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The Illusory Hamlet [Storyline]


Ibn Khaldun
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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮
"The dulcet voices. . ."

 

Upon a lone cape extending out to sea, commonly battered by storms spirited across the narrow strait between Elvenesse, Old Savoy, & Urguan, towers a multitude of open and narrow edifices. That most strange of sights is made stranger when you approach the small hamlet of towering structures; the windcatchers and open-air belvederes appear to twist as if faces looking towards or away from you. As you approach the cramped and narrow thoroughfares beneath the belvederes, you hear a consoling series of voices that call out from the recesses of the hamlet.

 

Dulcet voices of Farfolk women singing and the light rap against daf drums swell up over rooftops and verandas. The few townspeople who loiter the labyrinthine paths behave cordially, greeting passerby with Salaams, Holas, & Aapkasihays and exchanging terse prattle. Rows of carpets, rugs, and other woven tapestries wave at you from the towers above you as if aided by the illusory twisting and winding of the galleries. Figurines of malachite and other crystalline minerals manufactured in the shapes of serpents with hominid features decorate set tables, bookshelves, & other furniture visible to those wandering past doorways and portals into the buildings in the hamlet.

 

Remarkable art, both paintings and reliefs, decorate the walls both facing out and enclosed within the hamlet’s maze. A wide bas relief depicting a chimaeric and outlandish biped monster with four arms can be found in the center of the town limits. An air of aesthetic and artistic stamina can be determined from a brief survey of the various homes and halls found here. Save for those soldiers armored in lamellar and adorning exquisite cavalry-masks, the remainder of the small population seem given to the creative or scholarly arts.

 

Do you decide to wander to this placid hamlet?

 

 

Non-spoiler OOC NoteThis is a SOFT PK zone, defined by myself as the following - if you die within the confines of the hamlet, you will not be permitted to return (even if invited by a third party who has not died) for two IRL weeks. You will lose all memory of what you have learned up to the point of death.
 

Spoiler

OOC

 

This storyline site is within reach to most South-hub settlements and can be accessed by sailing from Elvenesse & Urguan. Please ping me when I am online for full interactive experience, but this settlement can be "stealthed through" at night. Please respect any and all region flag comments that help facilitate interactions.

 

 

Westworld Dolores GIF - Westworld Dolores Frightened GIFs

 

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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮
"A melody to mellow the masses. . ."

 

 

A swarthy hand tipped the ornate tumbler back and the man took a swill of its contents. A wince and an exhalation full of burning breath broke the silence between him and the elf opposite him. A scene built around them casting the two in a pristine lodge with the man sitting in a bar stool and the elf wiping down another glass standing behind the bar itself. The Farfolk man set his tumbler down gently and slid it courteously towards the elf before continuing.

 

“You ask me who I love most, do you? I would have to confess my truest love to my wife Zenobia,” the Farfolk man recounted with growing fondness.

 

“She supported me when none of my kith or kin could bear to rest a hand on my shoulder. She trusted me when I decided to leave the old Kharasi Oasis with those who fled to Chorasmia and later still when we fled Chorasmia for this humble abode.”

 

“Makonon, aper, this is very touching,” the elf admitted before being cut off as the man continued in a trance.

 

“She has a most beautiful voice, like that of a songbird’s pleasantness, and not a protest can be made of its melody. She mesmerizes and she toys, how I am proud to be the hawk watching over my nightingale.”

 

“Makonon, aper, I did not realize this and I shy from suggesting I be an audience to this. I take it this would be an offense to your sensibilities as both man and Farfolk,” the elf mused, a cocked brow surveying Makonon’s reaction.

 

The Farfolk, leaning against his elbow that rested on the bar, looked unamused.

 

“Ilvilin, I’d caution you to be careful how you address my wife,” Makonon stated flatly. The elf held up his hands as if surrendering, lowering his head with an amused grin hidden beneath the crook of his nose.

 

“I dare say, I might like to. . .suggest a use for that voice,” the elf parlayed in a low voice. Makonon’s face folded from displaying distaste to reluctance and he began to stand up.

