AMIA ARCHIVE • View topic

Last edited by vandel123 on Fri, Mar 27 2009, 9:04 AM, edited 2 times in total.

A letter arrives to the offices of the Cordor provisional governmentl. "You have three days to pay homage to Talos or I will destroy the docks in a great storm, in this time the storm will roll in, and ont he third day the storm will begin to strike the docks. In order to show that I am serious I will begin the storm having it strike merchant vessels off the coast" In a remote part of the island a woman begins to start a ceremony to conjure up a great massive storm, a few hours of incantations later in the distance you can see a great black cloud rolling in with lightning strikes in the distance.

//What council? O.o

//alright the offices of the provisional government bah!

//I sense an unbalance in the epicness of action and length of post...

// it could work please keep trend ic, and the reason for this is clergy of Talos summon storms all the time for rituals, so what would really be the difference with this honestly.

//Provisional government of what city? Unless I did miss anything big am I none the wiser what place you are talking talking about. It must be a coastal region though since it has boats. Kohlingen? Cordor? Winya? Never been in the later though.

//good point fix the original note

*Hedda spends a few moments skidding across a carpet she'd bought in Uhm before approaching a rather unwary seagull with a single finger...outstretched...on tippy toe...slowly...slooowly...*

*BRRRZZT*

"Homage."

//---Edited for irrelevance---

// It was DM approved. By me. The effects of the first day occurred IG last night. So proceed as you will, vandel.

I'll also say I'm disappointed in every single person in this thread except for Lalelilolu, for having an OOC response instead of an IC response. Shame on you.

//Whoops, leg didn't know what the hand was doing. >.>

After a long and exhausting night, Malcolm stops by Cordor only to see the massive stormfront moving in the distance. With a grumble he heads off to his usual corner in the southwest side, where a statue of a certain good-natured sea-faring deity always stands on guard. For a long while he sits, carefully judging the movement of the waves and the speed of the clouds. Wearily he looks up to his patron's idol.

"Guess we need to get our shields up. This is gonna be a big one to turn away."

Niya glooks up at the sky and sighs.

"What foreboding weather.. juuuust great.. Urgh.."

She shakes her head then and proceeds to go back to what she was doing.

//
@Yoss: Oi, if we don't know where it happens and what not can't we react?

*Phalanxyrian looks at the skies and smiles, he calls for Hail (his frost mephit)* Well well, what do we have here, finaly the last storm is gathering. Hail find either Nathano or the stormlady he told us about. Maybe the frostmaiden wishes to aid the stormlord.

Preparing to board in a ship at Cordor east docks, Boltgard notices the huge incoming storm and turns around, going back to where he was coming from, mumbling in a tone of anger:

"And now this... Nothing against a hard rain from time to time, but this is too much for me... Think my little travel will have to wait for now."

A certain redheaded Sergeant in the Cordor Guard watches the clouds roll in from her lounging spot on the rooftops of Cordor West. Remembering the last larger-scale storm they had, she slides down a drainpipe on the side of the building and proceeds to spread the word to the on-duty Guards about taking their leather uniforms out of storage.

Last edited by vandel123 on Fri, Mar 27 2009, 21:12 PM, edited 1 time in total.

*Jayla's spies approach her, weary from the long trip* "Ma'am they still don't take it serious..." *she cuts his words off in mid sentence, from one of her fingers on her left hand a surge of lightning emerges from her hand, from across the land it almost sounds if there is a loud scream, she looks down at the smoldering corpse, then turn to one of her other spies* "Fail me and you join him, now send word to the the one who serves the Frostmaiden...that in one day he may begin to enhance the storm". *She looks out at the great ocean with a smiles, then looks up* "Soon master, very soon they will pay with their lives". *The great storm rolls in closer to Cordor, the ocean starts to become violent in waves, and the lightning strikes begin to become bigger and more frequent*
*day two*

Noting the breeze in his blood red hair, the taste of salt on his lips and the soft tingle of it in his nose, Taog sets his gaze towards Codor harbour, a wild grin on his face. Slightly pointed white teeth showing between lips a grinning he comes to within sight of ocean and coming storm, dark skies, gathering winds and rebelling waves fill his sight and turn his grin to joyful laughter.

