You have been taken by the Mists

Author Topic: 🗻 Chuth Lu'euol'gui 🗻  (Read 1891 times)

Song of Danta

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🗻 Chuth Lu'euol'gui 🗻
« on: September 08, 2016, 07:26:16 AM »
These journal entries, marked upon vellum with ink of ground charcoal, are bound into a rothe-leather cover and kept upon Malagdrin's person. All of the writing is in Undercommon.

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FIRST CYCLE

Cold ash rains from the cavern ceiling here. A ceiling that I can not see with mine sharp eyes, for it is shrouded by a veil of mist. It is unbearably cold. My breath hangs in the air and my limbs seize if I stand still for too long.
Jabbress Claddrahel came to find me stumbling through the gloom. With a flame-wreathed sword, she beat the chains from my ankles and took me through a strange forest where the trees were not ghosts and the ground was not of stone and grey filth. The smell of life riddled the boughs above me and the stench of death permeated from the leaves and pulp below my feet. Delicate creatures, the likes of which I had not seen before, flitted through the woods. At first I was fearful, but I later discovered that they are a peaceful and gentle animal, as afraid of me as I am of them. A rarity whence I came.
As time wore on, the mist cracked above us, and a horrible fiery light spilled down upon the earth, whereupon we took shelter in a cavern.
There, the jabbress spoke to me of freedom, a thing I have tasted only once before, and for a cruelly brief moment. She told me that supplicants of the Spider Queen were few in this place that I know not the name of. That I would not find myself in chains again. Then, she fed me and blessed me and had me fight.
Potential. She spoke this word often.
I say that my potential is squandered so long as I am not guided by a master's will. There is no thirst, no desire, no hope, and my mind does not wander to thoughts of the next cycle.
I never became someone in chains.

Malagdrin of Guallidurth.
« Last Edit: September 13, 2016, 07:42:24 AM by Danta the Deplorable »

Song of Danta

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Third Cycle
« Reply #1 on: September 11, 2016, 02:06:09 AM »
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THIRD CYCLE

I have come to find myself  in a strange enclosure. Rather than being bordered by walls, this prison is bordered by thick mist. Caravans come and go from here, but I do not recognize the names of any of the destinations. I do not even know the name of the place whence I came.
Searching the notices here yielded one useful piece of information: a craftswoman is known to ply her trade here. I met her, and with the scant sum in my purse, I secured a suit of armor and a fine steel pick. The workmanship of both pieces is exquisite.
When the ball of light reared its face, I retreated to the darkness of a tent. A nesst clad in dark armor approached me, explaining that he recognized my speech. We took to a lengthy discussion in which I asked him many questions about this land, and how I might eke out a living: a difficult ploy for a cave-dwelling recluse.
He advised me that precious few places would offer me permanent work, but that I could bring plants and fungus to him for a hefty sum of coin.
This nesst knew a half-breed ilythiiri, and thought she may take pleasure in the presence of another who spoke her tongue. I warned him that our kind tend to see one another as competition for food, and made no promise that she would enjoy my company. He told me that he would propose our meeting to her soon.
A word or two was traded regarding my newfound freedom. Another who believes that it is a wonderful thing that my chains are broken and no jabbress bids me toil.
We parted ways, and I took words with the caravan master the next time darkness fell, inquiring as to the most mountainous region he could deliver me to. 'Barovia', he said, and with the last of my coin lifted from my purse, I was on my way.
For a time I roamed, but the cold air bit like a Cavvekan and the terrain was difficult to traverse. I moved uphill where I eventually crossed a craggy region, and a short ways from the trail, I found comfort in the cold womb of a cavern. It does not appear to be inhabited aside from some petrified creatures, but being so close to a path, I imagine that travelers may frequent this place, disturbing my solitude, and perhaps even going so far as to assault me. I will move on if and when this cold subsides. At least there is some fungus for food, and a few drips from the cracks to quench my thirst. As for the boredom, I know not how to allay it...

Malagdrin of Guallidurth.
« Last Edit: March 27, 2017, 04:28:47 AM by Gavin Mace »

Song of Danta

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Sermon I
« Reply #2 on: September 11, 2016, 12:29:47 PM »
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SERMON I

Close your eyes.
You are in the Skulking God's domain, now.

To see spoils curiosity. It spoils the adventure for your other senses.
You can understand much of a thing by mere sight. In the darkness of the depths, that advantage is lost. All is dim and grey.
Could you find your way by touch?
Could you tell which fungus would kill you, and which would feed you, with your fingertips?
Could you feel all the beauty of a crystal with your palms?

