| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Brace Cormaeril |
Posted - 17 Apr 2010 : 09:58:44
Greengrass 1367DR
Radiant shards of sunlight danced on the surface of Lake Azoun, while the whole of the world burst with life anew. The lush green of new spring competed with the prismatic spray of early flowers in vibrant bloom, each tree and hedge's beauty magnified by the careful placement of each among the others. The Royal Gardens of Cormyr at Greengrass were alive before the Silent Room, and as Brace Cormaeril left the gates of that grand temple to Deneir, he smiled as he had never smiled before. A bent shouldered scribe of The Lord of All Glyphs and Images, nearly blind by the fierce afternoon light of gate duty so different from his dark scribe's cell, laughed,
"Mi'lord, if I am over bold then say as such... " he looked up from his bow and continued, agrin, "why do you smile so?"
Brace handed the scribe a heavy handful of coin, and replied,
"This is the finest coin I have ever spent, on the grandest day I have yet known."
The scribe eye's lowered,then his leapt to meet those of the young noble,"Lord, we humble scribes bid a tithe of but five Lions, this is five Tricrowns!"
"A tithe I make with great humility, good scribe! My father's library is great, truth, and I have read every folio, chapbook, grimoire and paper there thrice at least; but I have today read from tomes which predate the Dragon Throne, five fragments regarding the Eye Tyrant Wars, and a bard's script account of the songs of all the birds of Cormanthyr. Good monk, your life is a good one."
The narrow eyed scribe smiled broadly as he moved to gather up Brace's kit, surrendered upon his arrival at The Silent Room. Rising with brightly polished round steel shield laden with sword, spear, crossbow and pack, the monk replied,
"You have the manner of a scribe, my young lord," the monk's countenance then shifted,his gaze not the deep pools of man's eye, but something greater. "You could serve Deneir, and thus the Binder, Great Oghma, as a great student here."
"No great master," Brace's eyes narrowed, "I cannot. For today I go to serve the Purple Dragon, to become a grand knight of the Forest Kingdom." Brace then smiled, and could not hide a low chuckle,
"If, of course, they'll let me into the army." He turned on his heel, waved over his shoulder, then called back at last, "Until swords meet, good monk."
"Sweet water and light laughter until next", the monk replied in the lilting tongue of the Elves. "Though you will know far too little of each, young lord," the monk with great bright eyes thought, "far too little".
The young noble made his way along the grand Promenade of Suzail, but was swiftly taken in by the elaborate decorations hung for Greengrass, ribbons of white and green along with wreaths of lilac and willow. The aromatic bouquets entwined with bard songs on the streets and on the greens of the Royal Gardens, with the crush of festive revelers in the afternoon sun, and with the staccato rhythm of a Purple Dragon patrol before the gates of the Royal Court. Brace found himself with coin, cheer, and for the first time, true freedom from his father's watchful eye. He had not been to the capital since he was a boy, and to be in the city at the height of spring-coming festival made his return seem fortuitous and magical.
A great throng within the festive crowd had assembled at a cross roads ahead, Brace noticed, and with a smile made his way to investigate just what had drawn the attention of so many. He circled the crowd, as the plaza formed by the Street of Staves and the Promenade was a crushing tide of exuberant men and women, some near the center of the crowd chanting with vigor. Curiosity piqued, Brace eased forward into the crowd, then slowly made his way forward, often cast back two steps for every step gained. More patient than forceful, the young noble made his way along a heavy and superbly crafted stone wall, noting it's apparent relative youth compared to the other great stone buildings within Suzail's core. He soon rounded it's corner to stand below eaves adorned with a bright signboard depicting a dragon's gaping maw.
At the center of the crowd, two men in workmans garb adorned with broad white and green sashes, with fierce smiles of wild abandon, made fine sport of wrestling in the street.
"At Greengrass the heart of everyman is renewed and engulfed by the fire of spring," Brace thought, "In the hearts of these men, they are fighting anew the battles of old."
Almost as if in response, the crowd cheered a great "Huzzah!" as one combatants well timed arm bar drove the other hard into street. The felled champion struggled for only a moment with great effort, then slapped the hard stone of the street with his free hand, shouting
"I yield, Forlgar, great Tyr!" He laughed, "Would you take that arm with you as tribute!"
The roaring combatant was soon upon his feet, to be met with, "No, good Tarr. You'll need both when you plow my eastern field!"
Mirtul 1 1367 DR
Brace awoke to the sound of street clamor, all manner of sounds erupting through his shuttered windows. He leapt out of bed, nearly striking his head against the pitch of the roof, whose sharp angle delineated the already narrow room. He took a few steps, the few that were available to him in the contracted room, and then stretched and yawned broadly. Baking bread, sweet and pervasive, filled his rented room above the kitchen.
“In The Dragon’s Jaws, no less!” Brace grinned. “By all the Gods, this adventure of mine could not be going better!” He dressed quickly, hung his peace-knotted blade on his baldric, and trotted down the slender stairway outside his door to the ground floor of the inn. The common room of The Dragon’s Jaws was alive with patrons devouring thick broths, ring-loaves and morning ale. Brace looked left, right, all around the common room. Every lass carrying a tray was more lovely than the last. As he turned in to the common room, one, a lovely brunette turned lusty eyes on him and curtsied very low,
“My lord”, she whispered. Brace smiled, and nodded. He turned on his heel away from the girl and entered the common room, when a patron on his left nearly leapt from his chair, sloshing warm broth over simmered strips of eel.