Up some crates and up a drainpipe and onto the roof of a house he climbs to gain a view even better as he takes to hand his favourite violin. Laughing, grinning, singing full abreast he stands on the roof top playing a powerful melody, fast and strong like the winds, as he sings to the coming of the storm, the Frost Maiden and the Eden to come.

Xavi looks up at the sky in irritation and mutters "Typical pissy Cordor weather..."

Willow looks up at the skies on one of her trips to Cordor and thinks to herself:

Hmm... that's a huge storm... those naval ships on Cordor waters better hope it's not a hurricane or something or they're in for one heck of a ride.

She eyes the coming storm a bit longer before moving on about her business.

--------------------------------------------------------

Black Jake see's the storm and laughs to himself.

Thar' be wo' happen's if yar dun' be payin' ye' respec' te' thee Queen Bitch! Down go ye' ship' n' dock' mateys! Ar' be goin' te' keep me eye on this! Umberlee be puttin' on o' show!

He laughs as he walks off.

*At the very first beggining of the last day Phalanxyrian climbs the skull crags so he has a nice overview of the land, from the high point he starts to chant and channel the power of his maiden into the storm in great effort of using the storm to spread the embrace of his maiden* Maiden of frost, Queen of winter and Lady of the ice, Auril great ice dawn! In your most holy name let this storm bear forth thy embrace. That the weak may perish and the blind open their eyes so they see thy perfection the eden of cold! *his voice echoes over the moutains carried by the fell winds he conjures*

*The storm continues to roll in getting closer to Cordor, as it approaches the coastlines, it seems any Cordor Merchant ship under cloud cover is coming under very heavy lightning strikes, the strikes seem very focused and not very random, once in awhile you see one of the much much small ship catching on fire from a direct lightning strike. The waves on the ocean seem to start becoming very violent, hail can be seen raining down from the added force of the Frostmaiden cleric helping influence the storm.*

The storms remain quite a distance off shore. The Cordorian Merchant's Guild announces a sudden halt in shipping to avoid what people in Cordor are beginning to murmur may be one of the first typhoons they've seen come from out of the deep sea in a long time.

The dockhands who would normally be attending those merchant ships do not find themselves out of work at all; in fact, in a skillful and popular move by the Labor Ministry, directed by Elijah Cromwell, the dockhands are paid their normal wages to begin sandbagging South Cordor's seawall and a few areas outside the walls with a low coastline to minimize possible inland flooding.

Investors in Cordor and abroad who have money riding on the protection of goods that will be stored in South Cordor are reassured by a letter from the Cordorian Merchant's Guild, claiming that all of the trade goods being stocked into warehouses through the Southern District will be perfectly safe thanks to the innovation of the Commonwealth's Ministry of Magic.

They do not, however, state exactly how. Nor is there any public response or acknowledgement of the threatening letters received from the Talosian culprit.

*******

Meanwhile, Jayla's ritual has fully crested; the burning incense has been used up, swallowed by the increasing steady breeze coming from the pitch black clouds creepy ever so slowly from out of the southwestern sea. The rain has long since washed away the ash from effigies burned in Talos' name. The priestess of Talos can feel the electric tingle of destruction at her fingertips and then, in the midst of the second night, physically and emotionally wearied from the constant attention to the ritual, she feels a sudden and significant loss of control. That ritual connection between her and the storm she had beckoned is entirely severed.

It is as though the Storm itself, conjured through an invocation to Talos, the Storm Lord himself, has been taken into the Chaosbringer's hands completely, unleashed from the control and command his dedicated mortal, commended entirely into an uncontrolled bundle of whipping winds, fierce hail, deadly lightning and pounding rain. The deed is done, and now there is naught to do but stand back and watch as its fury approaches the Commonwealth of Cordor, to visit upon the city of progress a reckoning in fire, flood, and famine...

Arronax stands and stares at the storm for a little while, pondering to himself.
A good mage or two could probably remove that thing with a disjunction....hmmm..He seemed to consider something then shrugged. Nah.... they got their own mages for their own problems.. And meandered off.

