You have been taken by the Mists

Author Topic: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist  (Read 1718 times)

Praying Mantis

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At times it is hard to believe what has happened.  Making the journey to the Plains of Dust after the Qualinesti nearly fell to extinction, only to end up misted away to this dark and macabre land.  Sometimes I still think they're mad, the ones who say this is a different realm entirely, the mists are a gateway to....something else.  It all seems so far fetched.  And yet, over the past few days no matter how hard I look there is not escape.  No matter how many I ask, they seem to have a tale similar to mine, it seems far too often an occurrence to be a coincidence. 

Still though, there is a silver lining to everything.  My ambition has always been to use the gift of words that Astra has blessed me with to tell the Song of Life.  What better place to start these stories of inspiration than in a land that needs them most?  At least then it will be an interesting way to pass the time which can almost seem to stand still here.  So here's a prayer that these words will be passed around the inns and taverns, in hopes that even just one may find their spirits lifted.
-J'ystn

Praying Mantis

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Re: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist
« Reply #1 on: March 31, 2021, 10:07:16 PM »
HEROES IN ALL SHAPES AND SIZES-

Everyone wants to be a hero.  Sure, we have different ways of going about it, but the thrill, fame, and recognition of doing something greater than yourself calls to us all in some way.  I'm no different.  So, it is in Barovia that... (admittedly with way too much free time on my hands and way to few coins in my pouch) I struck out to be a great hero of my own, picking up a sword with intent to use in real life for the first time.  What the hells did I hope to accomplish?  No idea.  But I knew whatever it was, it was going to be grand!
My first adventure found me soon after living the limited civilization of the outskirts.  Along the road I was waylaid by a swarm of giant beetles.  After a disappointing bout of missed slashes, it was clear to me the time to run had come.  Some hero.  In my flight, I was lucky enough to score a hit with a stray crossbow bolt and take one of these awful insects down. 

But now, cornered!  No where to run.  Time to hero up and do what I set out for.  Drawing steel, I missed again and again, a stalemate of combat between myself and my insectoid opponent.  As we circled each other, blessings from the Song of Life appeared.  We stumbled across a hero of the most unlikely kind who quickly aided me in my fight against this great evil!  A hero none other than....a stray and rabid weasel.  The weasel clawed and bit at the beetle with the fervor of a veteran warrior.  It easily took down it's prey swiftly and efficiently and then....turned on me! Exit stage left.

THE MORAL OF THE STORY- You never know when you'll find a hero amongst you.  They come in all shapes and sizes, and all walks of life.  Whether it be the warrior in gleaming armor, or the lone weasel pissed that something tread on it's home, there they are ready to take action when the time calls for it.  I only hope my friends that you may find this hero in your own lives or better yet....you be that hero to someone else when needed
-J'ystn

Praying Mantis

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Re: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist
« Reply #2 on: April 04, 2021, 11:21:27 PM »
FRIENDS WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT

Sometimes we aren't always looking for our hero.  But that is their role after all isn't it?  To inspire when we least expect it.  Shortly after my unfortunate mist induced arrival, I found myself contemplating my current circumstances in the outskirts as so many do.  The mediation was broken when a pack of lycan werebeasts in wolf form attacked from seemingly nowhere!

The ravenous beasts scattered the crowd, and those with the means and skill to do so pursued, clashing head on with the thud and fury of violent combat.  Soon, the wolf beasts retreated.  Naturally seeking to see the tale unfold first hand I pursued, only to find myself alone and rather unsafe outside an orphanage.  What's more...unusual mists were settling in, and we know how that goes.

It was then that by the Song of Life's majesty, I found my own inspiration.  A trio of heroes returning from a separate venture.  Good Sir Lucien with armor gleaming and faith in his outlander deity Selune that carried him through.  Conner, the kilted tradesman who though of few words had a quiet and strong goodness to him.  And Drew, a deft and sly woman who's grand persona was only matched my the scope of her hat.

They took me under their wing in the night.  A night I may not have survived alone.  It would seem now I was part of their noble purpose to set an unjust act straight, find the site of a recent attack related to a friend of theirs who had recently passed and had his grave robbed.  We walked the dark and gloomy path through the evening, set upon by the nights creatures, werebeasts in the humanoid form of half man, half bat.  Their thin, leathery wings beat against steel and sword, however, at the end, my companions were triumphant!

We reached a nobles keep at the end, though sadly what they sought was nowhere to be found.  It seemed though I had much to gain from this trip.  These kind souls took great compassion in their hearts, helping to equip me with tools of the trade I may need to survive along these types of adventures.  They taught me tips and tricks to get by as well.  I had set out after the initial attack in the outskirts seeking a story of excitement, but what I had found instead were shining examples of what a hero really is.

THE MORAL OF THE STORY-
Dark and violent places often breed the brightest of heroes.  Perhaps it was always in their hearts, perhaps they came into this role out of necessity for all the despair that settles upon Barovia and places like it.  None the less, they are there, helping those in need when we least expect it.  We're all in this together, that is the most important thing to remember.  And I've learned from this encounter one important lesson, pay that goodness forward, for you never know when you might be the unexpected hero that shows up "by chance" to aid someone else in need.

