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.

Verdenhal

Horrace: Caught Off Guard

Horrace was waist deep in swamp muck, and staying low, so as to stay out of sight.

Another night of wandering the wilderness, stealthily investigating any rumors or signs of danger. On this night he had overheard an villager speaking of a family of Tasslewyrms revealing themselves in a southern swampland. Horrace wasn't stupid enough to try to attack a group of Tasslewyrms on his own, but he could confirm their presence, and take appropriate action from there on.

Suddenly, ahead, he heard a rustling.

The corkweed grew tall in this bog, and as it were, Horrace could make out nothing but plants. If he could just get a boost up a few feet he could get out of the cold sludgy muck and make visual contact with whatever was ahead. But there was nothing around for support. He had been on the look-out. Suddenly the noise was behind him.

He spun around, springing his heavy axe from resting place on his back. Silence. Carefully turning back around, he was shocked to see a smooth wooden log protruding from the swamp water. How had he not noticed it before? He inspected it's strength, and confident it would hold his weight, he carefully began climbing up onto the slippery log. It was wet with slime, but he was sure-footed and well balanced, despite his crooked visage.

At last he stood atop the log, holding his axe for balance, peering over the corkweed's fuzzy tops. He set his keen eye to detect any and all movement. And something caught his eye. Something moving towards him from low in the weeds. He thought he caught a flash of color. It was fast. He readied himself for an attack.

Without warning a corkweed stalk, thick and heavy, came springing up from it's depressed state smacking him with a heavy whap square in the nose. The force sent him stumbling backwards, head first into the thick bog, axe flying through the air to land several feet away. The last thing he heard before getting a mouth and eyeful of cold mud was a gleeful tittering and the flutter of invisible wings.

After he spent however many hours it would take to find his axe, he swore he would personally gut Perlavash, and make him into a hat.

Smooth Sailing

The city is doing well so far. Trade and business have flourished handsomely, part in thanks to claiming the nearby mines. The kingdom is still small though, and we have had several hiccups though, but barring any future earthquakes, I do not foresee any major problems as of yet. I have currently taken on the role of our nation's underground information consolidator. I do not feel this role is suited to me though, despite my aptitude for deceit. Thorain and Horrace had decided that Gren would be a better fit as acting baron of this nation which I begrudgingly accepted. The next night, feeling a little bitter, I may have gotten a wee intoxicated and perhaps spread a spiteful rumor or two.
We have shifted our focus once again to the surrounding countryside, as much of it lies unexplored. We came across a troupe of gnomes searching for some dwarven ruins, saved their ponies, and exchanged information with. There were some rather unsuccessful negotiations with a witch, though I don't know if Horrace was trying particularly hard to win over her heart and mind. The latest development had an unnerving feeling about it though. Some livestock seem to have been brutally slaughtered nearby, and we are off to investigate tomorrow. We shall just have to see what the winds push our sails towards.

Thorain Toradur: Roots and Leaves, Kings and Friends

When Thorain first beheld the old Sycamore, he had found it beautiful, the far extending branches reaching out over the hilly grassland like forks of lightning arcing across the sky. The branches were bare and the ancient tree it seemed, was close to death. The mites who had made their home in the nest of the trees great roots no doubt had something to do with the wondrous tree's demise. Now, the den lay empty, it's mischievous inhabitants all perished by his companion's swords or fled.

Being a wood elf, Thorain had a soft spot for trees, and an especially soft spot for ancient trees. Were it up to him, the kingdom which his friends were hard at work creating would be built around this tree, or constructed within the forest, like the great city of Kyonin, but they were not elven and their hearts did not reside within the bark and old wood of forests. So, he had spent much of the past weeks at this tree, meditating upon the events of the recent past.

Not long ago he had been a novice in the great halls of the Kyonin school of magic, his days largely spent transcribing scrolls and ancient tomes for the venerable masters of the college. Life moved so slowly then; it was the elven way, the way he had grown up and lived his entire life. Now, life was spitfire and rapid. No wonder humans accomplished so much in their short lives, they never stopped. Thorain was considered impetuous by elven standards, but seeing life as humans lived it, he felt wise and slow to act or react. Escaping his people who he thought shunned him had reinforced just how elven he truly was. And being in the presence of this beautiful tree had helped put it all into perspective. It was the only living thing in miles that was older and wiser than himself, and a reminder that one day he would be older than the ancient tree, that when this kingdom he helped found finally fell into destruction, with any luck, Thorain would still be alive. That was a sobering thought, but he knew he would have to accept it.

Thorain looked up to the few leaves growing on the tree; they looked greener, and the tree younger. He hoped that by killing the mite infestation and with the proper application of magic, he could bring the old sycamore back to life, that it could live a few more hundred years. He hoped this kingdom could at least last as long as the tree. There was hesitancy within his heart, elves never made friends easily, and being friends with these mortals made him fear for the time which they would die and he would live on to see their children and grand children fall to sickness, sword, and old age. Yet there was no avoiding it, the kingdom must be constructed and he must have his friends, their hopes and dreams lived in the Greenbelt and for the time being so must his.

Thorain's queen, the queen of all elves, Telandia had implored her people to go forth into Golarion and adapt to human culture. If his kind were to survive, having a presence in this budding nation would greatly benefit his queen and his kin. Although he had resented them, he now longed to see other elves, the scar on his face was barely seen by others in this land, perhaps if he wore it with pride, as Queen Telandia wore her own, his people would look at him with respect.

Thorain looked out across the hills toward the scaffolds and cranes rebuilding the staglord's keep. Their keep, won with blood steel and magic. His friends had worked constantly, yet none knew what Thorain was doing, he had disappeared and practically become a tree. Leaving Kyziem to plan a nation alone, Gren to find it's inhabitants and Horrace to keep it safe. What role was there for him? Things of stone mattered little to Thorain, the commerce and politics of humans were foreign and frankly of little interest. However, woven into the fabric of these last months was the essence of magic. Thorain could feel it, a different magic, the magic of people coming together, putting vision against dream and fabricating their hopes into reality. Thorain would be here to help with that. To help his friends achieve their dreams before they passed into history. He owed it to them for the gift of friendship. Perhaps if he was lucky he might find what he was looking for along the way.