Eir only takes a moment to look out over sea, before leaving the city entirely.

...Could be snow. I'll see you when it clears up, Cordor.

It was a long day Malcolm spent helping the sailors and dockworkers prepare for the oncoming squall. While helping to secure one of the last docked ships, a young dockworker spoke up.

"No offense meant, mate, but wouldn't your time better be spent praying and gathering all that power to avert the storm?"

"Valkur helps those who help themselves. Once ya do all ya can to prepare fer the challenges to come, then ya look to the Mighty Captain's strength and grace to see ya through to the other side. Jus' help out yer mates and yer ship, and that big blue shield will come around... That looks like that'll about do it fer this ship. Now, I'm going home to sleep with my wife."

Somewhere on the island, Nevaeh sits and watches a peculiar shield in quiet.

After a particular strong outbusrt in Cordor can Niya be found grumbling annoyed and kicking stones.

"Trigger happy gods. I always knew they were! I was the one telling they are trigger happy with lightning, but no one beleived me, now whho is the one laughing! WHO IS THE ONE LAUGHING NOW!
Ah well, at least I got a ring of Talos to protect myself from the lightning...
For the rest, I figure that some scrolls may come quite in handy. That is.. if any more get through... or the lightning gets stronger...

Oh well, the green fog is still strange."

And with that she heads off.

South Codor under thread of storm has been sandbagged, lines and piles of them have been raised to protect city and people from the coming onslaught of wind and rain, wave and hail. But in the deep of night figures move through the city, or so one can presume as all over along the line of sandbags sounds can be heard... More then sounds explosions and magical waves of energy, breaking the air as all over sound bursts, ice storms and max blade barriers, destroy, crush and fling sandbags all around. A few at first, then more and more, soon all over the south sandbags take to the airs or topple into the waters if they are not shredded entirely by the violence unleashed upon them. Though by whom or from where it is not to be know or guessed as no source for these happenings can be pinned down by the sight of those dwelling in fear of flood in that city part.

Morning light will reveal works in ruin, effect wasted and much time lost as on the horizon the storm still gathers strength in its relentless, sorrowless, feelingless, careless approach.

Weston finds his trip to Cordor rather pointless even on the first day of the storm rolling in.

"What? A bit of bad weather! I've been thrown around underdeck a hundred or some times before."

No use, of course. And definitely on the second day of the turbulence.

"Looks like I'll be staying in the Grove."

Sergeant Tarvencia responds to the destruction of the sandbags early the next morning, obviously not at all pleased as she asesses the damage done, writing the details in her journal, and scoping out a clues to point towards a criminal or criminals.

Upon hearing of the notice from one of his boys, The Boss ponders greatly. After beating several of the smaller goblins he finally sits down with his boys over the question he ponders.

In one hand he holds onto an old book on Talos. To his other side sits a priest of One Eye ((Gruumsh.)) After hours of debating and arguing, the question the Boss ponders is still yet to be answered.

"They bein' so similar, is jus' One Eye with a 'Umie name."

"No, One Eye dun like 'Umies! Can' be One Eye!"

"But Talos an' One Eye both 'ave One Eye. I's gotta be One Eye!"

"But Talos throw lightnings! One Eye jus' throw dead gods!"

"Me not hear of Talos before. Me heard of Gruumsh be-"

...And with that one word of blasphemy, armageddon broke loose. The Half Orcs and Orogs went at each other using kobolds as projectiles and tables as clubbing implements. Having not understood one word in the many hours they sat there, the Ogrillions couldn't help but join in. The Goblins resorted to fighting amongst themselves over the unprotected mugs of ale, fungus brew and getting out of the way of their their larger, more aggressive and brawling cousins.

The Bosses query would go unanswered. He grabbed the nearest chair and smacked it over the head of the nearest Ogrillion who smelled of Rum before punching the young, scar-less Half Orc in the guts. "Settle up ye stupid gits!" As far as they were concerned, what affected the world above ground mattered little.