Praying Mantis

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Re: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist
« Reply #3 on: April 23, 2021, 11:27:07 PM »
IN YOUR DARKEST OF TIMES

I've come to learn just how trying Barovia can be.  There is danger and death at every corner.  Often we are on an island here, separated from home and family, and with no one to really trust to turn to.  However, just when things seem at their lowest, those who may not even know it can bring the inspiration you need.
I was trying my hand at at heroics and had just dipped my head into the crypts below the temple of the kind dawn worshippers.  This peek below was just enough time to realize my doom.  It seems a rather careless adventurer had ran and gathered all the vile undead right to the base of the steps as I stepped down.  They set upon me instantly, hacking and slashing with little chance to defend!  I twisted and fell, as things went black I had one last thought...I was certain I'd die at this moment.  The inexplicable happened then, perhaps it was divine intervention, perhaps it was a glitch in the matrix, I know not.  All I know, is somehow I made it to the summit of the steps, back to the safety of the temple. 

An inspiring story of perseverance right?  No doubt I'd receive aid and get back to it, all the wiser for my carelessness.  Wrong...As I lie fleeting in between life and death in the temple, no one rushed to my aid.  In fact, in my vulnerable state, someone was so devious as to remove all the coin from my satchel.  Yet...this was not the end...as the spirit began to leave the body, something drove to push through, my life's Song was not yet over.  I rose.

Rose just in time to encounter a party about to head below and clear the undead, vanquish them from the steps, and then all the way to the core of the ruins beneath the temple.  I had though my situation too dire to overcome.  I had begun to lose faith in the humanity of those around me.  Yet just at that time, a random group of strangers proved that the impossible can be overcome. 

THE MORAL OF THE STORY- Your actions matter.  We never truly know the frame of mind of those around us. What might seem like a random act to you might be the inspiration someone needs to get them past the tipping point.  Act as though what you do will make all the difference to those who are watching.

Praying Mantis

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Re: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist
« Reply #4 on: May 03, 2021, 09:52:35 PM »
*the following story circulates many a quiet fireside evening at the various taverns of Vallaki*

A TOUCH OF DIGNITY

She tended her rows with the gentle touch of a mother enamored with her newborn.  Each one of her plots was kept with immaculate and loving care.  Each space was a life's work.  They took decades if not more to cultivate.  And every one had grown into it's own form of perfection.

There is a lesson to be learned in each growth.  Nature is a strange and mysterious teacher.  It shapes and molds things with far more insight and magic than we are capable of understanding.  Nature is like a sculptor with an internal vision to create that only it can see the genius of.  It twists, turns, and gives light to those of it's creations capable of embracing this path to beauty.  Such is life.

The gardener did not consider herself a hero for tending to the cycle of nature.  To her, this was simply the way things were.  In her mind it was no different than a housewife watering flowers in a vase.  There was no motive behind it, only the desire to see things done right, with grace.

The dark clad figure cheerfully approached a headstone, a macabre arborist approaching her subject for further inspection.  She dusted off an inscription, a window washed clean of grime to show the outside world, or perhaps it was within?

"Here lies Svetlana Lucianovich- Beloved Mother".  The dark woman beamed, behind here a young woman cried.  Stepping along her route, the dark clad gardener made space for the girl to place her flowers, and have the chance to be with her memories in a space worthy of them.





Praying Mantis

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Re: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist
« Reply #5 on: May 19, 2021, 07:21:40 PM »
*Elven Storyteller J'ystn Chance circulates this tale inside Vallaki's inn's and taverns, particularly aimed on entertaining crowd's of mourners post funeral*

One Final Score

They swore this would be their last funeral.  It’s not like Petru and his gang liked stealing from the dead.  It’s just that when one of the Garda’s own passes, let alone two, the memorial gleams with gifts like a treasure trove.  So this would be their last burial.  The score from it would have them set for months. 

They’d done everything right as usual, meticulously planning in the back rooms of Tigan’s Rest.  Deciding exactly the precise amount of days to pass as to allow mourners to depart and forget.  The key was not cutting it too short as to miss out on any cherished gifts that might be left.

Petru and his gang were shadows in tall grass as they snuck towards the beach side memorials.  As the men drew closer, they could almost taste the cheap booze they’d splurge on with their stolen fortune.  At first when they’d started casing funerals for the loot of grief stricken mourners, they’d ran through a gambit of emotions.  Desire, determination, guilt, remorse, spend the money, remorse is gone, this is the slums we do what we can to get by.  Tough world out there and all.  Now that they were pros though, the main thought was mostly just don’t get caught.

The men looked like sailors in the dreamlike pull of a sirens call.  They drifted towards the greedy lure of the offerings on the fallen guards coffins.  So intent were they on their prize they hardly noticed the silent, grey sentinel step from behind the tree in front of them.  A flash of insignia on his cloak revealed justice’s scales held up by a skeletal hand.  The dead need order too.