“My lord”, he bowed.
“Sure, yes, thank you, good sir.” Brace waved.
And so it went; a step taken, another patron encountered; another bow or curtsy, and a returned polite smile. His progress across the common room became comically slow, as he smiled or waved or nodded his way across the floor. “This is not working,” he said, turned, snatched a heavy ring loaf from a servant boy who carried a stave containing a score of them, shouted,
“Sorry, thank you!”, tossed two golden lions on the bar, and ran back to his room. He grabbed his warrior’s kit, round steel shield and suit of mail, then threw open the shuttered windows. With one hand gripping the shoulder strap of his kit, the other upon the pommel of his sword swinging on its baldric, and the ring loaf clenched firmly in his teeth, he leapt from the second story window to a low, sloping roof of The Dragon’s Jaws. He landed nimbly, slid briefly, then leapt to the street. Folk looked up in momentary horror, immediately mollified by the ridiculous young noble smiling broadly behind a pastry gripped in his teeth. Then the bowing started. Again.
He sighed, ate his ring loaf, purchased morning ale, and then resolved himself not to smile at every commoner who bowed as he passed. His Father has said it was a bad habit, his mother disagreed; even lauded Brace’s belief that he was born to serve Cormyr, indeed, that all the noble class were elevated to their station only so that they could better serve the common citizens of Cormyr. Nobility was a burden, Brace believed, a belief not commonly held within most of Cormyr’s myriad noble houses. He hurried, head low, down the Promenade. Today, he would prove his worth, and serve the Forest Kingdom. Today, he would become a Purple Dragon Knight.
________________________________________
Greengrass 1367 DR
Screaming, the dense timber of the curragh Manticore's hull heaved against the squall. Brachalus of Eshpurta pitched within the fetid, wet, cramped cargo hold; heavy crates splintering about him as the captains hounds bayed and wailed. Lightning tore great rents in the sky, illuminating the hold in staggering light. Umberlee's rage howled in the deep night, and Brachalus knew great despair. Six in ten among the crew had begun to show signs of plague only three days out of Procampur. On the fourth, forward winds of storm boxed the compass. By the fifth, they were off-course. And now, the Manticore lie on her beam, ravaged by storm, her crew pustular and listless.
Brachalus moved swiftly to secure each sick man behind a bulkhead, and as he threw the last bight, the curragh suddenly twisted a heave-to across the beam, whirled about her aft, then crashed into a massive swell. Brachalus raced to the booby, threw it open, and sprung upon deck in time to see hope consumed. Thunder roared and lighting rent in unison as the Manticore's single mast burst in twain and aflame, while her captain, Vael Shalvaer crooned in slavish supplication.
"Eight drowned souls, Bitch Queen! I give you eight drowned souls, my wicked mother! Drowned men, drowned!", Shalvaer shrieked in time with his baying hounds.
"You are mad, Vael, mad! You invite death to us all!" Brachalus roared while tossing a heavy hemp line over one shoulder, across the opposite hip, then stepped over it once to secure a bight on his thigh. "You will not live to see Suzail, Shalvaer; if your Bitch Queen does not come to eat your soul, I will send you to her!"
"The Dark Lady of Winds aids me now; she comes for you!"
The ship again rotating about it's aft, stern raised sharply into the air, was then aglow with radiant silver light. While dark clouds filled the horizon, churning dark and malevolent in all directions, Brachalus looked up to see Selune' silver face, somehow shining above him. Impossibly, the fierce winds lulled and the sea began to lull, though storms raged beyond the moon's silver light.
Brachalus leapt out of the bight, and ran swiftly up the near vertical deck of the now careening Manticore, heaving against the line. His shortsword appeared with all the speed of lighting into his hand, and was just as swiftly buried in Vael Shalvaer's throat. With Brachalus' swordstrike, the stern once more crashed into the Sea of Fallen Stars, hurling the captains sallow corpse, and his baying scrag-hounds, swiftly to Umberlee's cold, dark embrace.
The sky above turned green, the moon's light then hidden. Though storm still raged all about the curragh, only a light, warm rain fell upon her decks. Bracalus moved to the nearly sundered prow, and looked anxiously at the glimmering port at Suzail yet leagues distant. Making those few leagues would be nearly impossible, and perhaps yet his and the lives of the plague ridden crew were forfeit to the Bitch Queen. Brachalus smiled a sardonic smile, one hand at the beam, and another on his crimson stained blade.
"If the gods do not kill me," he thought, "Grandfather is sure to."
Mirtul 1 1367DR
Midnight's hellish squall lead to near dawn's strange, ephemeral light. Brachalus of Eshpurta gripped the beam of the Manticore, crouched low in the stern. He eyed the distance from the incapacitated curragh and Suzail, dark in the predawn haze.
"Too far," he calculated coldly, standing from the stern and stretching mechanically. Brachalus turned with a scowl as Dursk Thraer's weak, choking cough predicated the appearance of his long, gray, sea matted hair at the booby. Brachalus instantly smiled charmingly.
"Back below deck, Dursk, we know not when those clouds may take a turn." Brachalus admonished himself for the weak lie, pointing at the horizon without losing his smile.
