Lore

15.07.2014
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“Say anything confidently enough and it becomes true”

Meryl sat with furrowed brow on a splintery and highly uncomfortable stool at the far end of a rarely-if-ever cleaned bar, stewing in her thoughts in the rundown tavern called the Sowing Sow. She was ruminating on what kind of absolute dullard the owner would have to be to christen his bar with name so utterly idiotic. She sat hunched over a myriad of empty tankards, her long auburn braid draping over her shoulder and dangling from her breast.

She had been at her ruminations for the better part of an hour when it occurred to her that she had not been in a bar fight in at least three months. This, in her opinion, was two months and thirty days too long. Besides, she needed to see the inside of Ironsson’s prison and she could think of no better way to get inside – or at least no other way she would enjoy half as much. Her mood had been foul for weeks now and it was only growing worse as the days dragged on.

10.04.2014
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              A low rhythmic chorus lulled the Jorgrithian population and smoothed the tension in the sacred grove. Flakes of white drifting from the heavens to the earth and speckling it with the children of the great talons of icy death. Surrounded on all sides by great monoliths of granite the people watched wide-eyed and awe-struck as the half-dozen Southerners performed their daily tributes to their peculiar god. Stones gathered from abroad, no more precious than the churned debris of a poor farmers field. And yet to these priests garbed in fanciful crimson and golden robes, these articles of faith were the most precious. The gold and silver which adorned their body to what would denote a local king, no more valued to them than the snow which now began to spot their hoods.

12.03.2014
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One of Morris’s only memories of his parents had him riding atop the family horse cart, bouncing happily in his mother’s lap. He looked up into her jade green eyes, her face light and playful as she smiled back at him; the setting sun shimmered through her inky black hair and cast her face in an amber halo. Morris’s father must have said something to her, because she turned to him and smiled so radiantly as to put the sun to shame. 

12.03.2014
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Thud, thud, thud.

There was a pause.

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

                “Yes, yes. You may enter,” a stern voice replied.

The heavy wooden door swung open with a reluctant groan and a young man of dark complexion entered. He was clad in the signature brown and gray shift of the Terrun order and he had overfull satchel bursting with papers slung about his neck. He closed the door gently behind him and stood in cardinal’s dimly lit office, his nostrils filled with the scent of musty books. Morris was a handsome man, tall and powerfully built with wide features and mossy green eyes, and he carried himself as a man no stranger to a fight. Like all members of the order, his hair had been painstakingly dyed a silvery hue of blond and he wore it in a long sweptback style that was framed in braids that fell just to his neck. Morris hovered in the doorway, waiting for a signal from the cardinal.

05.12.2013
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The gentle smell of rose-oil scented candles wafted through the tent as Aleius Tassator poured over maps of the greater Acaelian province. He stroked his wispy grey beard, heavy eyes moving wildly under knitted brow. Things were not going well for Aleius; had not gone well for him. His last three assaults had been rebuffed with heavy losses and the seeds of doubt had begun to sprout in the minds of his men. Aleius needed a solution, a godsend, lest those seeds blossom into full blown dissent.  “Never should have trusted those bastard Dogriss mongrels,” he whispered to nobody in particular, flicking through his maps with increasing agitation. There must be a choke, an unknown tunnel, an unguarded storehouse. There just has to be. How had it come to this? The greatest strategic mind of his generation, bested by a pack of common cur.