They swore this would be their last funeral.  But Petru wasn’t able to keep that promise to his men.  The grey sentinel kept a silent vigil now over three new coffins after a cheap, quick Vallaki Slums burial for which no one mourned.  No one but the Grey Sentinel
« Last Edit: May 21, 2021, 12:24:16 AM by Praying Mantis »

Praying Mantis

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Re: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist
« Reply #6 on: May 22, 2021, 10:42:41 AM »
*Fliers teasing the elven writers first formally written work begin popping up around Vallaki along with the nearby locales of Krofburg and the Wachter Outposts.  Written for the Church of Ezra, See No Evil is a modern fable filled with action, suspense, and lessons to live by.  Inspired by the life of the beloved Saint Igrayne Blaith of Mordent, it promises not to disappoint.  Those who want to hear more are encouraged to talk to the Pure Hearts of Ezra at Raduta Keep, or listen for the tale coming to a tavern near you!*
« Last Edit: May 30, 2021, 08:31:02 PM by Praying Mantis »

Praying Mantis

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Re: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist
« Reply #7 on: May 30, 2021, 08:39:42 PM »
*J'ystn Chance, wordsmith and inspirationist, performs a live reading for the first chapter of "See No Evil- The Making of Saint Igrayne Blaithe, at the Rustic Belvidere, Wacther Province*

See No Evil- Chapter 1, The Message

Even though this was the fifth time they’d met, Ezra spoke to Raven like her trusted friend.  To be in her presence was like the peaceful nestle of her roost on a clear, warm day.  The conversation was the same as the last four times.  “I know you don’t understand why, Raven, but I have chosen you for a great task”, Ezra said like a teacher explaining something complex to a pupil, wise and patient.  Raven squawked in reply “There’s nothing special about me, why can’t someone else do it?  I’m perfectly comfortable here.  I’ve got my nest, plenty to eat, perhaps even eggs to lay soon.  Why give that up?”.  Raven folded her wings over herself defiantly.  She had no interest in being a messenger for a Goddess.  She had a perfectly acceptable piece of contentment right here. 

“Greatness is possible for all Raven”, Ezra countered.  “When action and purpose are needed, we have a decision to make.  Certainly.  You can sit around your nest.  It will be a modest, easy life, and then it will end.  Nothing more, nothing less.  The child that is coming, she will destroy sorrow.  She will sow peace in this land never before known or felt.  But if the sign of my blessing never reaches her, none of this will come to be, such is the Grand Scheme.  You must travel through the mists and deliver the message.”  Ezra looked down upon Raven, her gaze neutral.  The bird twitched her head from side to side as she digested the thought.  “But the path is dangerous, you’ve said so before yourself!  I’m no hero, I’m not meant for this!  And I’m afraid…afraid of what might become of me”.  Raven hung her head as she thought about the terrors Ezra described she’d face.  “It’s safer here.” 
Ezra gazed with sympathy upon Raven and tenderly brushed her fingers across her feathers.  It felt like when mother looked lovingly upon her and fed her worms when she first hatched.  “We all have a part to play, Raven.  The best heroes are those who don’t seek to be one.  How comfortable will your roost be when the nights Legions encroach upon it?  How will you nurture your eggs knowing that the young of others nearby are suffering?  The Grand Scheme does not force you to act, but you play a part in it either way…”.  Ezra’s voice trailed off like a coil of mist slowly dissipating as Raven awoke with a shudder.  It was the fifth time she’d had this dream, and it was the same every time.  She wasn’t sure how or why it was happening to her.  But one thing was clear…it couldn’t be ignored any longer. 

The mists made Raven nearly blind, and she wasn’t even sure if she was flying the right way anymore.  In truth it didn’t really matter to her now.  She was lost, this was too big a task for her to handle.  The sinking feeling of dread crept in as Raven came to the realization that she was failing.  She felt the end was coming soon, and it wouldn’t be pleasant. 
Claw and talon grasped from every angle.  Though she could not see where they came from, Raven knew they were everywhere.  Her heart was full of panic.  Her wings had never beat so fast, every part ached, begging to stop and rest.  Fear fueled the desperate bird, and she knew to slow even for a moment was certain death.  The fiend that sought her would not rest until she was torn to pieces along with Ezra’s message.  Raven pushed and pushed but it was not enough.  She could feel herself slowing, her body failing.  Deformed, wrong looking limbs shot through misty hiding spots to snatch her and they were getting closer…closer. 

A ragged, crooked hand rose from under Raven through the fog.  It’s mottled flesh the color of dirty water that’d been pooling in the street too long.  Bent and broken fingers closed around Ravens thin leg. She let out a caw of pain as the cold despair of it’s touch wracked her body.  Thrashing her wings with the madness that comes when you see your demise coming, Raven used every last bit of life in her body to try and push forward just a bit more.  Then, the fiend’s hand yanked back, pulling Raven into it’s vile embrace.  She let out her final cry, sinking backward and full of terror. 
This was not what the Grand Scheme had in store though.  Though she was lost to the mist’s darkness, in the pursuit much ground was covered.  The hunt had brought them to the mists edge.  Just as Raven had given up hope, both her and her captor exploded through the misty border and into the Hollow like an arrow shattering glass.  Wispy tendrils of fog burst outward in every direction.  As the malignant hand that clutched Raven touched the air of the mortal world, it instantly released her, unprepared to enter the living realm and light of day.  It let out a muffled shriek from behind the mist that Raven thought sounded like the cry of a human child but far away and near at the same time.  The deathly grey arm retracted from the Hollow to behind it’s misty veil again, slowly submerging downward like a sinking object taking on water. 