"No, Brachalus," the old man began, hauling himself on elbows and knees across the deck, hoarsely wheezing, to the beam. Hauling himself to his feet, he leaned heavily on one elbow, “I’ve made my life as a chirugeon by the Sea of Fallen Stars and the Dragonmere… I’ll see it end with this sunrise.”
“Dursk,” Brachalus began, his friendly veneer cracking while sincere empathy filled his eyes, “there’s a Blue Dragon galleon five league off the coast of Suzail. It will have spotted us, and be moving to intercept. The wind will impede it progress, but you will live tomorrow,” he continued, a real smile filling his eyes through a cold expression.
“No, lad I cannot feel my left arm, nor my leg.” Dursk feebly attempted to clutch his chest with his right fist, still awkwardly balancing on his right elbow. He looked on at Brachalus with fear filled eyes, which in a moment flooded with tears. Dursk Threaer took two furtive, shambling steps, and then collapsed under his own weight. Brachalus seized him about the shoulders, saving him from the fall.
“Your help tending to the crew was, you…” Dursk, coughed, wheezed, then began to tremble; “you saved those men’s lives Brachalus. You followed my instructions perfectly, made good medicine. Ilmater has blessed you, lad. You are a good boy, Brachalus.” Dursk looked sorrowfully out across the Dragonmere, beheld the sun rising from the Sea of Fallen Stars, trembled weakly, and then saw no more. With that, Brachalus lowered the dead man to the deck of the Manticore. He moved to the stern, and calculated.
“Twelve leagues”, he muttered in whispered tone, “too far in water so cold.” There was no reason to assume, even if the galleon had a spyglass, that the Blue dragon vessel would see them. The tiny mistrunner was sundered, the ship lost. Brachalus moved to the booby, and then leapt into the hull. He moved to a large keg of lard, stripped off his clothes, and then meticulously smeared his body with the fatty paste. He replaced his small clothes and breeches, tunic and boots, then moved to his satchel stowed witin a small footlocker within the cargo hold. He opened it, and withdrew his fighting leathers. He dressed quickly; tightening straps at the waste, shoulders, knee, ankle and wrist of his leather armor mechanically. He placed a form fitting black cowl over his head and face, and tied it firmly. He checked twice the position and fit of his weapons, the moved again to the booby. The low groans of those plague victims who yet lived among the crew issued out from behind the bulkhead.
Their names were Herin, Gerdrous and Fleruk.
Gerdrous’ wife gave birth to a daughter just two tenday past.
Fleruk’s jests were crass, though he was clever and kind.
Herin was somber, and seemed always alone. Brachalus knew well the darkness of solitude.
“Do not be a fool, Brachalus,” he thought to himself, “these men are better dead to you than alive.” This ship kept no manifests; indeed, it cargo was five heavy crates of cheap thalander steeped in phaenaelo, the dried. Indeed, were the ship to be seized by Cormyr’s navy, the men within would be sent to prison. But hard labor under the crown was better than dead. Freedom was better yet. Quickly, Brachalus hauled the heavy rates to the deck, and placed the five out at the stern. The phaenaelo infused thalander would’ve commanded two hundred tri-crowns, and the crew of this ship would’ve been wealthy for the rest of their lives. But that was not to be.
Brachalus hauled in the curragh’s sails from the sundered mast, and wound it around the crates. Taking up two oil lanterns, he dashed them across the crates, which instantly burst into flame. A heavy tendril and bluish-green smoke issued upward, high into the sky.
“They are sure to see that”, Brachalus muttered ruefully.
Brachalus then turned, and dove over the beam. Powerful strokes lead him away from the curragh swiftly. He never looked back. Two hours later, he reached the banks of the Dragonmere, cursing daylight as he crouched within a heavy stand of reeds. Planting his feet firmly in heavy mud, he settled himself in to wait for nightfall. His first job afield, and already everything had gone wrong. He scowled bitterly.
“I will end the Cormaeril’s life, and then have done with this foul country.”
Brachalus of Eshputa was sixteen years old, an elite Shadow Thief, and aching in his heart. He would do what was required of him. He would please the Grandfather. He would kill.
He was an assassin.
“You are a good boy, Brachalus,” Dursk Thraer’s word’s haunted him.
He was an assassin. He would kill the Fire Knife. The Grandfather would be pleased.
“You are a good boy, Brachalus…
a good…
boy”.
Mirtul 1 1367DR
The Citadel of the Raven
Zur’s small darting eyes scrutinized the ledger lain before him, they dark spheres hidden within heavy, bulbous cheeks. His brow furrowed like the crags of some wasteland, bordered by a thick brow and barren pate. He rose from his heavy throne, it lavishly engraved and inlaid. His back hurt; he gripped his temples with forefinger and thumb, kneading his aching skull. Simultaneously, he reached instinctively to the pommel of his hornblade Seilasinaes, then scooped the final leather-bound ledger from the mountain of many much the same. Peering out from under a heavy hand still gripping furtively at an ache he could not force to abate, he grimaced sourly, tossed the ledger upon his desk and strode across the heavy hewn stone floor of his safe-room.
“Kerryth, have prepared, and now, ‘qawah’!”, he bellowed at the heavy iron barred door. “Black! Hot!”