 

Both the barstool and the bar seemed to shrink away through Makonon’s eyes. He watched as the bar slid back into a dusky nothingness and his feet felt a fleeting sensation of buckling as the stool shrank to the proportions of a common crate one might find on a pier or port. He teetered as the surrounding scenery melted back into the actual environment around him; he found himself standing only a few feet away from the elf on a sparse sandspit with two crates sat upon the shore.

 

Creak and echo suggested something screened in the darker shadows beneath a thick palm tree nearby. The elf turned, expectantly, to face the silhouette breaking its veil as a metallic head leaned out from underneath the flora as if inspecting their conversation.

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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

"That eye, a single band of yellow across, like that of a viper. . ."

 

A single sloop sauntered along the choppy waters off the coast of Old Savoy; fishermen begged and pleaded with tangles of nets intending to cast them off their boat. One net managed to cooperate and the sailors threw it across water's edge and its full length stretched fully. The light rocking of the boat, par for course, took no notice for what evaded the eyes of the fishermen whose sight saw little past the surface at dusk. More and more men cajoled their nets into cooperating and casted them out on opposite sides of their small vessel.

 

As the lattice pattern of the nets descended deeper into the waters, one such segment of the net bulged. A reptilian eye peeked from between the criss-cross stitch of the net at the fishermen, one of the anglers peering back at it and panicked. The creature disappeared back into the depths; the net following it for a short time before idling in the waters. Each fisherman began withdrawing their nets and tossing them randomly upon deck.  The panicked man tripped and fell onto his back, peering up to see a distant belvedere seemingly swivel to lock gazes with him.

 

The entire group of fishermen erupted with anxiety as more found the belvedere spying on them. They cried out orders to take up oars and furiously rowed and watched the belvedere snap back into its constructed position as the object dwindled with distance put between them.

 

 

 

[OOC]

 

This event site is now in operation! Follow the instructions on the signs on the side of the event site facing the sea and lets have fun!

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1 hour ago, Mamimiux said:

How do I get here :0

Hello @Mamimiux, read the few posts so far carefully and you'll get some clues on where to look. Good luck, have fun!

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+ 1 A Nice, fun, and overall enjoyable experience! Thank you Lango for the experience! - For those interested in it, I recommend trying to find the site, though it may be a little tricky for you to piece the hints together and find the location. But It'd be worth the effort! : )

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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

"Drumming that seemed to beat in unison with my heart inside my chest"

 

 

On 8/30/2022 at 7:29 PM, Wretched Aidan said:

+ 1 A Nice, fun, and overall enjoyable experience! Thank you Lango for the experience! - For those interested in it, I recommend trying to find the site, though it may be a little tricky for you to piece the hints together and find the location. But It'd be worth the effort! : )

 

A sloop skimmed the choppy waters that washed onto the sandspit straying out to sea. A young knight led his vessel to beach onto loamy sands and stepped out under the gaze of tall belvederes that appeared to him as if swiveling to face their new company. The knight reflexively grasped the hilt of his longsword before continuing towards the hamlet, his eyes dancing between each belvedere that appeared to him twisting and contorting. His steps slowed as he came around a corner to find a relief carved into one of the belvedere's façade. Its subject matter, an infantryman and cavalryman mounted and dressed in lamellar armor, seemed to move in place within the border of the façade.

 

With careful steps and slow pace, the knight searched for an opening into the outlandish settlement. He reached a narrow gap between the belvederes, wide enough for two people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and darted to hide behind the entrance. With a brief glance around the corner and down the long corridor. He wheeled back with a gasp, rubbing his eyes before returning for a second look. Did mine eyes deceive me? It looked like the corridor elongated like a tongue of a chameleon darting out!

 

The knight dropped his shoulder and bolted out into the corridor. His hands shuffled between longsword and dirk on his hip before realizing no one loitered the path. A clang of a teacup from a nearby house recommitted the knight to his nervous and observant approach and he followed the noise to a staircase. Two windows, each on opposite sides and covered in thick curtains, faced the knight with a choice of which to inspect first. He crept towards one and retracted the curtains to find a collection of furniture suggestive of a tavern, but of Farfolk design. A noise sounded from the opposite window.