Raven twisted, rolled, and fluttered in the air, now in a free fall.  As she sped towards the earth, she cursed her luck.  Escaped one horror only to die in a fall from the sky, ironic end for a bird she thought.  Again though luck, or perhaps fate, was on her side.  Raven flapped with everything she had and righted herself only a few feet before smashing into the ground.  She swooped upward in a soaring arch that felt like freedom.  A loud caw that was almost a laugh escaped her beak, and it contained all her joyous relief from an unbearable weight finally lifted.
It was not long then that Raven began her descent into Mordent, as the greyish orange of dusk set over the city.  The streets were as Ezra had said they’d be.  People filled with sorrow and suffering at every turn.  The poor, the sick, and the hopeless all crowded into this cities walls that shut in the misfortunes like a box.  After a brief bit of searching, she spotted the house where the infant should be found.  It was a small, unimpressive structure of two stories and despite the owner’s best efforts at upkeep, still showed signed of decaying wood and chipped brick. 

Raven perched on an open second floor windowsill.  Within the room she could make out the crib of the child, the baby inside fast asleep.  She nearly lost her breath when she was her.  There was nothing special about her, she looked like any other newborn girl.  Rather because of what she represented.  Ezra had been right, she’d lead Raven true.  There was something else to it though as well.  Raven had changed.  Carried herself different, her head held higher.  This child represented the finish line of a reluctant race she’d never wanted to start.  Now that she was at the end, Raven could almost look back in time at her old self and see the folly in her ways.  She was picked for a reason.

Gliding down off the windowsill, Raven hopped to the crib and fluttered up inside.  The baby stirred within but did not wake.  Using her beak, Raven plucked out a single one of her feathers, gently placing it alongside the child.  Her ink black eyes staring reverently upon the newborn.  From outside the door of the room, Raven could hear footsteps coming from down the hallway.  The muffled sound of feet shuffling got closer, and the door opened, the dim orange of candlelight spilling into the room.

Passing the candlelight from side to side, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.  A woman lingered in the doorway.  She gave herself a quiet smirk and a shrug at her over anxiousness.  Slowly, she stepped on tip toes towards the crib, trying her best not to make a sound.  Inside her baby slept peacefully wrapped and swaddled in a cocoon of soft blankets.  The mother lowered the candle closer, squinting a bit and peering at something next to her child.  Carefully, she plucked up the midnight black feather of a raven that rested alongside the infant.  She held it in front of her face between index finger and thumb.  Her eyes widened and mouth opened like a gaping chasm.  She bolted from the room, waving the feather in excitement like a wand.  “Come! Come quick you’ll never believe what I found!” She shouted eagerly.  “Look what was left for Igrayne!”.

Within the dark void of the mists, the fiend paced back and forth in rage.  The empty place where it’s heart would be filled with fury and loathing.  He’d spent countless years of time and effort working his diabolical machinations upon Mordent to turn it to the pitiful den of sorrow it’d now become.  His long, spindly fingers clenched and unclenched as cracked, jagged nails dug into the dead grey flesh of his own palms.  The hatred and animosity building inside him was boiling over.  All his evil works were at risk now because of a single feather.  It was unbearable, intolerable.  It could not be allowed to pass.  From within the misty border a shrill, frustrated cry of violent madness escapes.


Praying Mantis

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Re: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist
« Reply #8 on: June 16, 2021, 09:01:31 PM »
*J'ystn Chance, Inspirationist, Tale Teller, and Wordsmith, performs the first part of his new horror story at the stroke of midnight inside the Blood o' the Vine Inn, Barovia Village.*

Operation Further Pt. 1

Sergeant Georgovich closed the ledger and looked his troops over.  He imagined the expression on his face matched theirs.  Eyebrows slightly raised, the mouths set in a firm frown, heads shaking.  The history of the fort’s infirmary the ledger told was a grim one.  It was built nearly 50 years ago to care for soldiers and their families stationed in an outpost not far outside the Village of Barovia.  While initially the military families felt a dedicated place of care would be a blessing, this opinion soon changed as a series of unfortunate and strange events unfolded. 

The infant mortality rate of those unfortunate tiny souls born in the infirmary was described by workers as “abysmal, similar to that of savage and uncivilized countries”.  Soon after, the staff began reporting periodic accidents in the form of shelves falling over, crates tipping, or caregivers being locked out of rooms they were certain they’d left open.  Worst of all were the accounts from workers claiming they never felt alone in the birth rooms, even if they knew the place was empty as the cleaned in the evening.  One older entry from a custodian stood out in particular to Sergeant Georgovich “January, 724 BC- Finished sweeping the floors and double checked all the doors were locked but found the maternity room open.  Damn sure it was closed when I started.  Went inside for a quick peak to close up and immediately got a chill.  And I swear I heard the sound of a baby crying!  Needless to say I fled out of there.  I told the head midwife the next day but she just said I’m being paranoid, prone to superstition she called it.  She’s always brushing me off every time I bring it up!”.