His daughters, Sharyndi and Shesael, came unbidden to Zur’s mind’s eye. They were withering before his eyes, spending more coin at nightly revels on dreammist and wine than a Moonsea miner or timber man would earn in a lifetime. His wife, Kiiraen, a once buxom and beautiful maiden of Mistledale, had grown fat and pompous; a once inconceivable departure from the winsome farm maid whom he had elevated from agrarian servitude. Zur snarled, and mentally berated these leeches that spent his gold on fineries and purchased fame; but then admonished himself with a wicked grin. The coin spent by these whores he had beget upon the world were but the merest scraps compared to the vast wealth he commanded.
“Let them have their play-pretties and stupors,” Zur growled in his deep, yet sonorous , bear’s voice, “ere long, I will set Sembia to dance, Cormyr to kneel, Amn to fetch, and Tethyr to crawl.”
Two sharps raps on the safe-room door drew Zur’s gaze and ire.
“Enter”, he commanded. The barred door opened, and a young Zhentilar officer rushed inside with obvious care, thwarted by haste. Steaming ‘qawah’ splashed from the large earthenware mug across his fingers, which he attempted to hide by hugging the heavy mug close to body; while absorbing some of the spill on his black uniform, his next footfall jostled the mug yet further, sloshing scalding black brew across his hands. He looked up at Zur in horror. Zur seized the mug with one meaty hand, and while the servant made his quick exit, drew a long sip of ‘qawah’. His headache seemed to fade, if only a little, but almost instantly.
Suddenly, the safe-room began to glow with a hellish red light.
“Gods,” Zur swore, and ran towards the back of the room as twin eldritch spheres writhing with arcane sigils; one silver, one black, swirled in unison, overlapping each other by half. Once within in the overlapping spheres, Zur spun on his heel and drew his heavy blade. As he did so, abjurations cast throughout the safe-room burst in a cascade of witch-light. A vicious arc of black lighting tore from the safe-room flagstones, burning a man’s height wide and licking the vaulted ceilings. It danced violently for a moment, until an even darker cloaked figure emerged from the vile lighting, crackling fingers of plasma clinging to its form. Brandishing his blade from within the confines of his protective spheres, Zur steeled his resolve. The arcane protections he had lain by mercenary spellwork, now destroyed, cost him hundreds of pounds of gold. This lightning walker was no mageling assassin.
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| 30 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| Acolyte Thirteen |
Posted - 11 Oct 2010 : 04:56:34
Cool fanfic, Brace!
Who's this lightning-walker? When can we read the rest! |
| HelldoG |
Posted - 13 Sep 2010 : 21:37:42
quote:
Originally posted by Ashe Ravenheart
My point is, that all occurred MONTHS ago and the parties involved resolved the issue. By using the tone of your posts, it just looks like you're picking a fight.
Ok, ok. You're right. It was not nice of me. My reason is that I only now had time to read the story. Months ago I didn't have time and I didn't want to involve myself in a dispute, not knowing the background (hadn't read the story, I mean).
And by commenting on the story I just used his own tone. |
| Ashe Ravenheart |
Posted - 13 Sep 2010 : 21:15:30
My point is, that all occurred MONTHS ago and the parties involved resolved the issue. By using the tone of your posts, it just looks like you're picking a fight. |
| HelldoG |
Posted - 13 Sep 2010 : 20:24:03
quote:
Originally posted by Ashe Ravenheart
quote:
Originally posted by HelldoG
Apart from the spelling errors that Kyrene already pointed out and the fact that he's using "paper" incorrectly, it's a good story, for a troll. But I'm a person that is easily impressed, that's why I showed this story to my brother and some friends and they all said that it's "so-so", mediocre at best.
Um... that's just rude and uncalled for. Especially since we've all made our peace.
"If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."
So if he calls someone a troll several times and behave like... he's behaving, then it's no problem, lets just ignore it (What else can you do? oh, wait. You can BAN him.), but when I just give my opinion then I'm the bad guy? I just wanted to comment on the story. If he posted it here then he should know that it can be criticized.
P.S. And I don't think that you made peace. He's just being ignored. AND Brace just waits for a chance to attack, like a tiger. :P |
| Ashe Ravenheart |
Posted - 13 Sep 2010 : 20:00:43
quote:
Originally posted by HelldoG
Apart from the spelling errors that Kyrene already pointed out and the fact that he's using "paper" incorrectly, it's a good story, for a troll. But I'm a person that is easily impressed, that's why I showed this story to my brother and some friends and they all said that it's "so-so", mediocre at best.
Um... that's just rude and uncalled for. Especially since we've all made our peace.
"If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." |
| HelldoG |
Posted - 13 Sep 2010 : 19:14:48
Apart from the spelling errors that Kyrene already pointed out and the fact that he's using "paper" incorrectly, it's a good story, for a troll. But I'm a person that is easily impressed, that's why I showed this story to my brother and some friends and they all said that it's "so-so", mediocre at best. |
| Wooly Rupert |
Posted - 16 Jul 2010 : 01:24:02
Speaking of topics, let's get back to the original one, please.  |
| Brace Cormaeril |
Posted - 15 Jul 2010 : 15:53:52
quote:
Originally posted by Kyrene
quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
quote:
Originally posted by Ashe Ravenheart
We just kinda ignore him anymore HelldoG. (Well, at least *I* do.)
