You have been taken by the Mists

Recent Posts

Pages: [1] 2 3 ... 10
The Market Square / Seeking Ranger's Arm
« Last post by Malkavianvampir on Today at 07:16:39 AM »
[A Notice Appear When You Look]

Hello my name is Kelraj.I am seeking bow named Ranger's Arm.It is not too rare bow but i have no time to go Barovia on these days and if anyone find this for selling.I can pay generously.Money is no problem.Take care and stay away from roads at nights.

// Feel free to message from pm or you can send message from dc Malkavianvampir#3952 thanks
Bug Reports / Re: Topic for minor issues v3
« Last post by Maragrouf on Today at 04:58:09 AM »
There may be a bug related to spells regarding Invisibility vision and such. If the spell effect ends/is dispelled, you won't see ANYONE or Anything.

Did something--e.g. shadows--cast Darkness on you while True Sight or See Invisibility was up? If so, this is a long-time (and very annoying) bug.

First time I've seen this bug, I'd say "Yes", as we were fighting Shadows with a couple of people before I was dispelled by "magic doggos". But last time around, I'm quite sure there wasn't any Darkness effect while True Sight was up.
Biographies / Re: 🗻 Chuth Lu'euol'gui 🗻
« Last post by Homebrew Hokum on Today at 04:57:51 AM »
   In the slumbering hours of a ceremonial cycle, beams of storm fire arced fiercely above the steeples of Guallidurth. What sacrilegious swine would make war upon a sacred night?
        Effigies of  jasper crumbled in the wake of the belligerents, and so too did hawkers and common-folk melt back into the hollowed stalagmites to hide, scattered like dropped coins by the advancing horde. House Thestuul, little more than a cabal of hedonists and charlatans, was under assault from agents of House Belthresk. The latter, known for their skill in the sorcerous arts, sent a cacophony of wracking blasts down upon the manor, shattering icons and windows. Tremors shot up through the bedrock, and the sands of Calimshan may well have shuddered as the battle raged in their belly.
        Had it been any other house, the melee would have ceded with little more than a whimper to mark its end. But House Belthresk liked to put on a show. Thestuul's priestesses, drunk from blood-wine and fornication, were outmatched.
In the pastures, the slave herdsmen and their ogre masters paused to watch the brilliant display of might. The ferocity of the battle increased in the distance, and the ogres began to usher the shackled ones back towards their hovels. A bolt of fire careened stray, down towards the fungal field, and blasted shards of shale in all directions. The rothe lowed in panic, and began to bolt.
        A lone half-drow decided to seize upon the opportunity. As slight as his full-blooded cousins, he was able to move unnoticed among the rout by bending to a skulking stance. The muscular cattle tossed and battered him about, but he was determined, shoving and tugging his way through tufts of matted hair towards the fence. When he came to the perimeter of the pasture, he took a shard of slate from the ground, and nicked the gutstring that fastened the jagged bone picket together, weakening the section. The herd surged violently, and the air was thick with the scent of sulfur and squalid fur.
        Plying his way between the passel of beasts, the man latched to the flank of the largest he could spot, and held fast, climbing down to hold to its underbelly and hide himself among its shaggy hair. With a clatter of osteon, the fence fell apart, and the herd stampeded through into the open. The ogres noticed too late as their charge spread out into the open. Some of the stock forgot their fright straight away, wandering aimlessly. Others crashed deeper into the tunnels to be lost: food for scavengers. The half-drow felt his bearer slowing, and in a rare act of cruelty, he slashed its teat with the stone shard. The creature screamed, running wild. The sound of rushing water came closer and closer, and all the sudden, he was soaked through and pulled under by the tide of rapids and the weight of the flailing she-cow. His head dashed against stone and his elbows and knees were scraped raw as he made a relentless descent through the waters. His breath clotted in his throat, ragged and phlegmatic. At some point, he was able to straddle the drowned beast, clinging to its fur for dear life and driving his head upward. Water poured from his lips and nostrils, and all around him, he saw the winking lights that marked the cusp of consciousness.
        Minutes seemed like hours, when finally the waters slowed and the pair were lapped towards a gravelly embankment. Luminescent fungus twinkled on the ceiling above, and bats winked back and forth between hanging perches. The survivor hauled himself up onto his knees and surveilled his surroundings. This stone cathedral was not vast, but the damp air gave rise to all manner of mushrooms; the grey realm's answer to a verdant meadow. Among the corded and bulbous growths, there was movement that the half-drow could not make sense of. Broad caps were moving about on sickly-white appendages in the distance, though it would not seem he had been noticed yet. He wondered what bestial race he shared this haven with as he crawled along the jagged stones. They bit into his raw knees, but he swallowed the pain, ascending the embankment with daubs of blood left in his wake. His hands found a patch of damp Kelpie, and there he settled, stripping away his sodden rags and draping them over a rock to dry. The cavern chittered and sloshed and hummed all around, oblivious to the intruder whose skin was as grey as stone. Pursuers were unlikely. He was naught but a drudge, and held no knowledge that may be deemed delicate by his masters. If they had even noted his absence. And so, here he was, copper in his mouth, iron about his wrists, and wisps in his heart. He could scarcely believe what he had just done, and he did not know what to do with it. It was likely he would die here in the vast, but at least he would know the wonders of carving his own path, if only for a fleeting moment.
Biographies / Re: 🗻 Chuth Lu'euol'gui 🗻
« Last post by Homebrew Hokum on Today at 04:55:42 AM »
The flyers are refreshed, in Port-a-Lucine, the mist camps, and Barovia.
Local Gossip / Re: Orphanage - Western Outskirts - Gossip
« Last post by Famous Seamus on September 19, 2020, 10:52:54 PM »
In the early hours of the morning, a group of four can be seen outside the orphanage. Two take up positions facing the road, standing watch. The other two kneel before the doors and windows, sprinkling holy water, stringing up garlic, sketching with chalk, and praying fervently as the snow falls around them.

