, Kargadd and go back to snoozing.  After all, as King, Hargulka needed to learn some delegation.  The strange word soured in his drooling tusked mouth.  To the Hells with this boring throne, time for some smashing, thought Hargulka.

Revitalized.

It had been months since Horrace felt so alive.

His pain was receding. His spirit was soaring. And it was all thanks to the glorious battle waged on the lizardfolk village. His friends were bloodied and bruised, as was he, yet this was his highest moment. He felt alive. He felt immortal. Hells, he even felt normal. The souls of the fallen beasts coursed though his own. They made him feel complete. Was this an addiction? Or was it just the true path his Goddess has put before him? Either way, it was all he knew at this time, and was all he desired.

While his wounds began to close as he moved from corpse to corpse, cutting the lifeline between head and shoulders, he heard the sound of combat break out from within a nearby hut. A crooked smile spread across his face as he hefted his bloodied axe and shuffled off quickly towards the action. A bystander might confess to have seen a skip and a dance in his movement.


Even the Gods weren't sure what to do with Horrace.

Recentings

That filthy rat-asshole bard. He had caused way more trouble than I thought possible, but luckily nothing too permanent. It was quite the war of words, though I have to admit I was having a little more fun than I maybe should have. I am still concerned with the bard's origin. Though he seemed to have no allegiance towards the country he hailed from, I still wonder if he was acting on behalf of another party, displeased with our course. Time will tell I suppose.
Things are going very well otherwise, and I am quite pleased by the growth our city is beginning to show. I think within the next near we may even be able to establish a bustling waterfront, and really launch our economy. We have dispersed a tribe of lizard-folk living nearby, which I think will make things easier for us in the long run, but there is another matter pressing my mind now. That of the strange glowing fey we encountered, and the purpose of the strange keep we passed by...

To be out again

It was good to be out in wilds again. The teidius Formalities of "ruling" had started to where on his nerves. If you could call it ruling virtually all his decisions were made for him. What he truly enjoyed was interacting with the people, bringing his faith to them and helping where he could. He was a frustrated that his friends could not see the necessity of having a Temple in town. A place of worship would bring fulfillment and peace to the people of Verdenhal, but alas he was but one of the true ruling party.

It unnerved him that his friends put it so plainly that they would replace him if he should not enforce their edicts. They planned the building of the city, they planned the budget and he was just there to nod his approval. Why do they feel that he is no inept at such things? Why elect him just to be a figure head? With all the work that Kysziem has been doing why not just give him the title. No, he had plead his case an won. They may not listen now but I will continue. He did this for the people and he will continue to do so. They will see in time that his thoughts hold credit, that his plans for the city will bring joy. His rule will be remembered.

The acts of the last few days have put all that in the back of his mind. To be out slaying vile beasts and bringing safety to the land again has relit his fire. To have undone the curse of  Lycanthropy, kill a Worg pack and help a band of Gnome explorer's. Then there was the turtle, poor creature. It was a shame it ended in it's death. The next day will surely bring more worthy foes.

Thorain Toradur: Power

Power. The object of desire. My muse, my mother, father and sire. What is this word to which I cling with such fervor? Unelvish. Mortal. A waining thing. I was born in the woods, from a spider's nest. There is no memory before that, no life, a riddle, a painting in white. Once I held the idea so firmly in my hands; as a warrior clings to the hilt of his sword, and yet now, as the world materializes before my whims, it thins into vapor: power: the enigma.

I watched the township grow, into a fledgling. I watched my friends shape the world about us. People flock to Verdenhall like butterflies to a nectar-sweet pool, and I see what Gren seeks, the seat of his power. The seat of the keep. His personal castle. Yet, with a sharpened blade, others watch, Meiszko cuts with words, while Gren fells foes with his axe, an endless battle wages under the guise of peace and heads roll. Is this where true power lies? I search for power in arcane secrets, in knowledge, yet to what purpose? My Gren and Meiszko find power in the ability to inspire others, to lead, to shape not the world, but the people around them. Gren clings to his faith in Iomedae. Meiszko clings to his deceptions. I cling to my staff. Horrace? His axe? His faith? His lies to himself?

I left Kyonin downtrodden, yet I could return a king. I. I. I. The key to power is in this word. I, who fears death. Elves may be immortal, but they too die, by sword, fire and disease. This is why we seek magic. Magic. The gate to power. Power is upon us, it is immanent, as though nothing can stop it.

And then It fades.

What is power in a world where gods may die? What is power when one fears death? What power is knowledge when mystery is infinite? Now that power flows in my words, gestures and thought, all has become ash. True power is the ability to be powerless. What power is rulership without subjects? What power is immortality when immortality it's self is an illusion? What worth is life without death? What power lies in death?

Power is like a mist in my mind. Dissipated, formless and worthless except in it's suggestion. Reminding me to be wary, to wield with care that which I have at my disposal. For should this desire take form in my mind, should I allow it to rule I shall loose that which is most dear. Self. In searching for self, I shall loose myself. Therefore, friends, I look to you, you anchor me to this world and laugh when I fall. Please, should I forget to care for the taste of wine or the scent of oven baked bread, remind me that power is nothing without the joy of knowing that it is ephemeral as time and worthless as sand in the dessert. When I pass from time, I find solace in knowing that none will remember my name.

Horrace: Losing It

“...Pharasma is also the goddess of birth and prophecy: from the moment a creature is born, she sees what its ultimate fate will be, but reserves final judgment until that soul finally stands before her...” - The Bones Land in a Spiral.

The soft sounds of slumber and the crackle of the last dying embers of the small camp fire drowned out the near silent movement of the stout figure from his sleeping companions. He weaved through the trees until he was out of earshot. Losing composure he began to stumble and crack his head against low hanging branches, to which he would mutter a moist curse. He wanted to go further but simply couldn't. He fell to his hands and knees. Coughing and wheezing, he began to gag and emptied the meager contents of his stomach. It was hard to tell in the dark, but he was pretty sure there was blood in it. Horrace was sick. Again.