There's no call to ignore Kyrene, AR. His work on the glossary is, I'm certain, a benefit to many scribes. Although his candor can frequently be considered disrespectful, one could just chalk that up to the "way of the Internetz".
Whereas you’re just disrespectful by nature, I’m sure. To everyone!  
Don’t worry Sage/Wooly, I’m done with this smug, arrogant, condescending and disrespectful poser. I shall ignore any replies (or “must have last words”) of Brace’s in future, even the one he’s bound to have to this one.  I have far better things to do...
Indeed. If you think that the comments above added to Candlekeep, you are mistake. Why you work to bring down the quality of the 'Keep, I know not. Adding to a scroll merely to disparage a scribe, "smug, arrogant, condescending, disrespectful and poser" being a set of pejorative descriptivres, is trolling.
I hope I have taught you a valuable lesson, Kyrene, one that you can carry into your real-life. If you're going to attack someone with snark, you better be damn sure you got your facts straight.
'Papers' could be written on the topic. |
| Kyrene |
Posted - 15 Jul 2010 : 09:34:18
quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
quote:
Originally posted by Ashe Ravenheart
We just kinda ignore him anymore HelldoG. (Well, at least *I* do.)
There's no call to ignore Kyrene, AR. His work on the glossary is, I'm certain, a benefit to many scribes. Although his candor can frequently be considered disrespectful, one could just chalk that up to the "way of the Internetz".
Whereas you’re just disrespectful by nature, I’m sure. To everyone!
Don’t worry Sage/Wooly, I’m done with this smug, arrogant, condescending and disrespectful poser. I shall ignore any replies (or “must have last words”) of Brace’s in future, even the one he’s bound to have to this one. I have far better things to do...
|
| Brace Cormaeril |
Posted - 14 Jul 2010 : 05:25:21
quote:
Originally posted by The Sage
Okay, I think we've all played through this particular scenario more than enough times now.
I'd like to hear more of this tale, Brace. So can we please move along? 
I hope so, Sage.
If, that is, my Ward holds....
Hammers High! |
| The Sage |
Posted - 14 Jul 2010 : 05:21:53
Okay, I think we've all played through this particular scenario more than enough times now.
I'd like to hear more of this tale, Brace. So can we please move along? |
| Brace Cormaeril |
Posted - 14 Jul 2010 : 05:14:00
quote:
Originally posted by Ashe Ravenheart
quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
quote:
Originally posted by Ashe Ravenheart
We just kinda ignore him anymore HelldoG. (Well, at least *I* do.)
There's no call to ignore Kyrene, AR. His work on the glossary is, I'm certain, a benefit to many scribes. Although his candor can frequently be considered disrespectful, one could just chalk that up to the "way of the Internetz".
Oh, that was truly original! Turning my comment so it looks like I'm talking about Kyrene and not you. You got me sir! Add a +1 to your internet wins column.
Oh, you were referring to me. My mistake.
That's not very pleasant of you, AR, but ok.
Are you aware that it is acceptable at Candlekeep, perhaps even encouraged, to call fellow scribes, "trolls"?
Ashe Ravenheart, due to your recalcitrance and off-topic post, I hereby declare you "troll"!
Begone, troll!
*casts Ward Against Trolls*
Begone! |
| Ashe Ravenheart |
Posted - 14 Jul 2010 : 04:33:53
quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
quote:
Originally posted by Ashe Ravenheart
We just kinda ignore him anymore HelldoG. (Well, at least *I* do.)
There's no call to ignore Kyrene, AR. His work on the glossary is, I'm certain, a benefit to many scribes. Although his candor can frequently be considered disrespectful, one could just chalk that up to the "way of the Internetz".
Oh, that was truly original! Turning my comment so it looks like I'm talking about Kyrene and not you. You got me sir! Add a +1 to your internet wins column. |
| Brace Cormaeril |
Posted - 14 Jul 2010 : 04:24:28
quote:
Originally posted by Ashe Ravenheart
We just kinda ignore him anymore HelldoG. (Well, at least *I* do.)
There's no call to ignore Kyrene, AR. His work on the glossary is, I'm certain, a benefit to many scribes. Although his candor can frequently be considered disrespectful, one could just chalk that up to the "way of the Internetz". |
| Ashe Ravenheart |
Posted - 14 Jul 2010 : 04:19:19
We just kinda ignore him anymore HelldoG. (Well, at least *I* do.) |
| HelldoG |
Posted - 14 Jul 2010 : 01:36:12
Holy Unicorn! Wooly, don't you ban on Candlekeep? He's practically begging for it, and from a long time at that. |
| Brace Cormaeril |
Posted - 13 Jul 2010 : 09:23:12
quote:
Originally posted by Kyrene
quote:
Originally posted by Ashe Ravenheart
That's true, Kyrene. But this isn't published material that has gone through the hands of an editor, it's fanfic posted on a bulletin board. So, he's allowed some leeway. 
But it hasn’t even gone through a spellchecker!  And that you can do yourself just by pressing F7.  But, never mind, I suppose you’re right. I’ll restrain myself from correcting even the most glaring mistakes and just read it for what it’s worth.  quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
Kyrene, you're a troll.
