Labyrinthine Spiral
- Thread starter Academia Nut
- Start date
- Original Fantasy
- Location
- Huezil
Main Farming Focus is forbidden for this community.
Too Much Ymaryn.
- Location
- Illinois
Yeah, I'd say we should go for the Communing with Spirits option as our personal choice though. Worst case scenario, we have an idea of how it works now, and can adjust what we train with it in mind. Best case scenario, we find a helpful spirit who will appraise our pretty rock for us, which could either make it useful, or make it worth more and thus let us do more if we sell it for wealth.
Training dungeoneering is nice, but I'd prefer to feel out more and get a solid idea of what we can do first.
Training dungeoneering is nice, but I'd prefer to feel out more and get a solid idea of what we can do first.
- Location
- Hell
Then rather than communing with Spirits, you should be pushing Oracle training. That is the skill you need to find said helpful spirit.
- Location
- USA
Guys we need Attempt to Commune With Spirits to get the value of the crystal so that we can sell it next turn for wealth. And we need that wealth to bring in expertise and boost other stats down the road.
Going Over the Records - Week 4
"So, would you rather have two dozen bogmen or one forest troll attack the village?"
"Under the circumstances, one forest troll."
The task of finding the hamlet's archives were something surprisingly easy to find. Decades ago, Callom's father had entrusted the village's priests with the task of managing the archives, a task that had continued to this day. And due not having much to do, Fenrick had kept the entire archives in very good state... for a run-down hamlet such as Bairglad anyway.
The difficulty of the task now, the duo of men decided, is to actually read the assorted documents and piece together the webs of laws and bureaucracy.
Which is why the two of them are holed up inside the new church, hard-bread plated next to them as they sort the entire thing. Has been doing such since yesterday, as a matter of fact.
"Is it because of Reinner?" The priest asked absentmindedly as he tries to match the village census rolls with the land claims and plots of lands used around the hamlet.
"Not really. Even without Reinner and his new axe, one forest troll isn't a 'big deal'." Callom said as he flicked the pages of a yellowing law book, perhaps the most important thing that needs reading. "They are big, they are mean, they are also easily driven back. The warding symbols work, regardless what sort of monsters. An arrow head, carved with runes would continually hurt the troll until the beast could pluck it out."
"That is true, but it's also liable to go on an unpredictable rampage." Fenrick decided to partake on the hard-bread, taking his mind off the documents. Outside of the Church, the two can hear the sounds of drills being practiced, with occasional yells from some of the militias, be it battlecries or pained cries from men, undoubtedly whacked by the knight, who undoubtedly isn't pulling back his strikes much.
"True, but it's better than two dozen bogmen. They know no fear against us commonfolk and are surprisingly silent enough to sneak up when you least expect them."
"It's a matter of visibility, then."
"Correct." Callom nodded, "Why are you asking anyway?"
"Well, knowing that Katrin has that new power, I am perhaps obligated to ask your opinion, at least in this manner, should new nodes appear. After all, the records of Labyrinths overwhelming the outlying towns and adventurers through sheer numbers were plentiful enough."
"Ah, right." Callom lowered his voice. "How is she, by the way?"
"Well, her hair started to grow again, but her hands will never return to normal. Not even with the help of a Sage, I don't think." Fenrick said, resigned. "But she is taking her duty with fervor."
"Which is bad, I think." Callom said, raising an eyebrow from the other man.
"I don't think the other person who kept throwing himself onto piles upon piles of work should be saying that. You've been taking this with as much of a fervor, if not more, than Katrin. Need I remind you who waded through the winter melt two weeks ago?"
The headsman gritted his teeth. "Fenrick, unlike me, she's just-"
"She's an Oracle now. Stop thinking of her like she's Li-" The priest's eyes widened as he stopped his last word, Callom's fists curling tight all the while. "I-I'm s-"
Callom sighed, relaxing his calloused hands. "You're right." He sighed, looking at his ring finger. At his faded, but still polished, silver ring. "You're right. But that doesn't mean I am wrong either. She deserves better than..." He gestured all around him. "This."
"For what she's forced to be?" Fenrick relaxes, once it was clear that he wasn't going to be given a haymaker. "Was that why you threw yourself at this all?"
"For all of us, really. I'm the Headman and I want all of us to get something out of this."
