cometking123

I feel bad when the solution is to create a modreq or DM'ing a GM as someone else within the community suggested doing. I'm sure there's a historical issue as to why this was needed, but I do believe 5 hours is quite severe. Maybe reduce it down to two hours?

Death is but an end of watch To witness what others could not To defend the nation with body and soul. Even as time took its heavy toll that seeped through bone A lifetime of service, past three of Horen's finest. Restorer, Conqueror, and newly crowned. Watch within those sturdy walls, And see the seeds you've guarded bear fruit. A century served under Imperium's Eye Darkspawn, Mages, and beasts defied. Yet when you enter Rittersberg's square. You'll see his visage still standing tall.

Sought high and low this bat in autumnal capitol. When in sight of Malachael tw'as spotted and the knights assembled. Surrounded by sword and spear wounds inflicted. In response with winged speed did demon offer grievous blow. From a squire hellspawn's flesh bruised with stamp of aurum. Where upon its hand hellfire danced in fist and palm. Surrounded by many it yelled with rage and curses on its lips And shambled to the sacred tree to raze sacred symbol Were it not for the efforts of druid's tapestry in a quilt of vines Was the final ploy of this demon removed Calandril' spared the fate of kindling and dusty ash. In sight of silver leaves its head was held aloft.

Rewan parsed through the issue as he looks upon the section noting most unruly feud between publications most genteel. "Mm. I'd hate for Lady and Gentlemen both to be pitted against each other."

To be a Gentlemen, the balance between listening and speaking is two to one? Were that the case, this bard'd be a borish brute. I must adjust my tendencies...