Georgovich did his best to remain positive.  This was his first command assignment since being transferred to the unit and he wanted to do right by his men.  He and his cadre of about a dozen soldiers were tasked with a two week assignment to finish the decommission of the infirmary, inventory it’s contents, and provide security for the laborers hauling out anything worth salvaging inside.  The brief now concluded, it was time to get to work.  The rotting wooden structure of the infirmary loomed before them on the outskirts of the otherwise well-maintained fort like the black sheep of the family, kept hidden and secret as not to embarrass.  As the first supply wagons started pulling in, the air was tense.  The men were already on edge and nerves frayed because of the place’s bizarre history.  Georgovich was in the command tent looking a map over when he first heard the shouting…

Bolting out of the tent, the Sergeant stopped in his tracks, head and eyes darting from side to side as he surveyed the catastrophic scene before him.  About a hundred yards from the infirmary, the rear supply wagon of a convoy was tilted askew and plowed directly into the cart in front of it.  The horse pulling it was broken out of it’s yoke, thrashing in a frenzy on the ground, legs flailing uselessly as it tried to right itself up.  Thrown several dozen feet to the wagons right side was a soldier lying motionless on the ground, eyes closed.  Georgovich thought he looked like he was sleeping, were it not for the thin trails of blood snaking out of his ears.  “Yosef!” he shouted as he took off into a sprint once more towards the fallen man.  Several soldiers were already gathered around him, the commotion droning on in a cacophony of shouts as they tried to sort out the chaos.  A few of the men crouched by their fallen comrade, checking on his status.  “Still breathing Sergeant!” One of them added.  Relief washed over Georgovich as he thanked his God internally, the weight of dread dropping off him felt akin to the liberation of removing his armor after a long day. 

“What the hell happened here?!”  Came an exasperated inquiry as he stopped catching his breath.  Andrew, one of his junior soldiers responded.  “We were driving the wagons in domn, and out of nowhere one of the midwife’s from the infirmary steps out into the road, shouting like a lunatic that we’re not welcome here!  I got distracted since she came out of nowhere and next thing I know I….I rammed the cart in front of us.”  The other soldiers silenced Andrew with pointed objections, saying he was the crazy one, no ones worked here for weeks since the place closed, how could there be a midwife?  Yosef was taken to the medical tent for observation, though he remained in and out of consciousness for the next several days.  The soldiers monitoring him said he tossed and turned during the night, sweating and obviously plagued by nightmares during his slips from consciousness.  The whispering began on the eve of the second night after the accident. 

The dim medical tent was lit only by a handful of candles that cast an eerie pale orange glow across the interior.  Andrew was on watch, trying to keep himself awake playing cards.  He was looking away from Yosef, when a slow, languid movement from the cot caught the corner of his vision.  A cold feeling of terror dripped over him, rolling down his spine like ice water poured down the back of his tunic.  His head moved slowly, almost unwilling to look at the cot for fear of what he might see.  Yosef was sat straight up in the bed, his eyes closed, though his arm was limp and outstretched, a drooping finger pointing accusingly at Andrew.  A soft, hissing whisper escaped his lips that slowly increased in speed and intensity until all the words melded together in a chilling, guttural crescendo that barely sounded human!  “Thatsss not your baby…thatsss not your baby ThaTssssnot your baby ThatsssNotyouR baby…THATSSSNOTYOURBABY..THATSSSSSNOTYOURBABYYYYTTTHATTTSSSSSSNOTYOURBABYYYYYYY!”  Yosef then simply went rigid, and lied back down, not stirring again for the rest of the night.  It came to be that the soldiers found it so eerie to stand watch over him, they were soon paying fang to each other to get out of duty.

By the weeks end, things slowly started to return to normal.  Good progress was being made and Sergeant Georgovich was beginning to feel more confident in his leadership over the operation.  The laborers were nearly halfway through emptying the infirmary.  As to be expected, they reported uneasy feelings and inexplicable minor accidents or injuries which they blamed on the supernatural.  It was easy enough to dismiss as superstition though.  All in all, it seemed things would be on track.

At the end of day seven, one of the soldiers pulling security inside the infirmary plodded into the command tent.  The Sergeant could tell by the man’s slow, reluctant gait that he had something to say that he was not looking forward to.  The private scratched behind his ear looking down.  “Sergeant there’s uh…something you should see.  Found this inside while the workers were moving out some cots in the patient rooms.”  He passed Georgovich a worn, tattered stack of papers bound together with a piece of ragged twine.  “They’re from a woman who was a patient there Sergeant.  One of the last women to give birth while the infirmary was operational.  Seems like she had some things to say about the experience.  None of them good.  They get pretty…uh…desperate.”  Georgovich looked down at the stack of papers in his hand.  He bit his lip and narrowed his eyes, suddenly regretting that he was even touching them.  He inhaled a deep breath through his nose, steadying himself as he reached to undo the string and have a look, when a Lance Corporal burst through the tent flap out breath and full of jittery energy.  “Sergeant!  It’s Yosef!  He’s awake…up and about now.  You’re gonna want to uh…well you just need to hear what he’s gotta say domn!”………………

….To be continued in part 2….

Praying Mantis

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Re: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist
« Reply #9 on: August 20, 2021, 11:42:02 PM »
*This tale is told at Silver Linings Tavern & Cabaret*

Vogue-
The ballroom of the gala was a portrait of rustic charm and class wrapped in shadowy cloak of dim candles and smokey haze.  It was one of those places that subtly told you in quiet ways…”there’s money here”.  The artwork on the walls, the finely knit carpets, and the dark lacquered wood of the bar set it apart from the rest of the cities dives.  This was a real beauty, not a rundown watering hole where men go to escape their sorrows nor a façade of something greater trying too hard to be what it’s not.  No, this was authentic class.  Being an outsider, my nerves were already set on edge, vibrating with anxious energy like little violin strings playing inside my body.  I’d have to be on my finest game to blend in, meet my contact, and secure the information. 