You sneer.

You have a torch. Or a ball of magical light. Or a lantern.

But I ask, dare you draw the attention of that which lurks?

You are brave, traveller.
_________________________________

Embrace the darkness, and discover the shadow of the world you overlooked.
« Last Edit: December 05, 2016, 11:41:27 PM by Gavin Mace »

Song of Danta

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Fifth Cycle
« Reply #3 on: September 12, 2016, 12:12:57 PM »
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FIFTH CYCLE

I saw a figure come to the cavern today. The metallic reek of blood followed him. Though it was not the most pleasant change from the dank scent of mold-covered stone, it was different. I am always glad for a little variety to enrapture my olfactory sense while I am stuck here.
The stranger set down some bedding, but rolled it up again just as quickly and left. My scuffling must have been audible.
Judging by the wicked-looking tools laid across the table deeper in the lair, I am not surprised that interlopers would be hesitant to meet the inhabitants. The blood surrounding the macabre work-bench is ancient, however. The individual who created the 'statues' that guard this cavern has long since moved on.
Another cycle comes and goes, and the cold shows no sign of abating. I will continue to commit sermons and hymns to vellum. It is something to keep my mind active, for when I lay down my head, it is filled with harrowing howls, the crack of a whip and the syrupy scent of burning flesh. The only sensations I hate are those that my mind concocts when I am at rest, brewed from fragments of memories.

Malagdrin of Guallidurth.
« Last Edit: September 13, 2016, 07:43:27 AM by Danta the Deplorable »

Song of Danta

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The Hymn of Welcoming
« Reply #4 on: September 13, 2016, 01:23:44 AM »
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THE HYMN OF WELCOMING

Come, all you, with blood on your hands,
And those bound from distant, plague-ridden lands.
If a price is paid for your untimely demise,
Or the songs of your homeland are harsh battle-cries.

Be it a deluge that breaches your lowland plot,
Or by a bitter blizzard, your body be fraught.
Seek shelter below in the long hollow halls,
Where we pitch our temples and our fortified walls.

Here, you'll find food, and shelter, and friends.
Until the storm in the light-lands ends.
« Last Edit: September 13, 2016, 07:43:39 AM by Danta the Deplorable »

Song of Danta

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Eighth Cycle
« Reply #5 on: September 16, 2016, 02:18:44 AM »
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EIGHTH CYCLE

I woke with my eyes burning, my nose weeping and my head pounding. Having eaten the same bland fungus for the last few cycles, and having imbibed from the same trickle of water, I could not come to understand how I had been poisoned. A walk to the cavern mouth offered an answer. Though subtle, there was a change in the air. A prickle of warmth, and a cloying, sickly-sweet odor carried on the mountain breeze. Spores, I reckoned.
Knowing I could not stay here any longer, I gathered my things and made way down into the hills. Though everything was cast in silver light, I could see the colour forcing its way through the ashen veil.
A violent green were the fronds that pierced the cold-ash. Then, there were small plants, the like of which I find difficult to describe. Rounded triangles sprouted from a pad in the center, much like a webbed pinwheel. The triangles bore many colors. Blood-red, lapis-blue and rare yellow.
I continued on my way without touching these, for I knew they might very well be the source of the venom. I stole away on a wagon to the Mist Camp, where I find myself now, waiting for the man who offered to buy fungus and herbs. Another stranger purchased the majority on the spot for what I believe was a good price.
An armored stranger attempted to cure me of the venom that coursed through my head, but to no avail. He said it was not poison, nor disease, nor curse that afflicted me, but instead, something called 'allerjeez'. It is a common seasonal sickness, he said, and told me that I will overcome it, given a few years of exposure to the spores. It may make my eyes swollen and my nostrils full, but at least it does not dull my sense of touch.
I noticed that this man wore red cords around his forearms. Much to my delight, I discovered that he is a faithful of Ilmater, an ally of my own patron, as told by the light-landers who taught me of Ibrandul. My trust is not so easily won, but this man is liable to be more reliable than others.

Malagdrin of Guallidurth.