"Even if you know that four out of five of everyone here would bail the hell away from Bairglad?"
"Even if that's the case." He smiled wanly, which faded for a more energetic smirk. "Even if I have to deal with more misbegotten nobles. Now let's continue reading on, so I can face said misbegotten lot exactly how things work around here."
"Under the circumstances, one forest troll."
The task of finding the hamlet's archives were something surprisingly easy to find. Decades ago, Callom's father had entrusted the village's priests with the task of managing the archives, a task that had continued to this day. And due not having much to do, Fenrick had kept the entire archives in very good state... for a run-down hamlet such as Bairglad anyway.
The difficulty of the task now, the duo of men decided, is to actually read the assorted documents and piece together the webs of laws and bureaucracy.
Which is why the two of them are holed up inside the new church, hard-bread plated next to them as they sort the entire thing. Has been doing such since yesterday, as a matter of fact.
"Is it because of Reinner?" The priest asked absentmindedly as he tries to match the village census rolls with the land claims and plots of lands used around the hamlet.
"Not really. Even without Reinner and his new axe, one forest troll isn't a 'big deal'." Callom said as he flicked the pages of a yellowing law book, perhaps the most important thing that needs reading. "They are big, they are mean, they are also easily driven back. The warding symbols work, regardless what sort of monsters. An arrow head, carved with runes would continually hurt the troll until the beast could pluck it out."
"That is true, but it's also liable to go on an unpredictable rampage." Fenrick decided to partake on the hard-bread, taking his mind off the documents. Outside of the Church, the two can hear the sounds of drills being practiced, with occasional yells from some of the militias, be it battlecries or pained cries from men, undoubtedly whacked by the knight, who undoubtedly isn't pulling back his strikes much.
"True, but it's better than two dozen bogmen. They know no fear against us commonfolk and are surprisingly silent enough to sneak up when you least expect them."
"It's a matter of visibility, then."
"Correct." Callom nodded, "Why are you asking anyway?"
"Well, knowing that Katrin has that new power, I am perhaps obligated to ask your opinion, at least in this manner, should new nodes appear. After all, the records of Labyrinths overwhelming the outlying towns and adventurers through sheer numbers were plentiful enough."
"Ah, right." Callom lowered his voice. "How is she, by the way?"
"Well, her hair started to grow again, but her hands will never return to normal. Not even with the help of a Sage, I don't think." Fenrick said, resigned. "But she is taking her duty with fervor."
"Which is bad, I think." Callom said, raising an eyebrow from the other man.
"I don't think the other person who kept throwing himself onto piles upon piles of work should be saying that. You've been taking this with as much of a fervor, if not more, than Katrin. Need I remind you who waded through the winter melt two weeks ago?"
The headsman gritted his teeth. "Fenrick, unlike me, she's just-"
"She's an Oracle now. Stop thinking of her like she's Li-" The priest's eyes widened as he stopped his last word, Callom's fists curling tight all the while. "I-I'm s-"
Callom sighed, relaxing his calloused hands. "You're right." He sighed, looking at his ring finger. At his faded, but still polished, silver ring. "You're right. But that doesn't mean I am wrong either. She deserves better than..." He gestured all around him. "This."
"For what she's forced to be?" Fenrick relaxes, once it was clear that he wasn't going to be given a haymaker. "Was that why you threw yourself at this all?"
"For all of us, really. I'm the Headman and I want all of us to get something out of this."
"Even if you know that four out of five of everyone here would bail the hell away from Bairglad?"
"Even if that's the case." He smiled wanly, which faded for a more energetic smirk. "Even if I have to deal with more misbegotten nobles. Now let's continue reading on, so I can face said misbegotten lot exactly how things work around here."
If I'm reading things right, we're getting the Wealth we spent on the Militia Gear back the turn after next. With the crystal wealth, whatever it is (if it turns out it isn't useful for our purposes), it would let us eventually run Attract Trade and Expertise simultaneously, maybe with a spare wealth or so; those actions aren't certain in how long they tie down our wealth, after all. Or maybe the Crystal turns out to be very useful for our purposes. We won't know until we appraise it, however.
Apologies for rambling a bit, the sleep deprivation is setting in once again.
[X] [Per] Attempt to Commune With Spirits
Apologies for rambling a bit, the sleep deprivation is setting in once again.