*Big IC update on this forthcoming, to relay events that occurred in-game*

Yossarin wrote:

The storms remain quite a distance off shore. The Cordorian Merchant's Guild announces a sudden halt in shipping

Meanwhile, in the Dale, a hin grumbles about a suspended export market.

The First Day. Behind closed and guarded doors in the Commonwealth Center. Four of five councillors meet at Speaker of the Council Joseph Maximillian's behest: Minister of Magic Collin Reyes, Minister of Labor Elijah Cromwell, Minister of Health & Public Welfare Johnathin Leohnard, and the Speaker himself, Minister of Finance Joseph Maximillian. The seat for the ministry of Law remains vacant.

"How is Hector's health coming along, Johnathin?" Reyes inquires, eyes locked on the empty chair instead of the target of his question.

"Not so well as I'd hoped," Leohnard admits with a sigh. "At his age, dealing with any kind of illness is an uphill battle."

"Hector's battle is his own," Maximillian interrupts, calling the private emergency meeting into session. "We have more pressing concerns before us. This morning, we received a threatening letter. It reads as follows: You have three days to pay homage to Talos or I will destroy the docks in a great storm, in this time the storm will roll in, and on the third day the storm will begin to strike the docks. In order to show that I am serious I will begin the storm having it strike merchant vessels off the coast."

Cromwell immediately snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. "Are we really going to take this seriously? We've been around long enough to see what these damn adventurers do. They like to make threats to keep people in fear so that we just give them the wide berth they feel they deserve. When they actually do something, they don't announce it. They just do it. When have our laws ever applied to them?"

Johnathin Leohnard shakes his head. "In the interests of public safety, I don't think we can ignore any threat like this, even if we think it might be circumspect. If we blow it off and we're wrong..."

"...we'll have a PR disaster on our hands," Maximillian nods in agreement. "However, we can recognize this threat without making it public. Going to the Commonwealth with this will undoubtedly create panic, and that panic could weaken the confidence of our foreign investors. The Cordorian Merchant's Guild is in the midst of some trade negotiations with the Calishites. Reyes, what about this Weathershroud?"

Reyes nods. "This is a threat from a piddling cleric to Talos. Some time after the Reconstruction, Talos took it upon himself to poke and prod the city with bolts of lightning. The Guards were forced to change uniforms, some buildings were struck and caught fire. The entire onslaught of squalls was blamed on Talos and, in my professional opinion, with good reason. The Weathershroud was then invented and used to thwart his advances. Clearly, his nose was bent out of shape and now the god is using his mortal follower to be the catalyst of his vengeance. Which I assure you will continue to fall flat against the Weathershroud."

The other Councillors stare at Reyes wordlessly for a time, until he adds a final comment. "That is, if the threat is even genuine. We'll know by tomorrow, if we see a storm on the horizon."

"There's always a storm on the horizon, Collin," Maximillian says grimly. "But we'll wait this out to verify the threat. In the meantime, we keep a lid on this threat. Keep it on a need to know basis. I'll inform our guests that their vessels will be perfectly safe in our ports with the Weathershroud active. Council is dismissed."

*******

The Second Day. The growing typhoon off the southwest coast of the Amian island is clearly visible. While everyone else goes about life content, for the time being, that it is the work of indiscrimate nature, the Council meets again in privacy, knowing the truth: that the storm is gunning specifically for Cordor. Hector Carton's chair remains empty.

"It would appear the threat is genuine," Joseph snaps, standing at the window in their chambers, back arched, hands folded behind his back. His hawk-like nose angled firmly towards the ominous, churning mass of black clouds out over the sea.

"As is our defense, Speaker," Reyes affirms. "I trust the tour I provided of the Weathershroud this morning served to allay your concerns about our safety?"

"Not entirely, Collin," Johnathin shakes his head. "I still think the public deserves to know what's going on. They're going to grow wise to this, particularly if the Talosian cleric takes those threats to the streets. I don't necessarily think that announcing it will create panic if we also work with the Guard on helping to ensure that everyone is safe. Besides, the public should know about the Weathershroud - "

"No," Reyes disagrees emphatically. "The Weathershroud will remain a secret until the last moment. It is the sole defense we have against this attack, and I will not take the risk that, hearing of it, these adventurers will try to find out where it is and dismantle it."