« Last Edit: September 19, 2016, 08:47:27 AM by Danta the Deplorable »

Song of Danta

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Tenth Cycle
« Reply #6 on: September 18, 2016, 01:06:47 AM »
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TENTH CYCLE

Maiden Claddrehal delivered me to a village called Edrigan after seeing to it that I was clothed appropriately. She told me that it would be safe enough to roam the countryside here after dark, so long as I avoided a notorious bandit gang on the road back to Port-à-Lucine. It seems as though this will be a good place to get my bearings in relative comfort.
If the withering hag that owned the inn was shocked by my appearance, she did made no show of it. I took the opportunity to order some local dishes, asking for them to be made as blandly as possible, that I might be able to savor the flavors in their base form. I will introduce myself to local seasonings and sauces at a later time.
First I tried a beef steak. It is quite like rothe meat, but by comparison, rather tender. There is less salt in this meat, as the cattle do not have to drink from brackish underground rivers.
Next, I tried 'cheese'. It has a pungent odor, and the taste inspired me to retch. I don't like it at all.
I finished my meal with a quiche. Capped with a bread-like crust, it was filled with eggs and other vegetables. I noted that the flour used for the crust was not bitter, like that made from Bluecap fungus. The egg filling, on the other hand, reminded me of Ripplebark in terms of the texture, but a little firmer. It tasted rich and creamy.
I have carefully hidden the contents of my purse, and shall spend the next days making myself accustomed to the plant life in the 'countryside', as well as enjoying a richer diet than I have ever known.

Malagdrin of Guallidurth.
« Last Edit: September 19, 2016, 08:47:40 AM by Danta the Deplorable »

Song of Danta

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Eleventh Cycle
« Reply #7 on: September 19, 2016, 08:46:01 AM »
This writing in this entry is scratchy and some of the letters double over one another.

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ÈLEVEN͘TH C͜ỲC̸L̛E

I̧ ͠b͟ec͢am̡e lo͏s̢t́ on̵ ͡a l̀onǵ r͞oa̢d̢ ͜w͘hi͜l̢e ̴I͏ ͠was ex͞plo̡r͠in̸g̀.̷ T̷he g̡r̶eat͟ ͞bąl͘l of f̀i̧re beg͠a̵n̡ ̢t͏o e̴m̢erg̨é, ̷a͡nd҉ Ì ̸was͠ n͝ot abl͢e ̀t̨o ͏f̧i̶nd̸ ̷şhe͠lt̡ér͝ unti͢l hav̢ing s͢uf͠fer̛ed̨ ̧se͘v̨er͜aļ ́ho̕urs͠ b̶e̢ne̴a͜t͘h ͡it͞s͞ ͢me͟r͠çiles͢ş g̕a̡ze.̛ By̷ t͞hiś ̧tim͢e,͢ ̡I ̷wa҉s͜ har͏d̛l̨ỳ ab͏le̷ ҉to̢ s̴ee̛.
́S͜po̕t́s̡ ́sti͝l̕l d̸ance̸ befor̕e m̷y͝ e̛yes͠,̶ b͡u͞t ҉my̕ co͠ndit͜ion͝ seem͞s ͘t̡o ̨b͢e ͞i͞mpro͟vi͜ng ̷s͡lo͝ẃl̡y̢. I ̛m͏u͘s͝t bè m̨o̸re͞ ̶c̛àr҉e̡f̵ul, ̨b̛u̴ţ a͡t the̶ ̴sa҉me̴ ̷ti͞me,͡ ̶I͞ ͠ne̛ed̀ s͡o̶m̷ȩ ̶w̢a͜y of̷ c̶ondi͞tioni̧ng my͏ ҉ey҉e̕s̢.̵
̶
͝M̵ala̡g͡dr͢i͡n ͠òf͢ Guall͝įdurth̛.̵

Song of Danta

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Thirteenth Cycle
« Reply #8 on: September 21, 2016, 11:33:16 PM »
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THIRTEENTH CYCLE

It is said that the Pech were born of the stone, and thus, can commune with it. I always wondered what tales the bedrock might tell them. It is simple enough to sense life in lichen, or a raging river, or the creatures that roam my homeland, but as far as mortal senses can tell, stone is dead.
When I learned of Ibrandul and joined in his worship, however, I came to detect a pulse. Traversing the tunnels was as travelling through innards. The walls throbbed and the darkness seemed to consciously embrace my person. It felt like an entity more than a mere absence of light.
Then, when I found myself here in The Core, the caves were dead again. A cold sensation permeated my innards, tugging my organs downward. It was not fear, or guilt, but something else. Like a runt thrown out from the litter of a Cavvekan, I was alone, abandoned and vulnerable. I felt compelled to die.

Yet yesterday, I visited a cavern that possessed a familiar warmth. It may have been artificial, created by magma pipes beneath the ground, but for a while, I was able to pretend that the Skulking God was still with me. That he could still hear his servant in the darkness.
I uttered a prayer and gave the four-ring'd sign.
Much to my surprise, there was a response.