[X] [Per] Attempt to Commune With Spirits
- Location
- Sydney
Not quite, we need a good success at Attempt to Commune With Spirits to appraise the crystal. At our current Oracle (1) we may not even be able to understand the Spirits sufficiently, say we roll very well and get a Spirit that is both knowledgable and friendly. The Spirit tells Katrin 'Shadows over Stone, Fading Candle', Katrin will not understand what that means.
Oracle 1 unlocks Attempt to Commune With Spirits, a higher level is likely required to be good at the skill.
- Location
- United States of America
[X][Com] Train Militia (1 Labour Committed for 1 Week)
[X][Com] Organize Hamlet Law (0/3 Weeks, Commits Expertise or a character with Administrative skill)
[X][Per] Study Skill - Dungeonmaster
Just discovered this, gotta say man, I love what your going here. Keep up the good work.
[X][Com] Organize Hamlet Law (0/3 Weeks, Commits Expertise or a character with Administrative skill)
[X][Per] Study Skill - Dungeonmaster
Just discovered this, gotta say man, I love what your going here. Keep up the good work.
If you can find a buyer for that rock, it's likely that you may have also found someone who can put you in contact with other interesting opportunities, whether it's the buyer or whoever put you in contact with them. The world of adventuring isn't that big, at the end of the day. Someone who is into poking things that are thought best left alone by most folk will likely know others in the area who are.
Bridge. People will call it a road, until they actually have to build it, at which point it will be very clear that it is one big, long bridge, which has to be built on massive pilings driven deep into monster-infested acid bogs just as they begin to melt from winter.
This is going to be fun.
This is going to be fun.
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Himmelhand
Giant Sinkhole 2020
- Location
- Midwestern US
Fixed that for you.
Watching the Flock
Sidestory: Watching the Flock
The sheep meandered along the rocky hillside, their woolly grey fleeces outlined against the gorse and sparse grass mirroring the grey clouds against the pale sky above. A storm was coming in, and Alaric didn't want the flock out on the hills when it did. Still, the flock needed to eat, and if the lambs didn't work off some of their energy now they'd be bouncing off the walls of the sheepfold. The marsh grass in the lowlands was not ready yet, and the spring lambs were too young to trust near the bogs.
He watched as a dozen lambs took turns trying to balance on top of the shoulders of Otar, the sheepdog, as the massive hound lay placidly watching the rest of the flock with a stoic expression. Each one of them wanted to be the highest, their instincts telling the little sprigs this gave them the best vantage point for predators, even if that vantage point was atop the wolfhound's shaggy mane of fur. Their mothers were a little ways down the hillside, in a defile with lusher grass, luxuriating in the temporary break from childcare. The flock's only ram, Tiny, was further up the hillside, with a few more lambs and ewes dotted here and there.
Alaric chuckled as Spotty, his nickname for one of the boldest of this year's births, tumbled off of Otar's head, after Blacky, a rather rambunctious female, had headbutted him from behind. The great hound sniffed as the lamb fell over his nose, then nuzzled the little creature slightly as it struggled upright. The scene was somewhat absurd as the dog's bearlike skull and jaws were bigger than the lamb. Alaric knew it wasn't exactly professional shepherding to name your flock, but he didn't really care. Besides, he wasn't exactly a professional shepherd.
This gig was something of a retirement opportunity, a real opportunity to be honest as the retirement options in his old line of work usually ended with "and his body was quartered so the townsfolk could see the fruits of his villainy", or sudden inexplicable food poisoning. Or wealth and fame, if you were lucky, but Alaric had a keen professional sense for how far his luck ran. Dreams of a burning palace and the sound of screams still woke him up, some nights.
No, shepherding was a better trade. More honest. These people had a courage he hadn't seen in the eyes of any bravos or cutthroats; they gambled their livelihoods in these hills, every year, hoping the rains would come at the right time and their animals would stay healthy. They helped each other, too. Alaric had seen incredible kindness and generosity from these people who had almost nothing.
He still kept his hand in, a little, of course. Convincing some of the nearby crews, (who, frankly, were a joke) that preying on poor honest herders was not a good career choice. Occasionally a jobbing tax collector or herald might go missing, or wake up with a sore head and no purse. Tragic.
