A Spear Has No Branches

Sibirn · May 2018

I don't know how I forgot to post this. From the Serenwilde event, Sibirn's interview with Grey.

A deafening howl echoes, as if emanating from right next to you, as a white mist sweeps into the

area like breaking dam.

Grinning broadly, you say, "Mist friend!"

Arien nods her head enthusiastically.

The howl begins to grow slightly quieter. Still, you hear your heart begin to quicken. Fear begins to flood through you.

You have emoted: Sibirn grips a mighty waraxe tightly, glancing about frantically, trying to watch all directions.

It grows quieter, more distant. Still, you feel as if it is approaching, You feel a need to run, but

you don't know where it's coming from to run away from. You can finally think from the noise, but

you can't think from the fear. But you know - It is coming.

The howling is almost silent now. And you are sure. It is almost here. It is hunting you. You are

prey.

You have emoted: Sibirn stills, squeezing his eyes shut as he lets go a mighty waraxe, letting it

hang loosely at his side, breathing in deeply.

Pounding fills your ears as a group of misty white hounds rush in and grab you by your ankles.

Quickly, a misty hole in the ground opens up, and you are dragged into it by the hounds, finding

yourself elsewhere.

The highest temple tier.

Three tiers are distinguishable in this tall standing stone, illuminated by its own soft, pulsing

glow.

You see exits leading southeast, south, and southwest.

You have emoted: Sibirn cracks open his eyes, glancing about.

p stone

Formed of three uneven, vertical sections marked by narrowings in the pillar, cracks and citrine

-hued mosses cover the majority of this standing stone's surface. Upon the middle, lopsided tier, a

symbol of angular marks is carved into the stone, nestled in the midst of elaborate knotwork. A soft

glow emanates from the rock, bathing it in its own wan illumination.

It weighs about 1000 pounds.

It has the following aliases: stone, standing, standingstone.

You have emoted: Sibirn examines a tiered standing stone carefully, looking it over.

Moistened temple walls.

Surrounded by a muted glow, this pillar-like stone is curved in curious proportions.

You see exits leading south, southwest, and northwest.

Treading over ruminant skins.

A faint nimbus of soft light is emitted by this tall, narrow stone, the rock leaning at an awkward

angle.

You see exits leading northeast, southeast, and south.

The taupe and dusty midway.

Leafy vines all but cover a wide rock anchored into the grass, nearly smothering the faint glow

enveloping it.

You see exits leading north, northeast, southeast, south, southwest, and northwest.

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p stone

Reaching about mid-waist upon the average human, the low stone is overgrown with lichen edged with

subtle lilac coloration. Knotwork patterns have been chiselled into the rugged granite, though

clearly some time ago as they are worn and nearly faded now. Three, curving stripes are distinct

amidst the patterns, which seem to curl around them before spreading further throughout the rocky

surface. A dull glow is exuded by the very stone itself, barely illuminating the grasses around it.

It weighs about 1000 pounds.

It has the following aliases: stone, standing, standingstone.

You have emoted: Sibirn ambles forth, eyes alert as he examines each stone, ears twitching.

The taupe and dusty midway.

Leafy vines all but cover a wide rock anchored into the grass, nearly smothering the faint glow

enveloping it.

You see exits leading north, northeast, southeast, south, southwest, and northwest.

A bracken-clutched hollow of hoarfrost.

A chunk of rough stone lays at the base of this tall, thin rock, clearly broken off of the stone's

crown. The husk of a cloven bramble-throne looms here, little more than a throng of brittle, dry

brier surrounded by the scent of blood. Leaning upon his throne, Grey rests here, a massive

greatsword in one hand and his wound clutched in the other.

You see exits leading north, northeast, and northwest.

A bracken-clutched hollow of hoarfrost.

A chunk of rough stone lays at the base of this tall, thin rock, clearly broken off of the stone's

crown. The husk of a cloven bramble-throne looms here, little more than a throng of brittle, dry

brier surrounded by the scent of blood. Leaning upon his throne, Grey rests here, a massive

greatsword in one hand and his wound clutched in the other.

You see exits leading north, northeast, and northwest.

You have emoted: Sibirn ambles in, waraxe held at the ready.

p grey

He is a towering man and carries the air of a once-proud man reduced to a weathered, gaunt figure

existing only as a shadow of what he once was. Alongside a slightly hunched posture, his gait is

stiff, the man limping and favouring his left leg; the creases and weathering crossing his walnut-

hued, angular countenance fail to mask the subtle expression of pain upon it, his emerald eyes dim

and empty. Further alluding to his age, his beard is long and greying, a wild mane of ash-and-ebon

hair pulled back against his scalp and bound into a matted, horse-like tail. He wears nothing but a

tattered and bloodstained loincloth and worn leather sandals, the bare flesh of his muscle-rippled

form covered in smeared blue woad-paint illustrating the remnants of faded tribal patterns broken by

slashes, bruises and other wounds. The faintest aura of immanidivinus energy surrounds the marred

man, subdued and at times seeming only to be a trick of the senses as laboured breathing moves his

chest in and out. Tiredly, he clutches his abdomen with a scarred hand, partially covering the deep

gash from which thick blood still seeps, soaking his waist with a deep ruddiness.