I took a deep breath, one of those breaths that says…calm down, you’ve got this.  This job was the big leagues, no room for error and too much at stake.  I plaster a smile on my face, a rehearsed act so convincing even I’ve forgotten who I am.  The knife ears and odd color eyes all melt away as I become one with the guests, moving about the party like a phantom.  After a few drinks and some time to warm up I am unstoppable now as the thrill of mingling takes hold.  Secrets unlock, spilling their treasures to my pointed ears with ease the same way the wine pours freely into my glass, it’s red velvet texture ever so dully reflecting the light of the candelabra I chat up my mark under.  I’m so close, using words like a blade to parry and thrust in a battle of words that I’m certain I’ll win.  This is my battlefield, and to the victor go the spoils.

The nobleman I’m conversating with has nearly given up all the closely guarded gems of knowledge I’m after when out of the corner of my eye I catch a ruby hued allure that I can’t quite resist.  I tell myself just a peak to satisfy my curiosity then it’s back to the game.  What happens next, I am not prepared for. 

I am…punched in the solar plexus, my breath catching in my throat the same way a person gasps when they’re startled.  She is quite literally, breathtaking.  A glowing crimson elegance that completely draws me out of the room, and for a moment, we’re alone there.  I can hear the garbled murmur of the other guests talking around me, but I can’t see them.  Instead, all I can see is the delicate shimmer of a satin gown that looks like dark flame, drawing me in like a Siren’s call to ever so slightly brush a finger against. A long braid of dark hair winding down her frame like a river that my eyes can’t help but follow the current of.  Thin fog from her cigarette’s smoke lingers around her like a veil, the air of mystery and edge it creates only adds to the magnetic draw.

The nobleman I was schmoozing asks me if I’m alright.  I suddenly realize there are dozens of people about again as I’m reluctantly drawn out of my trance like a man woken from the most pleasant of dreams who’s not ready to leave it yet.  I feel my lips tighten into the feintest lines of a grimace, eyes holding little hints of impatience and edge to them.  How dare he pull me aware from her.  He notices this, scoffing a bit and walks off.  My eyes close with a quiet sigh, the ones you give when you know you’re screwed.  Despite having completely lost out on what I came for, I am liberated none the less to have found something far more worthwhile.  Mission failed, I now turn in the direction of the only thing that matters.  She is gone from her seat, an empty wine glass stained by ruby red lipstick and a wispy trail of smoke drifting away the only clue that she even existed.

Praying Mantis

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Re: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist
« Reply #10 on: September 16, 2021, 12:36:14 AM »
See No Evil- Chapter 2, What Dreams May Come

Igrayne stood atop an overturned crate in the city square.  Painted on this crate was an image of a keg with three x’s across the body of the barrel, the image dusty and tarnished against the slatted pieces of wood.  Before her, several dozen rows Mordenshire’s citizens huddled closely to hear her words.  Their bleary red eyes, slumped shoulders, and vacant stare told their story.  The crowd moseyed about anxiously and she smiled easily at them, putting to rest weary nerves.  From that point on, they were fish on the hook. 
Her presence was an alluring paradox.  On one hand, she spoke with a gentle calmness.  The ease and tender nature of her words floating across the crowd like a quiet breeze moving grass.  Then in the next sentence, she had the command presence of a general.  Her faith and conviction evident in the message. 

She’d been at this for several weeks now.  Making the fliers by hand and praying to Ezra that someone, anyone would acknowledge them.  It wasn’t always immediate success though.  The first time she mounted this overturned, shoddy crate to spread the path of the pure heart, no one showed. 
The first breakthrough came at the first rays of dawn, five days after she’d started this journey of faith.  She was just packing up, feeling the sting of a rejection in her efforts once more, when a motley crew of two men and two women groggily emerged from the inn which neighbored Igrayne’s preaching crate.  The shared words with each other that brought a reddened blush to Igraynes cheeks, as the men’s hands worked their way up the women’s skirts, drunken grins plastered stupidly on their faces at what they knew was to come.

She sighed.  How nice it would be if this were a husband and wife enjoying each other’s company and keeping the vigor of their marriage alive.  But no, this was the typical wild flings and trysts she had targeted this part of town for.  The inn that doubled as a well-known brothel and gambling house was in direct view of her station.  It was here at this crossroads of debauchery that she strategically decided to place her preaching crate, for it was here she felt Ezra needed her most.

As the revelers walked past Igrayne without so much as a nod, luck, or perhaps divine intervention struck, literally, as one of her fliers conveniently drifted downward from the sky and spiraled like a leaf on the wind directly into one of the women’s face.  She let out a muffled groan, ripping the parchment from her tired visage and crumbling it into a ruined ball within her fist.  She glared irritably upward to the figure standing atop the preaching box, as did the rest of her companions. 