Elijah Cromwell speaks up, scratching at the curling black hairs on his chest. "Right, right. I'm with John, though. I don't think we can or should keep this whole thing a secret. You know the public doesn't have an unshakable faith in us. And what's the problem with asking the adventurers to help us out? Hell, they'd probably be willing to find this cleric and kick her arse before that storm ever gets here!"

Maximillian turns on his heels and snaps a bitter response. "Because you give them an inch and they'll take a mile, that is why. They accuse us of being greedy, yet they are the ones throwing money around as though it had no value to them. They accuse us of hoarding power, but everyone knows that they, with their ancient magics and powerful relics and monstrous heritages, are hoarding more power in their little fingers than any man can or should. They have all the power in the world, and zero responsibility. And we, in turn, have all the responsibility, and not even a fraction of their power. Their days died along with Montgomery. The Commonwealth will be better off without them. One day."

Again, a silence falls over the Council Chambers. All eyes turn to the window.

*******

The Third Day.

Storm warning bells peal from both the docks and from Cordor Square, warning all private boats that might be braving the impossible storm surge to return to port. The rains have been falling steadily for days now, fallout from the storm's great feeder bands reaching towards the coastline. Bolstered by confidence in the Commonwealth government and, more importantly, by Malcolm's prayers to Valkur, the out-of-work sailors successfully sandbagged a seawall along the coast. Their work done, the citizens hunker down in their homes, boarding their windows and barring their doors. Many have already moved their prize belongings to second stories and attics in anticipation of possible flooding in the Southern District.

The storm surge picks up as the waves crash thunderously against the seawall, sending gouts of spray straight up into the air, reaching the height of the rooftops of the seaward apartment complexes.

And then a dull red glow from the seawall. Fire burning brightly, even in the fierce wind and rain. Deliberate sabotage of the seawall, which abruptly buckles under a massive twenty-footer. Hungrily, Cordor Bay spills into the lowest streets of South Cordor, while above, the sky showers lightning into the streets. Those citizens with a view of the seawall breaking panic, rip the barriers off their own doors, and flee into the streets for higher ground. A family runs through the gale force winds and deafening thunder for three blocks when a nagging sting afflicts their eyes, a sting that turns into a painful burning sensation all along their arms, the backs of their necks, and deep into the soles of their water-logged feet.

"The rain! Like acid!" the father screams, instructing his children to close their eyes while he, barely able to see the path ahead of him for the pain, runs northward.

An executive order comes down from the Commonwealth Center: the forced evacuation of the entire Southern District, under an early and unexpected siege. If ever there were doubts about the storm being normal, they are verified now, as the shocking sensation of sheer malice seems to be in the very wind itself. Soaking wet and terrified, they gather in Cordor Square. Minister of Magic Collin Reyes, garbed in crimson robes that seem to deflect the inclimate weather, exits the Commonwealth Center and joins the crowd in Cordor Square. The rain does not splatter on his face, nor does the wind seem to ruffle his hair.

"There is no need to panic, Citizens," he reassures everyone. "The Weathershroud will protect us."

"Oi, whassat?" a dockhand with a twisted ankle asks.

"Mortal magic," Reyes answers, with a faint, unimpressive smile. "One of the few forces that can combat the might of an angry god."

Few have any response to that hint of blasphemy, and so the Minister continues. "Yes, it has come to our attention that this storm is an act of terrorism perpetrated by a cleric of Talos, and an act of vengeance perpetrated by the Chaosbringer himself." Reyes tilts his nose high and seems to address the sky, and the boiling black clouds overhead. "After all, how long ago was it that you went out of your way to make life miserable for us earthbound mortals, and found even your might thwarted by our magic? It has not been so long, and I have anticipated your return."

The Minister lifts both hands towards the sky, lowering the middle finger of each hand, and hooking the thumb of each hand inward, as though gripping the holds of a shield. In response to his words, the stormy sky flashes a brilliant and dazzling white, and a thunderbolt that seemed to have Reyes' name written on it in hot, steaming plasma is splintered and redirected by a simple shift of the magician's hands.