Malagdrin of Guallidurth.
« Last Edit: December 05, 2016, 11:42:32 PM by Gavin Mace »

Song of Danta

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Eighteenth Cycle
« Reply #9 on: September 26, 2016, 10:21:39 AM »
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EIGHTEENTH CYCLE

My night-time travels brought me to face with a remarkably familiar foe this cycle. Amber oozes rolled along the green fronds, leaving the earth charred in their wake. These beings are all too common in the deep, often seeping through cracks and ambushing unwitting travelers. In the darkness, one may even mistake an ooze for a puddle of water.
I took the hammer to the four that beset me, and pulverized them until they resembled a scatter of glittering citrine gems.
After a short search, I located the cavern whence they came beneath a ruined tower. They were plentiful here, slithering after me in droves of eight or ten at a time. I was able to blockade the doors with my shield and prevent the vile ichor from pouring through. The battles were a show of endurance more than they were a show of strength, but I prevailed, leaving a glimmering trail behind me.
My success came as a surprise. Not a week ago, I was struggling to face with 'wolves',  a vicious but soft-skinned surface creature. Now, I can smash through Ghaundadaur's progeny like a mace to glass. Something has changed.

Malagdrin of Guallidurth.

NacreCicatrix

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Re: 🗻 Chuth Lu'euol'gui 🗻
« Reply #10 on: August 15, 2020, 09:22:34 AM »
After years of dormancy, dust and spores are huffed from the vellum and a steel nib resumes its dance in its master's hand. Undercommon is interspersed with Xanalress in this moldering account.

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ONE THOUSAND, FOUR HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH CYCLE

Years have come and gone, and little has changed. After many cycles of self-imposed isolation in the deepest annals beneath the mountain, I emerged to face with the broad night skies.

Aside from the light-land carrion feeders that come and go from the bear cave on the cusp of the woods, I encountered a darthirii from the far-north who sought shelter and learning in the depths. I offered my services as a guide, and lead him through swarms of carnivorous bats to find a verdant field of mushrooms. He produces tinctures from the spores. We parted with the promise that he would prepare a medicine to abate my seasonal suffering; I have not taken care to acclimate myself to the outside world, even after all of these years. And so did he make me a draught that settled my stinging eyes and running nose. We spoke at length, and became as abbilen. He allows me to brush his hair and entwine it into elegant twists and knots. There is no pleasure I can compare to holding the satiny strands between my fingers. If I let my mind amble, they begin to feel like fronded weeds in cool water slipping over my skin. I listen to his stories with delight, and with his words as my guide, I wander among scents and sights that I shall never have the opportunity to revel in. Seneca has lashed the loosened threads of my sanity back together. I am grateful.

As for my quarters, I have staked claim to a new home in the forest. This cavern does not boast a labyrinth of tunnels, nor cathedrals of basalt. Instead, the stone is dry and arenaceous, hosting no life but for the reaching tree-roots that spill through crevices above. A maw of limestone hosts a wellspring of water that is clear and calm. Though I can find no sustenance in this hall, a large river tumbles through the woods down the hill. Silvery slivers dance on the rapids, and chitinous clackers creep across the muddy banks. I will prepare a catching pot from gut-string and twigs, and with luck, a day of bobbing the contraption will snare edible fare.

Seneca has encouraged me to fit my new home-place with worldly comforts. It is not something I had ere considered, as prior 'residences' had been shared with beasts, interlopers, and encroaching mold. Here, I need not take my rest with one eye crooked open, and those whom I invite into my domain are unlikely to be four-legged, pincered, or wing'ed.
In his kindness, Seneca prepared a pile of furs for my languor. He brought me carpentry supplies as well. The trees here are entirely unlike Zurkhwood, from felling them to shaping their bounty, but with some practice, I think I should be able to fashion humble furnishings. Oak has a pleasant scent.

Saibhar Malagdrin.
« Last Edit: August 15, 2020, 10:12:23 AM by Homebrew Hokum »
It is not an ending, but an ebbing.

NacreCicatrix

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Re: 🗻 Chuth Lu'euol'gui 🗻
« Reply #11 on: September 20, 2020, 04:55:42 AM »
-
« Last Edit: September 20, 2020, 04:58:49 AM by Homebrew Hokum »
It is not an ending, but an ebbing.

NacreCicatrix

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Re: 🗻 Chuth Lu'euol'gui 🗻
« Reply #12 on: September 20, 2020, 04:57:51 AM »
   
I
RIVER MAP

        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 stench 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 bawled, 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.
« Last Edit: September 20, 2020, 07:48:57 AM by Homebrew Hokum »
It is not an ending, but an ebbing.