Igrayne offered an apologetic smile.  “So sorry, ladies and gentlemen.  Didn’t mean for the Grand Scheme to ruin your evening.  But since we’re here…” Igrayne offered a curious glance and motioned to the parchment the woman was getting ready to toss away.  Perhaps it was Igrayne’s beauty, or perhaps just something about her presence, but one of the men seemed mildly convinced enough to take a look. Red rimmed, hung-over eyes strained to focus on the words, though one part in particular stood out for upon reading it the man’s face went from a hazy grin to a more serious and nearly guilty countenance.

“Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and I will give rest for your souls, for my burden is light.  Cry no more, for I shall cry for you instead.”

This struck a chord with the downtrodden folk of Mordent who has suffered in poverty and hopelessness for so long.  They sought relief in the spoils of the physical world to escape their pain. The promise of a simple, gentle release from their burdens and troubles, however much a last-ditch effort, seemed worth a shot.  For nothing else had worked, so why not Ezra?

The sinful group remained to hear Igrayne out, reluctantly at first, though by the time she had finished her sermon, the transformed look on their faces told of a warmed heart that likely hadn’t been felt in some time.  Igrayne left them with a final plea, not admonishing, not judgmental, simply a request…“As Ezra does not condemn you nor do I.  Go now, and sin no more.”

This statement of liberation and forgiveness moved something in their souls.  Slowly, the glistening rim of tears formed under each set of eyes, and as the pairs departed with their hands to themselves, Igrayne could hear quiet sniffling.  They say word of mouth is the best form of advertising.  This must be true, for the transformed sinners told their friends, who told their friends, who told their friends, and it was not long before Igrayne’s sad crowd of zero was soon dozens.  Within a few weeks’ time, the sleepy, vacant churches of Ezra’s Pure Hearts were bustling with activity.  The joyous and redemptive message caught on like wildfire to the beleaguered people of Mordent. 

At then center of it all was Igrayne to thank as the guide which led these searching souls there.  Choirs sung joyful hymnals, and like dirt washed away by rain, the grip of darkness slowly began to erode from Mordentshire.  But the forces of darkness are at work as much as those of light.  Success without being tested is hollow like a blade not yet tempered through the fires.

The joyful sound of the choirs floated upon the mists to the Fiends ears.  It was unbearable, screeching in his ears like a thousand nails on a chalk board, their piercing wail driving him mad.  Since his embarrassment years before, the fiend had spent day and night in it’s rotting hollow, obsessing over the when and how of his revenge.  Igrayne’s success was just a further slap in the face.  Every soul she turned from darkness was and embarrassment to him, a reminder of his failure to stop Raven’s message.  The fiend was a crafty sort though, and perhaps with the right amount of finessing, Igrayne’s success would be her undoing.

By now, Igrayne’s reputation had grown immense.  Gone were the days of preaching in the public square that stunk of animals and stale ale.  Now she occupied a space in the local church, which thanks to her efforts sported brightly shone marble floors, intricately made wooden pews, and a full congregation every fifth day that clung to her every word….though she still kept the ale crate that started it all.  Perhaps the Fiend though could exploit Igrayne’s newfound celebrity status.  After all, it was the clinging to the material world that he’d used to plunge Mordent into sorrow to begin with.

He came to Igrayne in her dreams, as often those tempters and defilers do.  In the first night of her nocturnal vision, she was a figure of great wealth and influence.  Igrayne moved through the crowd of Mordentshire effortlessly, she was beloved, people smiled and waved, praised her and praised Ezra.  The church, once barely more than a wooden hovel of a few rooms had grown into an immense, pristine cathedral, with spires that spiked high into the heavens, fingers pointing up to praise Ezra.  Igrayne felt the warmth the crowd felt in turn towards her.  The elation of taking her audience on a journey of the heart, and seeing the emphatic nods in a sea of people who listened to her words on a regular basis.  But alas, it was not to be.

Igrayne knew the trappings of the material world were a detour, and illusion meant to derail her from her righteous path.  Most importantly, she knew these were not her visions, but the images put there by an alien force meant to tempt her from her modesty.  Her success was grand already, yes, but it would never become the center of her efforts.  Nor would she make idols of riches where instead could be idols of her savior.  Upon waking, she pushed the idea from her mind, however pleasing the image may have been.

On the second night, again the fiend appealed to Igrayne’s inner longings.  In this vision, she saw into her future.  She was a successful anchorite as always, middle aged now, with the first signs of time passing upon her face.  Years had passed since her humble beginnings, and through the turning wheel of time, she noticed something missing she’d hoped to be there.  She was alone, unmarried, without children, no one to love her in the physical sense, the raw emotion of a lover’s touch to set her heart on fire.

The empty, dreary feeling of loneliness tugged down at Igrayne’s heart like an anchor.  Had she really given up so much of herself that she would be without companionship in it’s truest form?  It was then, when the feeling of her solitude was at it’s peak, that…he…strode into her chamber.  The most handsome gentlemen she’d ever seen.  He was dressed in regal finery of green and white, the tails of his coat neatly hanging over a fit framed body.  He strode to her with such confidence that she felt the tingling anxiety of desire.  As the gentlemen reached her, his hand brushed away a lose strand of her from her face.  His touch was lightning, and Igrayne could feel her desire about to spill over, her face buzzed where his hand rested on her skin.