Fine friend! Yes, you in the rather striking garb! How glad to see a friendly face in these times. Come inside and warm up thy hackles by the hearth. Take a break reviewing the missives o’ the world and the musings of Skygods and Monks. And look there: a bard comes with tale most exciting! This tale begins upon the Southern Shore of white cliffs and rolling plain, where ocean gave way to Valwyck’s hounds. A band of Darkspawn roamed through the lands searching for prey along the roads. As they combed the land for easy prey, they came upon a bard named Rewan and an elf named Tivu. One lived as a nomad living hand to mouth, and the other a sickly elf afflicted with spasm. Affirming their status as most succulent morsel, the pair were whisked away to location unknown by bony steeds. Rewan Talespinner looked upon the crypt he found himself in. His limbs were bound by ghouls of motley and knights of shadow, and a putrid stench gained purchase within his clothes. Were he to tell Merle or Salem of the situation he found himself in, they would chide the bard for being “too brash and reckless”. He looked around and saw an equation that divine interdiction could not overcome. 3 jesters, 2 knights, 1 horror, 0 weapons; what can one do against those odds? They murmured and laughed awaiting someone in hushed whispers. One in motley garb procured a mirror and preened. What can he do to avert his death? He tried to ingratiate himself to the rider that hauled him here to this wasteland. They left as soon as they reached the entrance. He sang and sang for the jesters hoping that they would show him favor. Through mountains tall and icy forest the only reward received was a miserly flower. Every avenue and option to keep a bard around vanished, and as he looked around for anything he could say, anyone he could vouch for him. As his eyes darted around, he looked to see his fellow prisoner. A thought percolated from his desperate mind. “Do I know him?” The thought faded as he entered the room. His presence swallowed the room as the infernal troupe. As all bowed out of reverence, Rewan and the prisoner kneeled out of fear. The way it wormed into his heart was total. Hadrian the Uniter sowed fear during court with naught but single eye. With this regent, he shook from primal fear. “Hold firm, if you wish to survive the coming hour.” Meeting his eyes, Rewan was gifted a dream. The bard’s throat moved chords together to form spoken word before … Rewan opened his eyes. Pain racked deep in his bones, and his mind was filled with something that, for the first time in his life, he could not find the words to. As he tried to bring himself to his knees. All in the crypt looked to the dream-giver for a verdict. “Galbatorix, bring this one up to The Tree,” the dream-giver said simply, and one came forward to guide him away from fellow prisoner. “As for you. . .” His eyes looked to the masked elf. “You fail to impress me. . .” “Dark Herald, see to use this fleshling as you desire” The elf offered a final plea that surprised him as he was escorted away: “Live Rewan. Live.” “Follow me before you lose the opportunity” the armored knight garbled, and Rewan followed, but not before craning his head to look back. Waiting in the wings, the fools in motley danced with glee. The shadows grew larger, and muted light was offered from the multitude of candles lit along the stairs. The elf disappeared from view. The threshold into the cloisters was crossed by prisoner and guard, and he found himself in front of an altar. Behind it was a tree of darkwood engraved with mottled bones and sap-like ichor. The dream-giver stood there wordlessly before offering the bard a question. “What is it that hungers within you...” the regent asked. He could not find the words. The hunger that came from pillaged harvest and empty stores? It was bearable, however difficult. The hunger of finding purpose through the art of song? It would not suffice here. Answer after answer was cut down by those eyes. The truth was that he could not find the words to form a response. “I saw the vision and I c-couldn't think o…of the words.” He meekly responded. “You do not need words, child.” “What you need is will.” “Will to consume and conquer your hunger.” “Will to dominate and control” “Will to rebel against what others would call The Light.” “W-WIll. I-I can consume! I-I-I can do all of it! All of it!” “Live Rewan. Live.” the words echoed. He would. He will. What choice did he have but to accept the offer? “We shall see…” Black lightning was wielded within his hands before it struck Rewan. Coursing through every pore it seemed to ebb and flow between contemptuous torrent and unending storm. The nerves in his body did not follow his will; it danced for another. In his soul something was gifted and something taken away, and in deference to his station, time seemed to meander as torment was inflicted. When it finally ended, an expression of agony was duplicated upon his chest, a sign of the wound inflicted upon body and soul. “Release this one into the wilds. Let the Rimeglem be the forge to harden what remains.” Every step made his body shudder and cry for relief as he walked down the stairs. His eyes focused on the fellow prisoner lying on the ground. He could not determine whether he was alive or not, but the spasms seemed to stop for him. The door opened where they came in, and he looked behind one more time. The butterflies that fluttered around the masked elf laid on the floor around him. He drank in the sight before a large wall of blackstone closed off the chamber. Rewan noticed only then that the butterfly's wings did not move. ============= He could hear his voice echo behind him as he walked forward. He remembered part of the route to get back from long ago. Was it the delirium of the mind? Was it the eldritch seal engraved upon his chest? He could not hear anything save for sleet and snow. Pain consumed every step and breath he took. It is a tragedy. Rewan Talespinner was a bard who wasted every opportunity given to him. Invited to ply his craft in Imperial Court and the most popular tavern for leagues