Bairglad was a perfect retirement spot. Out of the way, quiet, sleepy, good simple folk like those he'd grown up with as a child, half the world a way. Nice local cider, made from the sour, rock-hard little marsh apples that grew around the bogs. Good mutton. Strong women who tended to run rings around their men. Unexciting, but wholesome.
Or it had been.
Now that damn Labyrinth had awakened in the catacombs, all bets were off. Honestly, he should have seen it coming. Remote village, with millenia worth of creepy underground tombs probably going back to heathen days? Bog sacrifices found by farmers every decade or so which definitely did? That wasn't just tempting the Fates, it was tweaking their noses and then telling a rather crude story about their mothers.
Things were going to get interesting again, one way or the other. Like a lot of the residents, he would need to decide whether to stay, or try to make a new life somewhere else. It was a brutal decision, and he had far more to fall back upon than most did. If he could remember where it was buried.
Otar made a soft noise and shifted slightly, starting to rise. The lambs bleated their displeasure at losing their lookout post, and the ewes answered, hearing their distress.
Alaric grimaced as he woke from his reverie and stood up from his perch in the little drystone shepherd's cot built into the hillside. The spring wind was bitingly cold coming down off the mountains, even in the dubious shelter of the cot, and his back liked reminding him that he was no longer a twenty year old who could leap out of windows. His knees and ankles added their own refrain that in their opinion, that had never been a particularly good idea, and they would continue to remind him about it til he died. Still, at least the wind might keep the storms off for a little while longer.
He wondered what was making the dog uneasy. In his experience, the hound was usually more sensible than most people, and a much better judge of character. He'd bought the puppy from a man in an inn, and never regretted it, although using the huge, shaggy wolfhound with its purebred snow white coat to look after sheep was perhaps a little overkill. When he'd arrived, the local wolves would occasionally make a raid on the sheepfolds, occupying the sheepdogs whilst a few wolves darted in and grabbed a lamb each before the villagers could arrive. In a professional sense, Alaric admired the mark of an operation well conducted. One night, they'd tried the same with Otar asleep beside the lambs. Otar had barely finished growing out of puppyhood at that point, and was still rather lanky.
The local wolves no longer came into the sheepfolds, or within two miles of the village.
Still, they still haunted the hills, and inevitably, a sheep or a lamb would wander away every so often. Sheep could be geniuses at finding ways to die, as Alaric had discovered over the last decade. There must be a predator ghosting the flock, up in the hills or perhaps down in the valley, under cover. Their scent was what was making the great hound uneasy. Probably time to start bringing in the flock for the night, in that case. They were getting a little strung out, and it wasn't going to get any lighter.
Otar looked at him, and made a low whine. The great white hound's ears were pricked up rather than flopping down his skull, his hackles raised. The dog's shoulder came up above Alaric's hip, and his back was visibly taut as a bowstring. Otar was on edge.
That was unusual.
The wind was getting colder.
A low mist seemed to be rolling up the hillside, from the direction of the bogs. Something was odd about that, although Alaric found it hard to place. It was hard to think, honestly. He suddenly felt rather tired. Maybe he should take a nap in the cot. Oh, that's right.
The mist was moving against the wind.
With a start Otar gave three great barks, and bounded down the hillside in the direction of the mist, baring his teeth. The noise started all the sheep bleating, and jolted Alaric back to his senses. Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong.
The wind was bitingly cold now, going through his waxed sheepskin overcoat and leather jerkin like they weren't there. His bones hurt, physically hurt, and walking felt like walking through treacle. He had to lean on his shepherd's crook just to stay upright. The wind was only a low breeze, barely stirring the thistles in the grass, but it felt like trying to walk through a gale.
With trembling, numb fingers he grabbed the sheep whistle from around his neck and started to blow through it. He had to gather the flock. Gather the flock. Gather them, and then bring them home…
No sound seemed to be coming from the whistle, as hard as he tried to blow.
It was then that he saw them.
The three shapes were indistinct, almost like pillars of smoke. They were hard to make out directly, seeming to always want remain at the corner of his eye however hard he looked at them. But the eyes, they burned clear like blue coals. As he looked, the shapes seemed to sharpen. He saw the rusted swords gripped in leathery hands, the slack hanging jaws with leathery tongues, the rotten linen shirts dyed in fine colours, the three diadems of knotted ivy, the three neatly cut throats. His eyes felt like they were bleeding, just trying to look at them, and yet he could not look away.