One familiar with the local community would recognize one of the praying men as dressed in the blue and white of the Halans. The other wears the white tabard and red cross of the Christian Templars.

They finish just before dawn. Three of the men walk off toward the city, while the fourth jogs eastward. He returns within the hour and begins stringing up more garlic, sprinkling more holy water, and reciting more prayers.

As he finishes, he pats one of the children on the head, offers a kind smile, and says, "Walk in the Light."
Announcements and Notices / Re: [Announcements from the Gendarmerie]
« Last post by Kleomenes on September 19, 2020, 10:34:57 PM »


The Borcan known as Aurelio Ranieri is hereby summoned to the Gendarmerie de Port-à-Lucine. He is to present himself to Gendarme Anatole de la Rochenoire

Pour la République,

(((Discord Colonic#1038)))
Biographies / Re: Girl
« Last post by Hathor on September 19, 2020, 09:54:52 PM »

Hathor, lady of gold, mistress of joy and song,
steadfast friend of minstrels, I praise and honor you.


Once a week they meet, and Girl pours herself into the practice.

Florin claps twice. "Bene. Continue."

She is practicing moving up and down in the scale with the same sound: Satin. A soprano, her voice moves easily into the sugary higher notes. But descending, she falters, too focused on projecting, on not being quiet and small. Her lips thin a little in anger, at herself, at her old training and all its added weights.

"Bring your voice to the front of your mouth. Do not fret over projection." Projection comes naturally, now that she knows the method. It is a mental block now, a reminder in the back of her head to remain quiet. Florin has to speak over her; she immediately launches into the practice again, determined to get it right no matter how many times it takes.

Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin.

Now back up.

Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin!

It is harder than it might seem, harder than it seemed at first when they began their training. The notes must be perfect. And now finally, after her exhausting weeks of attempts, she gets it perfect. She allows herself a smile.

Florin cups his hand together in a clap. "Capital."

Without fanfare, they move on to a practice performance, and sing of murder and freedom well into the night.

"Colletta" clutches the dagger to her chest, her teeth a little bared, her face a grimace of hate and bitterness. She has just murdered her mother. Mother was cruel, and Colletta is overwhelmed with relief, but venom, too. Her mother's corpse lies still and lifeless, but years of repressed anger come pouring typically operatic song. She berates the corpse with seraphim voice.

"--to your bosom your riches you clutched," she sings, imagined pain winding its way into the notes. "And nary-a hem-lock for your dau-ghters's twain!"

Florin paces absently, encouraging up or down with his hands gesturing, conducting. His fingers flutter upwards as the song reaches its crescendo, they practice again and again.

Seshat, she who scrivens, mother of language and consort of Thoth.
Mehyt, she who massacres, the reclining lioness, she of the bloodied mouth, bringer of the moon.

Nepthys, barren vulture of the air, consort of Set, she who holds the dying, she who wears the mourning cloth. Dark twin of Isis, night and day, growth and decay. The same moon, shadowed and lit, waxing and waning.

To Nephthys, great friend of the dead, I offer my praise.
Sister and companion of Isis in her sorrow,
rider on the night boat, granter of renewal,
you hear the laments of my mourning; you are the solace.

The Market Square / Sales notice for a light armor.
« Last post by foxtale on September 19, 2020, 09:05:08 PM »
[The notices have been removed.]
[The notices are sporadically renewed]
Pages: [1] 2 3 ... 10