 

"Barev dze?! Who goes there?!" a voice called out from the opposite window, barely enough curtain pulled back to permit an eye to peer out.

 

"I am but a fisherman who has come ashore from afar!" the knight claimed. I chose the wrong window to check, he could easily shoot me down right here and now.

 

"Ah! Come, come! Bifadlik ya musaffir! Climb up the stairs, come down the ladder!"

 

A Southeron man poked his head through the curtains fully this time, a single hand stretched out and motioning for the knight to come inside. The knight followed his instructions and soon found himself in a homey teahouse decorated an arabesque patterns and desert colors. The Southeron had a chair already pulled out and ready to seat the knight and the two took to a booth seated opposite each other.

 

"Where. . .might I be my good host?" the knight queried immediately, taking in the good change of fortune with a welcome.

 

"Barigalast, you have managed to sail to the humble hamlet of Hayastan! You mentioned you were a fisherman, is this correct?" The knight nodded as he continued to rest comfortably in his chair.

 

"Did you sail from the Ilvilinyi lands or the Qasiri lands?" the Southeron asked, stumped as the knight looked at him with confusion.

 

"Pardon, Ilvilinyi is from our language here meaning Elven and Qasiri means," the Southeron demonstrated its meaning by holding his hand out, palm faced downward, close to the floor.

 

The knight chuckled at the suggested meaning of the Southeron's gesture. He must mean the Dwarves, though they'd not take kindly if they were to see that gesture. The knight confirmed that he sailed from the Elven shores across the sea.

 

Another Southeron entered the teahouse and found the two seated. His eyes shot dismissive daggers to the other Southeron, muttering Jaqeli under his breath as if exhausted, then greeted the knight with a more jovial tone.

 

Jaqeli, seated opposite the knight, parried the glance with a rude one of his own. "Makonon, good day. . ." Jaqeli dryly greeted. The knight felt the tension between the two and decided to break it with a question to them both.

 

"No insults to you and your people, but I am confused by the great tilting towers standing tall over your settlement. What are they?" the knight questioned with concern., turning for a few seconds to face both Makonon and Jaqeli.

 

The two Southerons exchanged bewildered looks this time. Jaqeli turned first to respond.

 

"Excuse me? Tilting structures? Might it be your own eyes playing a ruse seeing so many belvederes so close together?" Jaqeli offered a way out of the strange questioning.

 

"I patrol these corridors day in and day out and no such thing has ever been found," Makonon added, his voice measured and reasonable - a true politician's tone.

 

"Perhaps something as plagued your hamlet? My own home has been plagued with vines that grow feet in moments if you disturb them," the knight countered. Jaqeli slid his chair back as if distancing himself from the knight. Makonon looked at him half with pity, half with amusement.

 

"I assure you, our town is quite safe and unencumbered by plague good sir!" Makonon cheerily affirmed. Jaqeli drew up the stitch of his collar over his nose, pointing a finger accusatively to the knight.

 

"Plagues have signs, some come with boils upon the skin while others render the sick coughing up blood. Mayhaps you have come with plague whose sign is delirium, suggesting the belvederes twist and turn like the cork to a wine bottle - Preposterous!"

 

It was the knight's turn to look offended. He looked between Makonon and Jaqeli and suggested they accompany him back outside. Makonon happily accepted the challenge and Jaqeli lingered behind them, decidedly juvenile in keeping distance from the knight still. The three emerged back up on an open-air gallery atop the teahouse.

 

Adobe belvederes, eclectically constructed to act as windcatchers, towered wherever they turned. Makonon's grin slowly faded as he remained unconvinced since the structures did not sway. Jaqeli snickered quietly under his breath as he watched the knight looked in disbelief at the lack of motion from the buildings around them.

 

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Non-spoiler OOC NoteThis is a SOFT PK zone, defined by myself as the following - if you die within the confines of the hamlet, you will not be permitted to return (even if invited by a third party who has not died) for two IRL weeks. You will lose all memory of what you have learned up to the point of death.

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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

"This maze of mine, made in full design to part with my Muses discernment"

 

 

"Left or right"

 

That most mechanical and distant voice sounded far enough to not demand attention, but it cut through the quiet tension like an arrow shot between those gathered at the entrance to the hamlet. Dull and deep steps seem to have responded to the voice and the group of five separated with two riding away and three slowly pacing the first of many corridors in the hamlet.