Alaric realised the screaming sound he could hear was coming from him, and wrenched his gaze away by turning his whole body.
He would not die like this. The Fox of Trezibond would not die whimpering and soiling himself as his life was eaten by three old ghosts.
He grabbed the sling from around his waist and the pouch of stone bullets beside it. It was a formality, really, with the scant predators and Otar, but he felt uncomfortable not having some kind of weapon to hand, and it was nice to come home with a hare for the pot. Now that paid off.
With trembling fingers he loaded a bullet and began swinging it above his head. As a boy, he'd been able to put a shot through the old soldier's helmets on the temple wall. Now he'd see.
He spun faster and faster, finding that perfect feeling of tension and pull that told him his string was almost about to snap, and loosed. It was a perfect shot, the bullet shrieking through the air, helped by the wind.
It went through one of the slowly drifting things with a slight puff of dark mist. The wight paused, briefly, then continued onwards up the slope, unperturbed. They were getting closer.
Alaric wanted to lie down. He considered running, but he didn't think he could make it three paces, let again the three miles to the village. Besides. He couldn't leave the flock.
As his fingers limply felt inside his stone pouch, they touched a hard metallic shape. It felt warm from his body heat, despite the biting wind. There was a small hole through it. His first coin, the first thing he'd ever stolen, when he was five years old and working the market. All these years, all his different lives, and he'd always kept it.
With desperate hope, Alaric placed the tarnished copper farthing into his sling pouch, then brought it to his lips. The Thief Lord did not usually answer prayers, and liked to burn down temples, but maybe he'd make an exception for one of his servants, just this once. Alaric began the usual psalm:
"Oh you old lazy bastard, get of your arse and help your servant in need, who has been doing all the work whilst you sit on the spoils. Your humble servant, Alaric."
He swung the sling above his head again, arm feeling like lead in the deathly chill, eyes half shut and teary from the wind, and loosed almost blind. A gold-red flash shot towards the horrible shadows, screeching like a hawk. It flew true and struck the middle one dead in the centre.
With a sound like tearing silk and dead nails screeching against slates, the shadow simply disintegrated, drifting apart in wisps like smoke. For a second Alaric could see the impression of a young man's face, looking so sad, hanging on the breeze, and then it was gone.
But still the other two came onward, screeching and shivering. They were now too close for another sling throw, and Alaric had nothing that would hurt them.
The closest wight pressed in, and the cold was so strong now that he felt it inside his teeth. The rusted blade it held swept down overhead like the end of summer, the last log on the fire burning down, the end of all joy in the world.
With an effort like lifting an iron post, Alaric raised up his shepherd's crook to meet it. Five generations of Bairglad shepherds had held that crook before the old man who'd handed it to him. It had needed a new cap now and then, and sometimes a new shaft, but it was the same crook. It had brought the flocks home and kept them safe.
The seasoned wood met the unseelie blade and stopped it dead, the smokey outline of blackened rusted metal biting into the ash shaft like something solid. The force of the blow shuddered through Alaric's arms and he cried out in pain.
He had stopped the blow, but he had nothing left.
The last wight was still coming, flaking blade gripped loosely in rotting fingers, ready to plunge it into his heart and eat his life. The cold hurt so badly that it would almost be a mercy. The putrefying chill breath of the other one straining against the crook made him want to vomit.
This was where it all ended.
Then a roar shook the stones of the hillside.
A snow coloured demon, a monster out of legends, bounded up the slope towards him. The afternoon sun streamed off of its white mane like fire, huge fangs like mountain peaks, red tongue like flame.
Otar barrelled into the third wight and brought it down to the ground via sheer muscle and fury. He wrested with it for a second, huge paws pressing the thing's arms down, sword too far out of the way to matter, and got a grip upon its torn throat with his jaws. Otar forcefully jerked his head and shoulders, once, twice, his whole body shaking with the exertion, and there was a tearing sound. Then the great hound stood alone on the hillside, dark mist evaporating around it.
The last wight screeched and turned from Alaric to face the hound, sword raised. Otar snarled and stood his ground, baring his huge teeth.