It had happened a few times over the past few years at an increasing rate. It was always a burden to have to sneak away from his traveling fellows, but he felt pathetic enough being a grotesque. It was starting to get serious, and despite his devout study of medicine and health, he had no idea what was happening. The best guess he had was that his twisted body was simply getting worse. Ribs were no doubt starting to grow into the lining of his intestines and stomach, causing internal bleeding when he moved too much. Not an easy thing to avoid for a warrior. Or maybe it was just the curse everyone told him he was born with trying to finish the job. All he knew is that the only thing that seemed to help was the magical healing his glorious goddess gave him. But not the standard clerical healing magic. Only the wave of healing energy that came over him when he drove a soul from it's body. It had been a while since they had battled anything human-like. It seemed to be the only kind of soul that worked.

He crawled slowly towards the sounds of running water until he found a wide but shallow creek nearby. He plopped down onto his belly, wincing in agony, and buried his head under the water. It remained there for some time. His body lie perfectly still. All the insects and tiny fish that found a home in the stream seemed to move away. But they all seemed to be watching. At last his head recoiled and began hacking out cold water and blood. He wasn't sure if he had just tried to kill himself, or if he was simply hallucinating. Either way, it hadn't helped his condition much.

He lay there, shivering at the pain coiling up inside him, like he was full of wood splinters and hot mush. He wasn't sure how long he had even been wandering in the woods now. If you had asked him he couldn't have told you the names of those he rode with. He didn't even know who or what he was. He just stared in horror at his reflection in the water. A heavy sloped brow, a crooked squash-like nose, a massive under-bite with brown and yellow teeth popping up, a tick matted beard that hung in clumps, and one empty festering eye socket. He didn't understand why there were so many piercings on his head. Why he had black spirals inked into his skin on his forehead and around his neck. He closed his eye and seized for a few moments. His body convulsed, and his mouth foamed. The overwhelming pain shook him down to his soul.

As he awoke again moments later he began to recognize the things around him. He looked at the dark spiral on his brow intently. It was a perfect pattern, wrapping in on itself. It seemed to pull him in. He could see so much in it. A pillar of bones, a giant tower pyre piercing through the dimensions like a lance surrounded by lost souls. He felt the eyes of his Goddess upon him. She knew him completely. He had always told himself that Pharasma needed him to do what she could not. Kill the wicked, so she could judge them. It was not how her other followers acted. It was against their teachings, but he could not ignore her presence in his life. He had to be doing something right, or she wouldn't grant him her powers. That was how it worked, wasn't it? He looked upon her beautiful face, but saw nothing but confusion. Even she didn't know what to make of him. But she was trying, and that is what mattered.

He slowly got to his feet, and found his balance. Using his heavy axe handle as a walking stick, he quietly made his way back into the camp. They were still sleeping. It must not have been as long as it felt. He sat down on a stone, masking stoically the pain growing inside himself. Looking out on these sleeping men, he thought to himself, these are strong boys. More or less pure of spirit. What kind of power and healing would come from giving their souls to Pharamsa? He began weighing the pain inside versus the virtue of the men he had been helping thus far. The elf woke up and looked at him in confusion. They were always light sleepers.

“...Horrace? You alright? You were gone a moment ago.”

Horrace stared into his two bright almond eyes with his one piercing green. Thorain could clearly sense some kind of turmoil brewing in his friend, and it made him gulp in concern. Horrace did not answer, but simply stared.

Whispers of Perlavash

Something's...burning?

*Rumble*

Is it another earthquake?

*CRASH*

What?!

"Phrrrazhhhhhhhhhhhhhmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"

A slimy lump crashed through the stone wall, and quickly stood up.

"Come on boy, therz plenny o'killin' to be done!"

Horrace stood up, shaking off a cloud of ash and god knows what else, before leaping back out the hole he had just made. The air was hazy, and the sounds of battle filled the air. Miezsko looked outside to some sort of twisted nightmare version of Verdenhal. Scores of people lay on the ground, hewn apart or dying. There were many fighting as well though. Squinting down at the battlefield, Miezsko was caught off guard when a sparkling reptilian thing flew past him.

"Hellooo friend, have you seen Tig-titter-tut? We're playing fun games with the dwarf!"

"Yes the dwarf!"

Another Perlavash flew in, giggling and flittering around in the air.

"NO YE DON'T"

Horrace landed from the sky, cleaving one of the Perlavashes in two. The other one hissed, and flew off towards the battlefield, Horrace in pursuit. Upon closer inspection, everything and everyone fighting below were Horraces and Perlavashes.
In the distance a huge statue of Iomedae animated, and began strolling steadily towards the fray, its huge mouth wearing an expression of horror and anger. Feeling the earth shake again, Miezsko turned around to see an enormous treant, making its way towards the colossus, a wiry elf perched upon its shoulder.

"Give it no quarter! Drive its presence from the land!"

With a roar it surged forward, locking hands with the statue in a titanic power struggle. The robed figure of Gren could be seen atop its crown, a book in one hand, with the other held towards the sky.

Suddenly Miezsko felt a sinister presence behind him, whirling around to see a large tortoise staring him down, holding a sword in its mouth. They both paused, staring each other down, the tortoise sneering with disapproval.

"Don't-"

The tortoise bit down hard, snapping the sword in two.

-----------------------------

"RAUGHHHH"

Miezsko started up from his sleep, panting heavily. He looked to his side where the pieces of his broken sword lay strung together. He looked over at Horrace, then to Gren, then to Thorain. No more sleep came to Miezsko this night.