Collin Reyes laughs, mockingly, and the citizens around him begin to rise in a kind of panic as the storm seems to come alive. It has no face but the flashing black clouds. No arms but the electric bolts. No breath but the screaming wind, which suddenly to their ears sounds as though it is a howl of rage.

"You really oughtn't mock the gods, sir." A voice from the crowd.

"There'll be no living with him now."

"Was there ever before?" Reyes asks, and does not back down from his tirade. "The gods have great power, yes, but it is in their fashion that the most ancient of magics were designed. Theirs is the godhead, but that godhead is ours to achieve through gnosis, which comes through the practice of magic. Stormlord, you hold your power now only by virtue of our belief, but we mortal magicians have no such constraints! Only a handful knew anything of the Weathershroud - and now, watch as my power alone overshadows your own!"

It happens simultaneously: lightning coursing down out of the heavens and a second, more scintillating flash of light in the sky over Cordor's Eastern District. Everyone looking skyward is forced to shield their eyes, and even when they do, in the moments of blindness that follow, the image of a what appears to be a shield-like barrier, rolling with hundreds of thousands of shifting runes, is burned into their retinas. Yet when they finally regain their senses and look skyward once more, there is nothing but the beautiful blue sky. The rain is gone, the wind suddenly died down, and all around them - in every other district - the storm continues to rage.

Until, one by one, as Collin Reyes moves from district to district, east, south, central, and west, the storm bowls out, deflected by the mysterious Weathershroud, until it is a swirling band of storms, a ring of lightning with a great big eye over the walled Commonwealth.

And just outside those walls? The Northern Outskirts. The Commonwealth's farmlands. The heart of southern agriculture.

Another set of warning bells chime, this time sounding out an attack upon the Commonwealth Center! Guards immediately mobilize and rush the seat of government. Rumors abound that the culprits, realizing they had been thwarted, sought to handle matters with their own hands, matters their gods could not.

In that moment, the fate of the Northern Outskirts is sealed. Irrigation streams suddenly vomit over their banks and spill into the crops. The storm itself draws into a massively high vertical thunderhead directly over the unprotected farmlands, and those watching helplessly from afar would swear that the massive towering thunderhead was the very throne of Talos himself. That, there he sat, and with one hand, each finger a whirling vortex of wind and debris, dug the into the earth, tearing apart the soil, the barns and silos, the cattle, the farmers, and anything too slow to get out of the way of the Fingers of Talos. Farmers abandoned their homes, screaming and running for the safety of the Weathershroud, and were more horrified by the sudden passage into sunny, balmy weather than by the chaos they'd left behind.

If only because now they could turn back and watch as, not even a mile away, the fury of a snubbed god destroyed their livelihoods.

When the storm finally dispersed, raining itself out and leaving behind a scene of total carnage and destruction, one dominant voice remained:

"What is man? O, what is man, to taunt the gods?"

To date, the only response forthcoming from the Ministry of Magic, or from the Commonwealth Government at large, is the announcement that the culprits who called forth the storm - a genasi woman named Crimson, a man named Drifa, and a Tiefling named Toag - are being held fully responsible for the disaster, and are to be publically executed for their crimes against the Commonwealth.

*As Phalanxyrian, now known as Drifa walks towards the executioner he remains silent only telling the hangman to make it quick. he remains eerily calm while he places his head on the chopingblock, his eyes glare to the northern sky and a wicked smile appears on his face. The hangman raises his axe high and Phalanxyrian shouts out with a voice sounding like a raging blizzard: "Auril! Hearken my call! That I may trod this soil once again, that vengeance wi.. *the axes servers his head and Phalanxyrian eyes glow icy blue for one last time and his head and body scatter as if made of ice truly. The shards in turn change into vapor that ascents into the darkening sky and float ever northward.*

Over the next couple days, a forlorn cleric of Valkur pitches in where he can to cleanse the southern docks of the vicious storm's aftermath. Guilt overtook him, as the abnormal squall moved in much quicker than he expected, and he was nowhere near to provide aid and protection when they were needed most. So to make amends, Malcolm spends his free time clearing the docks, giving last rites to any sailor struck down by Talos' fury.