With every last bit of strength in his body, Alaric hefted the crook again and struck the wight over the back of the head. It was not a good blow. It was a clumsy, half-stumbling effort, and he felt himself fall forward as he delivered it, cold and weariness overwhelming him.
But it was enough to knock the monstrosity off balance for a few heartbeats.
As the wight turned to strike him, the ground shook as Otar leaped, bearing the unseelie thing down and smiting it upon the hillside. It screeched in fury and unliving terror as the snarling wolfhound tore it to pieces.
Alaric lay on the hillside for what could have been hours. Only the slow gasp of his breath told him that he too was not dead. Even as the unearthly chill abated, he felt as weak and cold as a newborn lamb left outside in a snow drift. Maybe he would just go to sleep, for a little while.
A warm, wet rhythmic sensation enveloped his face.
Otar was licking him.
With a heroic effort, Alaric forced himself to sit upright, and eventually to stand. He stroked the back of Otar's neck as he did so, whispered words of thanks and sweet nothings. The dog nuzzled his hand and looked up.
"Good boy."
The wolfhound's tongue lolled out as it grinned up at him and yawned.
The wind still blew, but it was just a normal spring chill off the mountains. There was not a trace of mist to be seen on the hillside. But still the slight smell of dank lingered on the air. The wooded valley on the horizon looked dark in the dimming light.
The flock was scattered all across the hillside and the hills opposite, some lambs finding their way to their mothers, whilst some ewes still called out mournfully. Tiny the ram had managed to gather a knot of ewes and lambs to him further up the hill, and more were making their way now the terror had passed, but Alaric could see at a glance that many others had bolted.
He stopped and knelt as he walked down the hillside, seeing a glint in the grass. The tarnished old coin still felt slightly warm in the palm of his hand.
It would take him all night to gather the flock back up from the hills and bring them to the village. If he even could.
The village.
With a muttered curse and one last look back at the flock, Alaric began to run down the winding track that led the three miles back to Bairglad.
Theunderbolt
"Prepare for trouble..."
- Location
- USoA
[X][Com] Train Militia (1 Labour Committed for 1 Week)
[X][Com] Organize Hamlet Law (0/3 Weeks, Commits Expertise or a character with Administrative skill)
[X][Per] Attempt to Commune With Spirits
[X][Com] Organize Hamlet Law (0/3 Weeks, Commits Expertise or a character with Administrative skill)
[X][Per] Attempt to Commune With Spirits
- Location
- The Deep Blue Sea
I'm glad someone's keepin watch over @maximillian's post while he's busy
I thought at first this was a typo'd "coarse", but actually it's a spiky yellow flower related to peas. Cool stuff!
Yeah, it's rather common here in moorland in the UK. Our moorland is almost all man made, if you go back far enough; the result of clear-cutting and burning our primeval forest to make space for sheep herding. I imagine the clearing of the hills back long ago in Bairglad's history might have been similar, although perhaps only the ancient spirits who saved Katrin would remember it or be able to say for sure.
Gorse is pretty tough going, it's essentially a thistle with pretensions of grandeur, and you wouldn't want to try feeding cattle on it. But sheep and goats, being essentially living, walking lawn mowers, can chomp on it quite happily. Especially the hardier breeds that I imagine Bairglad would favour, which are probably half wild.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I apologize, I somehow managed to insert the tally into @Razios' post and cannot find how to move it.
Anyway, the two possible personal tasks are currently tied, so I call upon our new Problem Alchemist @Admiral Skippy to change his vote from Peasant to either Study Dungeonmaster or Attempt to Commune With Spirits to break the tie.
Anyway, the two possible personal tasks are currently tied, so I call upon our new Problem Alchemist @Admiral Skippy to change his vote from Peasant to either Study Dungeonmaster or Attempt to Commune With Spirits to break the tie.
- Location
- Staring into the void
[X] [Con] Build Basic Roads (0/16 Weeks)
-[X] Commit 1 Labor and 1 Expertise
[X] [Per] Study Skill Dungeonmaster
I had not voted for a Per option.
This should break the tie.
-[X] Commit 1 Labor and 1 Expertise
[X] [Per] Study Skill Dungeonmaster
I had not voted for a Per option.
This should break the tie.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Watch someone switch votes just to maintain a tie
I won't be able to update tonight anyway, so I will see how things shake out.