Grey almost glows with nearly god-like power.

He weighs about 625 pounds.

You cannot see what Grey is holding.

It has the following aliases: grey, man, gray.

Grey inclines his head politely to you.

You have emoted: Sibirn nods subtly at Grey, flashing a toothy, canine filled smile.

Simply, you say to Grey, "You are a good hunter."

Grey says, "You can put your axe away. There is no need for it here. If you wish to leave, you may

simply ask, though with the stipulation that you will be unable to return."

You have emoted: Sibirn nods, keeping his eyes upon Grey as he carefully sheathes his axe.

With a flourish, you slip a serrated double-bladed waraxe into a forest-green leather frogge.

Merely a towering mass of tangled brambles upon first impression, the purpose of this morass becomes

apparent with the revelation of the cloven, dead tree stump at its base, levelled to form a seat.

The stump is surrounded by a convoluted throng of dry brambles, any foliage upon their brittle stems

long-since fallen away to leave only bare, woody thorns that threaten any who would ensconce

themselves in their repose. The woven brambles backing the sombre throne have been ripped asunder,

sharp detritus littering the ground around it atop a bed of dried sweetgrass, the aroma of which has

faded and grown overpowered by the heavy stench of iron -- for the brier and its immediate vicinity

are beset with both dried and fresh stains of blood. Customarily meant for an individual of import,

the throne is besieged by an aura of sorrow and solemn finality; all life has left its organic

components, leaving only a broken husk behind.

It weighs about 500 pounds.

It has the following aliases: throne.

Grey smiles slightly as he leans back in his throne. He speaks in a raspy voice, "I would like to

apologise for the method in which you were brought here, but the old adage of times and measures

applies. I am sure you have many questions. I am happy to answer what I am able."

A resplendent snow phoenix with wings of golden ice has no food in its feedbag and is starving. She

tries to return to the Stables of the Green Hand for care.

A resplendent snow phoenix with wings of golden ice has lost a level.

Midnight shadows coalesce around a new day, and Mother Night embraces the land in utter darkness.

It is now the 9th of Juliary, 501 years after the Coming of Estarra.

Glancing about, before returning his gaze upon you, you say to Grey, "Do you claim to be my friend?

I have had bad luck with such, lately."

Grey says, "I will allow you to make that decision."

Grey says, "I am not here to sway you. I am here as a watcher, and I only intervene when I must."

Nodding absently, you say to Grey, "I am here, watcher."

Grey says, "As you are. Do you have any other questions?"

You have emoted: Sibirn stretches out, muscles rippling as he limbers up, before taking a seated

position.

Simply, you say to Grey, "No."

You give a pained sigh.

Grey says, "Then I have my own. What are your thoughts on duty?"

Eyes hard, you intone to Grey, "The tribe serves the chieftain, who serves the tribe."

Grey says, "I see."

Grey says, "And this is your only duty?"

A bracken-clutched hollow of hoarfrost.

Dead and sombre, a thicket of lifeless bracken engulfs the southernmost alcove of the bright temple,

the light wan here, subdued and grey as it filters through twisted and tangled branches. Hoarfrost

covers everything in a powder-like layer, cloaking the chaparral in dull paleness. The oaken vines

still manage to break through the brambles, cloaking the rounded walls and joining at the southern

apex to form a single scene: a stag fallen to its fore-knees, the proud animal speared with a shaft

through its narrow chest. Amber copal resin designates the buck's blood, already forming a pool

below which seeps onto the hollow's ground, frozen in viscous trails. A chunk of rough stone lays at

the base of this tall, thin rock, clearly broken off of the stone's crown. The husk of a cloven

bramble-throne looms here, little more than a throng of brittle, dry brier surrounded by the scent

of blood. Leaning upon his throne, Grey rests here, a massive greatsword in one hand and his wound

clutched in the other.

You see exits leading north, northeast, and northwest.

Grey says, "Yes is a perfectly acceptable answer. I just wish to understand."

Chuffing as he breaks eye contact, staring off into the distance, you say to Grey, "My duty is to my

tribe, my ancestors, my chieftain, and my elders, in that order."

You intone, "One vision, one spear, forever forward."

Grey nods slightly, leaning back in his throne. He grips the wound at his abdomen tighter, the blood

pouring profusely from it. He speaks once more, "You gathered some moss from the antlers of the Hart.

May I have it?"

You have emoted: Sibirn smiles, staring intently at Grey. "That depends, watcher. Are you friend,

food, or foe?"

Grey says, "Food."

Laughing, you say to Grey, "I think you would taste terrible, and food doesn't normally speak."

With a grin, Grey says, "Well, that's too bad."

You have emoted: Sibirn pulls himself out of his sitting position, groaning as he heaves his massive

form up, ambling toward Grey.

You have emoted: Sibirn peers intently at Grey's wound, stretching and forming the moss. "Bad wound,

this."

You have emoted: Sibirn glances up toward Grey's face expectantly.