“You deserve happiness, Igrayne.  You deserve love, passion…you’ve given so much.  And now I’m here to give to you in return.  No one should be alone with all this burden to bear”.  The gentlemen’s voice was silk moving across a bedsheet.  Soft and alluring, barely audible as he whispered into her ear.  Her eyes locked with his.  Yes…she did want this, she did want companionship, and love, and to go to bed being held tightly at night.  His lips moved towards hers, brushing gently for a split second.  Igrayne’s eyes began to close, leaning in to embrace this wild moment.
And that’s when she saw it.  Something ever so subtle just before their kiss locked.  Tiny, reptilian slits for the gentlemen’s pupils.  Black and dark as the night.  They reflected in the candlelight like an animal’s do in the brush, lingering just outside the campfire’s glow.  Igrayne yanked her head away from him.

She said up straight in her bed like a bolt of lightning, chest rising and falling rapidly in heaving, gulping breaths.  Her nightgown was soaked through with sweat, and she looked frantically from side to side, taking a few moments to get her bearings.  Realizing she was safe and in her bedchambers alone, her pulse finally slowed from it’s race.  Something caused her hand to gingerly touch the side of her face though.  The feintest sense of an electric, tingly feeling still lingered on her flesh where the “Gentlemen’s” hand embraced her.

Within the dark void of the mists, the fiend paced back and forth in rage.  Twice now were his efforts thwarted.  He couldn’t stop the message from being delivered.  Nor could he get Igrayne to fall to the vices of greed and lust.  Sometimes, to do things right, he thought, you need to do them in person.  With that, the grotesque, contorted hand of the fiend reached out, parting the mist veil that separated this primal evil from our world, and stepped forth into the hollow.  He would corrupt Igrayne if it was the last thing he did, for there is one vice that holds sway over human hearts more than all…

Praying Mantis

  • Church of Ezra - Refuge of Fifth Light
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Re: Good In All Things- Tales of an Influencer and Inspirationist
« Reply #11 on: September 30, 2021, 07:52:04 PM »
SILVER FLAMES AND UNHOLY DUTY

*tales and rumor circulate abound in the tavern scene of Vallaki.  The cause of commotion is centered around storyteller J'ystn Chance's first non-fiction work.  An exclusive interview with the infamous Death Knight of the Silver Flame, a hot topic of current events.  The dire, haunting, and nefarious tale of our subject at large is one that begs the question just how far one will go for the price of honor?*

INTERVIEW WITH A DEATH KNIGHT:
You mentioned duty, can you describe what it is that drives you?  What is it you seek.  Everyone wants something in life or unlife, what is it you want?
I am not bound to this realm of mis, I have come beyond it and by tis act, has left me to continue in this realm instead.  What I wish is to return to my homeland.  I am a true undead, unprofaned by the means of necromancy or magic in that regard.  I was brought into this existence under sacrifice to my faith.  It is by that accord, I exist touched by a God.  I am the closest to the divine you will come to meet.

You mentioned a sacrifice that brought you to this existence.  Who were you in life.  And what sacrifice did you make to be as you are now?
I was an acolyte, a second son of a small noble house.  It was there I slowly discovered the touch of the divine, unveiling to me in wisdom and insight my purpose later on.  I looked unto the brazier of prayer and found myself devoted to these callings.  Seeking where I was to go, to fulfill that request asked unto me as any devout would do.  Then I met betrayal of my oldest kin Markus Lupus.  He intended to take away from me what was my calling.

Was…Markus the sacrifice?
Indeed.  His glory was in undoing, his purpose to the Silver Flame was a lie.  One bent on the discord of another influence and sought to disrupt my pilgrimage to finalize the most divine act one could be made to allow.  To link with the silver flame, is the highest honor of Service.  I stepped form the flames, born anew and was given hold of my purpose in hand. I slew the traitor, my own brother to realize this act.  I felled a creature whom attempted to pull me from the path, my own blood.  I believe time has no concept to me anymore.  My duty is eternal.

You mentioned others who have opposed you before.  Clearly you must recognize in unlife, there are those who will naturally be…put off.  What is it you wish to say to them.  What message do you have to tell the world and those who fear or despise you?
To those whom fear me, it is their blind disgust and knowledge of undeath they do not understand, I am a true undead, one bound to this vessel by the divine.  My purpose is holy, to remove the taint of darkness that dwells in ones soul.  All are tarnished, all must seek the path and find purity.

And how does one achieve purity?
They give themselves to the silver flame, they walk into it with faith, to know they will be purged of their sin, to enact a holy duty to cleaning the land of fear, and curse of lycanthropy, and other profane meets of life whom profane undeath, those being liches and necromancers.

How do you see your story ending?
I will leave this land to its fate.  It is lost.  It cannot be saved, I have wandered long and far and have discoursed against those of their ill gotten views of faith and duty.  All could not see beyond what I was, few understood the duty they were presented with and none had the power to end me.  This land only breeds cowardice and fear, dishonor and disloyalty.  The very acts I had trialed upon a group whom barged into the tergs only a few nights ago, as yours had.

You know though why they wish to venture there.  It is out of a sense of duty and honor to goodness they seek to slay what lurks below.  You said yourself you have no love for those things.
And that is why you must be culled, you are weak.  You cannot perform your duty.  If you cannot fell the threat, what hope does this land have to gain?  None it must burn and be purified, it will seek renewal and ash will seek those embers to alight the flame within themselves when the truth is laid bare.