Actually, it’s only half-troll, half-gold dragon, half-celestial, vampiric drow-tiefling on my mother’s side.  Then I also have half-centaur, half-wemic, moon elf-aasimar on my father’s side.  I have an ECL+19, with two levels of Expert, making me an epic character.
Holy ending!
Kyrene:
Regarding spelling, you're right; I just type this on Candlekeep, and never run a spellchecker. Luckily, there are only two spelling errors in all of my posts in this thread.
I'll pick those up before publication.
Thanks again, you troll(blooded) amalgam of fell creatures.
You're still angry about how I owned you regarding the use of "paper" as a proper term in the 'Realms to describe a written work, aren't you? It's ok, buddy, no ones perfect.
Hell, even I only have a *nigh* encyclopedic knowledge of the 'Realms!
Hammers High! |
| Kyrene |
Posted - 13 Jul 2010 : 08:35:09
quote:
Originally posted by Ashe Ravenheart
That's true, Kyrene. But this isn't published material that has gone through the hands of an editor, it's fanfic posted on a bulletin board. So, he's allowed some leeway.
But it hasn’t even gone through a spellchecker! And that you can do yourself just by pressing F7. But, never mind, I suppose you’re right. I’ll restrain myself from correcting even the most glaring mistakes and just read it for what it’s worth. quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
Kyrene, you're a troll.
Actually, it’s only half-troll, half-gold dragon, half-celestial, vampiric drow-tiefling on my mother’s side. Then I also have half-centaur, half-wemic, moon elf-aasimar on my father’s side. I have an ECL+19, with two levels of Expert, making me an epic character.
Holy ending! |
| Wooly Rupert |
Posted - 13 Jul 2010 : 00:53:05
Oh, come on? Can't we have a single scroll where people don't go insulting each other at the drop of a hat? Damp it down, or this will be yet another scroll closed by failure to adhere to the Candlekeep Forum Code of Conduct.
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| Brace Cormaeril |
Posted - 12 Jul 2010 : 14:19:59
Kyrene, you're a troll. |
| Ashe Ravenheart |
Posted - 12 Jul 2010 : 13:34:05
quote:
Originally posted by Kyrene
quote:
Originally posted by Markustay
He's sharing with us, not asking to be judged Kyrene.
Dial it back a bit, please.
But I did!  I'd like to see it nicely cleaned up so I can enjoy it more and not stumble over an error at every turn. Perhaps it's just me, but nothing throws me out of suspension of disbelief quicker than writing errors. Sorry! 
That's true, Kyrene. But this isn't published material that has gone through the hands of an editor, it's fanfic posted on a bulletin board. So, he's allowed some leeway. |
| Kyrene |
Posted - 12 Jul 2010 : 09:38:31
quote:
Originally posted by Markustay
He's sharing with us, not asking to be judged Kyrene.
Dial it back a bit, please.
But I did! I'd like to see it nicely cleaned up so I can enjoy it more and not stumble over an error at every turn. Perhaps it's just me, but nothing throws me out of suspension of disbelief quicker than writing errors. Sorry! |
| Markustay |
Posted - 12 Jul 2010 : 08:58:19
He's sharing with us, not asking to be judged Kyrene.
Dial it back a bit, please. |
| Kyrene |
Posted - 12 Jul 2010 : 08:44:49
quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
Thanks for catching that, Kyrene!
I had no idea trolls were so good at spelling.
Well if you’d rather I didn’t read your attempts at fiction, just say the word...
By the way, are you ever going to fix all the errors in your writing? You should really get someone else to proofread it before posting it here. Or do you have no pride in your work?
Holy ending! |
| Brace Cormaeril |
Posted - 12 Jul 2010 : 07:35:24
Mirtul 1 1367 DR
Brace awoke to the sound of street clamor, all manner of sounds erupting through his shuttered windows. He leapt out of bed, nearly striking his head against the pitch of the roof, whose sharp angle delineated the already narrow room. He took a few steps, the few that were available to him in the contracted room, and then stretched and yawned broadly. Baking bread, sweet and pervasive, filled his rented room above the kitchen.
“In The Dragon’s Jaws, no less!” Brace grinned. “By all the Gods, this adventure of mine could not be going better!” He dressed quickly, hung his peace-knotted blade on his baldric, and trotted down the slender stairway outside his door to the ground floor of the inn. The common room of The Dragon’s Jaws was alive with patrons devouring thick broths, ring-loaves and morning ale. Brace looked left, right, all around the common room. Every lass carrying a tray was more lovely than the last. As he turned in to the common room, one, a lovely brunette turned lusty eyes on him and curtsied very low,
“My lord”, she whispered. Brace smiled, and nodded. He turned on his heel away from the girl and entered the common room, when a patron on his left nearly leapt from his chair, sloshing warm broth over simmered strips of eel.
“My lord”, he bowed.
“Sure, yes, thank you, good sir.” Brace waved.