Willow arrives on cart to the Cordor outskirts and is shocked at the sight of the destruction. She looks around for a while to see what has fallen and what still stands before making her way into the city to see if anything was destroyed there. She is informed that it was, in fact, the storm she had seen just a day ago that caused it all. She's also informed that it was all caused by Talassan. She is enraged at the information. She goes around helping with the clean up around the outskirts before making her way back North.

The next day, she comes back with bags of food and medical supplies. She helps, feeds and aids the injured for the day. At different times during the day, she offers prayers to Silvanus and Selune, preaching both of their dogmas to those in need of comfort.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Black Jake rides out the storm, drunk, grinning and laughing at the destructive force. He pays little mind to the aftermath, he much rather drink Whiskey and Rum than help or pay any mind to those who suffered due to the storm. As far as he's concerned, they didn't pray enough to the Bitch Queen to be spared.

(This to happen after the execution of Drifa on the same day) (Taog CHA 31 Preform 97)

After the events within the walls of Codor on the night the storm met its shores and with its pure fury embraced the cities buildings, people and lands, far from not to mention most of the south of the isle of Amia, a clear singing could be heard from one of the jail cells in Codor's prison. In fact it was one of the most secure cell the prison of Codor, that so regretfully and seemingly managed to escape destruction. Behind those steel bars the walls where grey and moist, barely green life to be seen growing in the cracks of the solid stones that formed its small round enclosure, the ceiling at times leaked down condensation and the floor was truly wet, avoid of straw and furnished only with a water barrel and a steel grade that showed rats on their scurrying for food.

The singing voice was soft and fair, a strong spirit underlying each word, words that spoke of longing for a world of pure beauty that is somewhere and was yet here to come. Words strung and sung such that it would make ones heart travel the path of song and drown in the feelings there in and let the mind shape images befitting the words and the soul with which they where given birth.

A day, or perhaps two past, in the eternal twilight of his surroundings it was quite unclear to the music's voice, the sounds of men and women in armour heavy as in their footfall could be heard in the corridors. Slowly, it seemed painfully slowly coming closer. They walked into the main hall and turned to face the cell, the music in their ears alas to be cut off as a lever was pulled, the gate opened and the man lead outside. 'Well so it seems that the last strike of life's clock will be shortly done, as to bear me away to in your hopes, an oblivion.' The singer spoke in a voice free of bitterness or hate, not wishing to spoil the tongue of songs with such unrefined emotions that would be better used in purer form and in better times. That singer was Taog Finnegan, the poet fair, the wandering bard, as now revealed for all, the minstrel of the Aurilites. One to fall proudly in the creating of Eden, as many before for many a case and many a reason.

Despite his imprisonment he still looked fair. His bright red hair neatly combed and tied off in a long tail, only a few locks to be left hanging down the sides of his face, his two rams horns polished to a shine, his near colourless red flecked eyes looked clear and strong, a slight hint of arrogance perhaps in them. The smile he gave to the guards would reveal slightly pointed teeth of clean ivory white and unbroken spirit. Dressed the way he was, which was in snow white and ice blue hues, with tall leather boots wide striped pants and a shirt of glittering mail, with the snow white ice crystals embroidered on his upper arms. In this last paragraph of this chapter he still looked as good as he had ever done.

Bonded the arms and chained the legs he was lead out, at last back into open air with a strong scent of salt from the past storm to greet him. 'If only snow would bless me now' He softly spoke to the heavens as they led him on. Onwards towards the city square. There upon the square where the people, to whom he had preformed and with whom he had oft conversed to their merriment, stood awaiting at the gallows pole, to in their goodness now delight in the spectacle of death. He stood still for a moment, breathing in deep and sighing as the sight greeted him with all its shouts and yells and morbid cheers. 'I regret nothing, every man does seek his Eden in the world of the living' These words he spoke aloud, before receiving a push in the back telling him to keep walking towards the rope's embrace.