 

"Hayastan they call this town, from what I gathered from the town maer. . ," Ronald of Vectra whispered just loud enough for those flanking him to hear. The towering belvederes overhead seemed to shake like branches in the autumn wind, rugs hung across clotheslines like leaves trying to uncinch from their branches. A stern dirge sounded, Ronald remarking that he came aforetime to the sound of sweet sonorous singing and the light tap of drums.

 

"Their local blacksmith, doubling as a captain of the local militia, mentioned something about a oceanic serpent or chimera dragging away townspeople who meander outside the town. Seshmitze -er Sesh-mid-ze? That was his name," Ronald continued, partly to himself and to the others. Marius Vilac skipped across to the next fork in the path and Luthriel stayed behind. The hexman Ronald directed Luthriel to take shelter in the first building whose entrance faced the two, mentioning that the stairs led to a teahouse.

 

"You may turn left or right," the voice, nearer now, seemed to advise. Marius rounded the corner, taking the fork that snaked towards a mural of a four-armed eldritch being and found on the opposite end of a modest courtyard a construct whose eyes bathed him in a crimson glow from orbs-for-eyes fixed in a barbute veiled with chain and lamellar plates. The construct, a Dworkin Muse of War, carried a large flanged mace and a tower shield in its off-hand and towered over ten feet tall and barely skirting the height of the first floor of the hamlet's belvederes.

 

"The voice isn't describing the way we're headed, its the way its heading. The corridors form a maze which is a game for it," Ronald realized, his breath caught after confessing his observation. The hexman climbed the nearest stairs and began to leap from vista to vista towards Marius and the Muse.

 

"Master made mention that I am to dispatch any who come our way. Who are you?" the cataphract-like golem inquired, looking down on Marius.

 

The confronted man turned on his heel, becoming the prey as the golem pursued. Marius found Ronald leaping overhead and decided to climb the same set of stairs to get on higher ground. The golem nimbly kept on his heel, but began to slow as it stepped out onto the rooftops that both Marius and Ronald found. As dawn broke over the horizon of the narrow sea and the Muse of War found its footing on the adobe roof, its movement became convulsive and sluggish until coming to a full stop. The entire form shuddered and each lamellar plate shook giving a glimmering effect to its final movements.

 

A curt grumble from Ronald and a disconcerted look from Marius welcomed the Muse's sudden lifelessness. The two called out for Luthriel to evacuate the teahouse and the three carried on through the hamlet. They stopped only to hear the morning foot traffic in town reawaken along with the typical tapping of daf drums and dulcet voices crooning. Between Luthriel, Marius, and Ronald, the trio inquired and interrogated the local blacksmith turned militia leader, the town maer, and two women reclined upon divans along a windcatcher.

 

Ronald, in frustration, brushed past Seshmidze and climbed back up onto a veranda overlooking the town. To his surprise, he saw an elderly Farfolk bent over inspecting the shuttered construct that had chased them earlier in the day. The hexman shouted for the others and made his way over to the Farfolk and the Muse.

 

"Oi! Step away from the golem!" Ronald shouted excitedly, like a man coming to the end of a maze himself.

 

With a wrench in one hand and nothing in the other, the elderly man lifted his hands as best as one can expect from a man his age with a wrinkled smirk. The elderly man chose to tilt his head and peer one eye at the approaching hexman instead of turning to face him.

 

"And you are?" the Farfolk asked pointedly.

 

"I found the one who made the golem," Ronald ignored his question and spoke over him. The sagacious tinkerer huffed gently, wiping his own smirk and returning to Ronald a look of veiled derision as he mentioned, "Oh joy! There are more of you then." Marius climbed up a flight of stairs and drew close to Ronald and looked between the tinkerer and the tinkered with.

 

"Hello there," Marius offered in greeting.

 

"Barev dze would be the appropriate greeting, I can tell you lot aren't from here. . ," the Farfolk responded dryly.