And so it went; a step taken, another patron encountered; another bow or curtsy, and a returned polite smile. His progress across the common room became comically slow, as he smiled or waved or nodded his way across the floor. “This is not working,” he said, turned, snatched a heavy ring loaf from a servant boy who carried a stave containing a score of them, shouted,
“Sorry, thank you!”, tossed two golden lions on the bar, and ran back to his room. He grabbed his warrior’s kit, round steel shield and suit of mail, then threw open the shuttered windows. With one hand gripping the shoulder strap of his kit, the other upon the pommel of his sword swinging on its baldric, and the ring loaf clenched firmly in his teeth, he leapt from the second story window to a low, sloping roof of The Dragon’s Jaws. He landed nimbly, slid briefly, then leapt to the street. Folk looked up in momentary horror, immediately mollified by the ridiculous young noble smiling broadly behind a pastry gripped in his teeth. Then the bowing started. Again.
He sighed, ate his ring loaf, purchased morning ale, and then resolved himself not to smile at every commoner who bowed as he passed. His Father has said it was a bad habit, his mother disagreed; even lauded Brace’s belief that he was born to serve Cormyr, indeed, that all the noble class were elevated to their station only so that they could better serve the common citizens of Cormyr. Nobility was a burden, Brace believed, a belief not commonly held within most of Cormyr’s myriad noble houses. He hurried, head low, down the Promenade. Today, he would prove his worth, and serve the Forest Kingdom. Today, he would become a Purple Dragon Knight.
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| Brace Cormaeril |
Posted - 12 Jul 2010 : 00:41:10
Mirtul 1 1367DR
Midnights hellish squall lead to near dawn's strange, ephemeral light. Brachalus of Eshpurta gripped the beam of the Manticore, crouched low in the stern. He eyed the distance from the incapacitated curragh and Suzail, dark in the predawn haze.
"Too far," he calculated coldly, standing from the stern and stretching mechanically. Brachalus turned with a scowl as Dursk Thraer's weak, choking cough predicated the appearance of his long, gray, sea matted hair at the booby. Brachalus instantly smiled charmingly.
"Back below deck, Dursk, we know not when those clouds may take a turn." Brachalus admonished himself for the weak lie, pointing at the horizon without losing his smile.
"No, Brachalus," the old man began, hauling himself on elbows and knees across the deck, hoarsely wheezing, to the beam. Hauling himself to his feet, he leaned heavily on one elbow, “I’ve made my life as a chirugeon by the Sea of Fallen Stars and the Dragonmere… I’ll see it end with this sunrise.”
“Dursk,” Brachalus began, his friendly veneer cracking while sincere empathy filled his eyes, “there’s a Blue Dragon galleon five league off the coast of Suzail. It will have spotted us, and be moving to intercept. The wind will impede it progress, but you will live tomorrow,” he continued, a real smile filling his eyes through a cold expression.
“No, lad I cannot feel my left arm, nor my leg.” Dursk feebly attempted to clutch his chest with his right fist, still awkwardly balancing on his right elbow. He looked on at Brachalus with fear filled eyes, which in a moment flooded with tears. Dursk Threaer took two furtive, shambling steps, and then collapsed under his own weight. Brachalus seized him about the shoulders, saving him from the fall.
“Your help tending to the crew was, you…” Dursk, coughed, wheezed, then began to tremble; “you saved those men’s lives Brachalus. You followed my instructions perfectly, made good medicine. Ilmater has blessed you, lad. You are a good boy, Brachalus.” Dursk looked sorrowfully out across the Dragonmere, beheld the sun rising from the Sea of Fallen Stars, trembled weakly, and then saw no more. With that, Brachalus lowered the dead man to the deck of the Manticore. He moved to the stern, and calculated.
“Twelve leagues”, he muttered in whispered tone, “too far in water so cold.” There was no reason to assume, even if the galleon had a spyglass, that the Blue dragon vessel would see them. The tiny mistrunner was sundered, the ship lost. Brachalus moved to the booby, and then leapt into the hull. He moved to a large keg of lard, stripped off his clothes, and then meticulously smeared his body with the fatty paste. He replaced his small clothes and breeches, tunic and boots, then moved to his satchel stowed witin a small footlocker within the cargo hold. He opened it, and withdrew his fighting leathers. He dressed quickly; tightening straps at the waste, shoulders, knee, ankle and wrist of his leather armor mechanically. He placed a form fitting black cowl over his head and face, and tied it firmly. He checked twice the position and fit of his weapons, the moved again to the booby. The low groans of those plague victims who yet lived among the crew issued out from behind the bulkhead.
Their names were Herin, Gerdrous and Fleruk.
Gerdrous’ wife gave birth to a daughter just two tenday past.
Fleruk’s jests were crass, though he was clever and kind.
Herin was somber, and seemed always alone. Brachalus knew well the darkness of solitude.
“Do not be a fool, Brachalus,” he thought to himself, “these men are better dead to you than alive.” This ship kept no manifests; indeed, it cargo was five heavy crates of cheap thalander steeped in phaenaelo, the dried. Indeed, were the ship to be seized by Cormyr’s navy, the men within would be sent to prison. But hard labor under the crown was better than dead. Freedom was better yet. Quickly, Brachalus hauled the heavy crates to the deck, and placed the five out at the stern. The phaenaelo infused thalander would’ve commanded two hundred tri-crowns, and the crew of this ship would’ve been wealthy for the rest of their lives. But that was not to be.
Brachalus hauled in the curragh’s sails from the sundered mast, and wound it around the crates. Taking up two oil lanterns, he dashed them across the crates, which instantly burst into flame. A heavy tendril of bluish-green smoke issued upward, high into the sky.