And thus there he stood upon the platform of the gallows, expectant eyes all focused on him, one last things only to remain for him to do before the fall as the rope already was put around his neck, the blindfold waved away without a thought. His last words as granted to him...

Given to hand by one of the guards his finest harp, for as was his way as one of the bards, his last words would be in song. Gentle the harp in the one hand, the other started to dance across the strings, their tunes being like the purest crystal gentle tapped just right to extrude the most beautiful tones. The melody was deep, yet light, strong and enchanting as in great complexity he made it rise to the point where song would begin. And thus he sang, his voice in likewise as the melody.

'What does the true peace feel like? Asks the boy with a spark in his eye. Know why the Endstorm draw night, is the answer to everything! Taking a step to the world to come, spinning my tales now all around. Freed from the blind man's leash, I swear this Eden is within thy reach!'

'Dancing with the spirits of the snow, in this land so white and fair. Singing love to the Goddess Cold, on my restless voyage so bold! Walking safely in the white embrace, don't know if this is heaven or the lands. Joy of living is no more a mask, the Eden I found will forever last!'

'Wandering the new lands, my soul has finally found peace. Does it matter that our work is done, as long as I hear the winter storms howl!'

The melody coming to its end he spoke softly, perhaps only those people most near to the platform would hear. 'Goddess Auril, your loyal minstrel stand here for you. Show me the Eden I had wish to fashion in thy name.' Then as the last word left his lips and the last sound of strings died away, the hatched opened, the rope pulled tight and the harp fell to the ground, its final sounds like a longing for the grace once preformed with it...

When several minutes later the guards come to remove the hanging body, something odd there is to notice. Cold water is dripping from the clothing of the condemned man and as they take him down he feels like a doll made of cold ice, now slowly melting away to leave only empty clothing behind.

*The same day as the other two executions*
*Jayla is escorted in heavy chains, with at least four guards in the front of her and four behind her, the crowds watch as she is escorted. There si a sigh of relief amongst the crowd. Two men stand at the gallows, one with a hood over his head and a very large axe, the second stands in a plain suit. The man in the suit states "Crimson you have been charged with conspiracy, murder, attempted murder...(A great list of many other charges are said). The punishment for this is death, do you have any last words". Crimson's hair blows in the wind, and she simply smiles, "You still have no idea what you have done, this is far from over...". The man responds with "Execute her". The crowd is hushed and all that can be heard is the bone crunching of the axe hitting the wood below as her head comes off. A mere moment later there is a chill which sweeps through the crowd and a whispering laugh that fades away as soon as it is heard. There is a small boy in the crowd tugging on his daddy's shirt, "Is it over pappa"...

Carl returns to the Cordor outskirts for the first time in a while and is shocked to see the fields near Chauntea's idol devastated. After a quick prayer and a few exchanged words with the farmers cleaning up the site, he heads to Oakmist Vale, only to return soon after with the promise of help from the Grove: Seed will be shared with the farmers and some of the more "civilized" druids offered to come by often to bless the new fields.

During this second visit, Carl is relieved as he sees (what he believes to be) a large trench to drain the water from the fields. He kneels down in the remaining mud to find a few wet grains, and pockets them for later.

While talking to the farmers again, he expresses his concerns that a new crop must be avaible this year, not next year! He is quite sure, however, that even with the unwavering attention and care of the druids, the crop might not regrow before the night frost could set in, destroying the harvest a second time. He asks around if anyone knows whether the northern islands are home to more resilient crops. Wild crops, that might endure unexpected early frost a little bit longer ...

After the sun has set, Carl kneels down at Chauntea's idol. He buries some of the collected seeds next to the stone plate and, with a sad smile, places a flower, ripped off by the storm, on the tiny grave.

Back in Oakmist Vale, he puts the remaining seeds next to the warm campfire to dry them. If anyone asked what he wanted to do with half-rotten seeds, he would reply: "If Chauntea grants me the power to raise the dead on the battle field, should I not try to revive these seeds?"

The Storm.

Who is online