 

"This golem, your leader knew nothing of it, who are you?" Ronald interrogated, an animated forefinger wagging towards the silent sentinel besides the Farfolk.

 

"My name is Tigranes the Architect. Until you tell me more about yourselves, we will have reached an impasse in which your questioning will find no answer."

 

Age sagged the visage of Tigranes, but what he lacked in facial expression he made up with sharp wit. His lips pulled back to reveal small set teeth, withered in years, but almost baring like a wolf of many years smart enough to know when to snarl, snap, or stand at attention. He tucked his hands in small stitched pockets upon his vest and held his head low as Ronald and Marius negotiated the impasse.

 

 

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Spoiler

Dope event and a blast to have ya'll come through @High_On_Math, @Jihnyny, @AgentofDeath13& sorry to miss you @Lulah& @Lockages

 

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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

"We fled terrors of terracotta bedecked in Qalashi calligraphy across mask and cuirass"

 

 

Two women reclined leisurely along a divan whose throws and pillows varied between ochre, violet, and lavender colors. They welcomed the merchant with a graceful beckoning, though instructed him to keep a few paces distance. He proffered mead for minas and gave enough drink to go around the three of them as they ended the transactional conversation and entered the deeper topics that sat on the merchant's mind as he stared across the towering belvederes and windcatchers. They exchanged names and continued on.

 

"You ladies enjoy a great deal of peace in what seems to me a relatively new settlement. The only town I thought would be in this part of the southern continent is Saqr to your south," Toorvuld quipped.

 

"Our hamlet is a new construction Toorvuld of Vistulia, the combined efforts of a number of peoples who thought they'd never end up in the same circumstance," Lita Cabellut remarked, she danced a forefinger between herself and her friend Zenobia, "She and I are from different nations, myself a Hyspian and dearest Zenobia a Farfolk."

 

Toorvuld looked the two over, Zenobia had a darker complexion than Lita and tighter coils to her hair whereas Lita appeared almost Heartlander save for the bronze tint to her skin. They both glared at Toorvuld with contempt and the merchant averted his glare. They must think me looking with lust. He cleared the air and cut through the tension with another question.

 

"How is it that the fates of these different peoples overlapped into one?"

 

Zenobia, ever the mute, drew a forefinger across a pillow tucked against her stomach as Lita delved into a lengthy answer.

 

"Merchant, our town came together from different strands of fate converging. For the Hyspians, our town of San Luciano wilted like a rose grown on poisoned soil as the old town rested atop an alchemist's undercity from which toxic gas frequently drifted through fissures in the earth. For the Farfolk, they are refugees from the old Temple of Chorasmia to the east when the foul magi Marib seized their leader Qahtan al-Habasha and slew him," Lita detailed. Toorvuld perked up at the mention of Chorasmia and Zenobia paused.

 

"I dare say we had vanquished Marib's students after they attempted to besiege the Vistulian Isles. They had an army wrought from river clay," Toorvuld exclaimed, pursing his lips after interrupting.

 

"Zenobia told me that Marib marched terracotta soldiers from hidden corridors in the temple bedecked in Qalashi calligraphy. Those who did not manage to escape were said to have been used as molds for other claymen though I know not if this is mere myth or honesty," Lita remembered. Zenobia nodded in agreement.

 

"The Mihyaari lost their town of Chaldees after the Pharoah's decree so few ventured to our town and the Southeron, fine sailors all, found us and the Dynasty Ilbagran settled with us. We have all had to adjust to such a mixing of cultures and mores, but we have found a rare peace this side of the South," Lita mused, lofting a hand in the air with a flourish.

 

All eyes turned before the flash of lightning that bolted across the sky and all ears heard the accompanying peal of thunder. A storm brewed above the Narrow Sea north of the hamlet and gathered together clouds like a woman gathering the hem of her dress before stepping across water. The three watched it scale eastward with shadows casting as the storm let loose its rain.

 

"Merchant, storms are a portent of ill and in these parts are stalked by perverse beings who surface and retreat from the waters. Be wary for we have suffered from these sorties from the sea."

 

Spoiler

Enjoyable visit @Vuurhavikand glad to see interactions! Major clues in this post for a side-event. 😉

 

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