“They are sure to see that”, Brachalus muttered ruefully.
Brachalus then turned, and dove over the beam. Powerful strokes lead him away from the curragh swiftly. He never looked back. Two hours later, he reached the banks of the Dragonmere, cursing daylight as he crouched within a heavy stand of reeds. Planting his feet firmly in heavy mud, he settled himself in to wait for nightfall. His first job afield, and already everything had gone wrong. He scowled bitterly.
“I will end the Cormaeril’s life, and then have done with this foul country.”
Brachalus of Eshputa was sixteen years old, an elite Shadow Thief, and aching in his heart. He would do what was required of him. He would please the Grandfather. He would kill.
He was an assassin.
“You are a good boy, Brachalus,” Dursk Thraer’s word’s haunted him.
He was an assassin. He would kill the Fire Knife. The Grandfather would be pleased.
“You are a good boy, Brachalus…
a good…
boy”.
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| Markustay |
Posted - 11 Jul 2010 : 20:22:13
Just wow....
Looking for a double-standard, now, are we? Why ARE YOU trying build a case here?
Anyway, although I thought the descriptive text was a bit heavy-handed in the first paragraph, nicely done.
I believe you meant 'the' instead of 'they' in the very first sentence though.
Keep it coming. |
| Brace Cormaeril |
Posted - 11 Jul 2010 : 20:04:21
quote:
Originally posted by Kyrene
It's "qahwa" (or "fireswallow," or "kaeth"), not "qawah". I'd suggest you consult Anauroch (TSR 9320), or the "So saith Ed," March 6, 2005 entry in order to educate yourself on coffee in the Realms.
Holy ending!
Thanks for catching that, Kyrene!
I had no idea trolls were so good at spelling.
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| Kyrene |
Posted - 11 Jul 2010 : 13:54:38
It's "qahwa" (or "fireswallow," or "kaeth"), not "qawah". I'd suggest you consult Anauroch (TSR 9320), or the "So saith Ed," March 6, 2005 entry in order to educate yourself on coffee in the Realms.
Holy ending! |
| Brace Cormaeril |
Posted - 11 Jul 2010 : 10:08:05
Mirtul 1 1367DR
Zur’s small darting eyes scrutinized the ledger lain before him, they dark spheres hidden within heavy, bulbous cheeks. His brow furrowed like the crags of some wasteland, bordered by a thick brow and barren pate. He rose from his heavy throne, it lavishly engraved and inlaid. His back hurt; he gripped his temples with forefinger and thumb, kneading his aching skull. Simultaneously, he reached instinctively to the pommel of his hornblade Seilasinaes, then scooped the final leather-bound ledger from the mountain of many much the same. Peering out from under a heavy hand still gripping furtively at an ache he could not force to abate, he grimaced sourly, tossed the ledger upon his desk and strode across the heavy hewn stone floor of his safe-room.
“Kerryth, have prepared, and now, ‘qawah’!”, he bellowed at the heavy iron barred door. “Black! Hot!”
His daughters, Sharyndi and Shesael, came unbidden to Zur’s mind’s eye. They were withering before his eyes, spending more coin at nightly revels on dreammist and wine than a Moonsea miner or timber man would earn in a lifetime. His wife, Kiiraen, a once buxom and beautiful maiden of Mistledale, had grown fat and pompous; a once inconceivable departure from the winsome farm maid whom he had elevated from agrarian servitude. Zur snarled, and mentally berated these leeches that spent his gold on fineries and purchased fame; but then admonished himself with a wicked grin. The coin spent by these whores he had beget upon the world were but the merest scraps compared to the vast wealth he commanded.
“Let them have their play-pretties and stupors,” Zur growled in his deep, yet sonorous , bear’s voice, “ere long, I will set Sembia to dance, Cormyr to kneel, Amn to fetch, and Tethyr to crawl.”
Two sharps raps on the safe-room door drew Zur’s gaze and ire.
“Enter”, he commanded. The barred door opened, and a young Zhentilar officer rushed inside with obvious care, thwarted by haste. Steaming ‘qawah’ splashed from the large earthenware mug across his fingers, which he attempted to hide by hugging the heavy mug close to body; while absorbing some of the spill on his black uniform, his next footfall jostled the mug yet further, sloshing scalding black brew across his hands. He looked up at Zur in horror. Zur seized the mug with one meaty hand, and while the servant made his quick exit, drew a long sip of ‘qawah’. His headache seemed to fade, if only a little, but almost instantly.
Suddenly, the safe-room began to glow with a hellish red light.
“Gods,” Zur swore, and ran towards the back of the room as twin eldritch spheres writhing with arcane sigils; one silver, one black, swirled in unison, overlapping each other by half. Once within in the overlapping spheres, Zur spun on his heel and drew his heavy blade. As he did so, abjurations cast throughout the safe-room burst in a cascade of witch-light. A vicious arc of black lighting tore from the safe-room flagstones, burning a man’s height wide and licking the vaulted ceilings. It danced violently for a moment, until an even darker cloaked figure emerged from the vile lighting, crackling fingers of plasma clinging to its form. Brandishing his blade from within the confines of his protective spheres, Zur steeled his resolve. The arcane protections he had lain by mercenary spellwork, now destroyed, cost him hundreds of pounds of gold. This lighting walker was no mageling assassin.
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