around, he instead lazed around and drank himself to muted joy and stupor. You are wrong. The time wasn’t right… Rewan Talespinner who ingratiated himself with all sorts of folk, highborn and lowborn. He followed their rise from peasant to lord, crafting stories from fallen crumbs and morsels left behind. You’re wrong. They are my friends and I wanted to help them become known! The bard who seeks to have the realm notice his skills, but when he tries to do something good, it always fails. You led the bounty hunters to Aelwyn where you were trapped in slime as others fought. You led them there where everyone could have suffered a fate worse than death. I did not help them! They...they simply... Rewan Talespinner, a judge of bad character and a fool. Who stood aside as your Dwarven and Orcish friends lost their homeland? You simply used them to procure tale and story before leaving them to wander penniless like yourself. I could not do anything! The Empire is so large that I… Rewan Talespinner, content to catalog but never impose. You told stories of myths to the Lord of Stars, only to see him fall as Crimson Comet did in crowded square. You remember those eyes that recognize you as he walked to the gallows? He would be dead with or without me! If fate wil- Wills it? You never chose a side. You would not have had the chance to change the lives of others. You lack the willpower to even consider defying the path laid before you. If a dice roll determines your death, you could not defy it, can you? I could! Life is just around the corner. I can live and be off this blasted island! Rewan Talespinner of five-and-fifty years. A liar with lyre much like your father. When people ask the qualities of Rewan Talespinner, it is determined by the abstract, not the concrete. He sings stories. He brings joy and levity. It is wind, words. I do this because it is my craft! Who are y- You are penniless because you lack the will to apply yourself. You are without true friendship because you lack the will to even try. You are not content because you favor inaction and are paralyzed by it. What is the term for someone who preys on the misfortune on others, much like you procure stories by waiting for clerics, paladins, merchants, kings, friends to meet unfortunate end? A LEECH. I was given one more chance. One! I can do better...BE better. You will waste it like all the other chances. You abhor bardmancy because it dulls the skills. Have you ever considered that you avoided it because of the chance that you yourself would fail? Your talent is wasted on pride, and what do you have to show for it? Salem chose to be a bard AND a warrior. You could have been a bard AND more. What a waste. The gulf that separated the island and jagged cliffs was before him. He didn't hear the voice now, for the gusts of wind and the roaring tide was all he heard. He determined that this would not break him. He would not let himself die here. He would be better, a changed man. He would go out of his way to help people and offer people the money he never had. He would rid himself of this thing on his chest. An expression of agony, with the right tale, could turn into jubilant with a jest or tale. He willed himself to smile as he looked down into the frigid waters. “Live Rewan. Live.” He jumped. ============ ADDENDUM A flower offered for favored patron in empty crypt. The winds and waves that swallowed a Captain of Ink and Vines. The teenage youth who applied to clinic’s errands. The clear eyed orc who dreamed of knighthood. The scent of wine that smelled of fruits in moonlit night. From puppet’s wielder the metallic sound of offered coin. Every meeting and parting felt hollow to him after a brief moment of joy. He saw in Adria butterflies of yellow hue that once floated around his fellow prisoner. He disappeared after noticing them dance around a white-cloaked frame. ============ The cruelest cut of all to this tale was unnoticed by the bard himself. He did not realize his fellow prisoner was one he knew before. How they roamed around Rittersberg, three mice following upon his shoulder. How they watched a play of Alba about the King that destroyed a city out of jealousy. The way he introduced his parents in the city of Adria. The glances and greetings in Aelwyn where he called home. The way Rewan’s face fell crestfallen when he heard of the abuse at surveyor’s hand. CLEMENT. The spasms, the butterflies, the golden mask. How could he have known? He did not realize that the memory he had of bespectacled elf was warped by time. The ailment that beguiled Rewan in the future was already determined by fate’s guiding hand; Memories would be mixed and drift away like passing showers. The multitudes of “fine friends” was to hide the fact that he did not remember names as ably as he did so long ago. The way Rewan accepted the past and discarded the present was noticed by some, but not all. As the years moved unyielding, days that once sustained him did not fill him so. The performance given to obscure the void worked well, save for a moment shared in Rittersberg’s clinic with maddened soul. The libraries did not speak of the ailment he held. The poor bard asked folk discreetly, only to be offered quizzical stares. Did they notice? How he seemed to offer only saccharine musings? The days seems to fold together into that dreadful dream again, and the sensation of doubt and agony remained branded on his chest. ============ Sun and moon danced, and the world was filled with vistas vibrant. The harvest came and went with season’s passing. The Crownland forest passed him by, and the silver pines stretched to touch the northern lights. After arduous journey and empty nights, I found myself again at Sepulcher’s Doors.

I wander to and fro as humble bard But the Pour House's a place I can always call home! A tavern, daycare, and fine stage housed in one. Four finest walls offered now to prospective owner! Purveyor of spirits fine and lord of revels the titles offered. A heavy mantle for the next master of humble tavern! Behind the counter two mayors raised from middling station. Send the missive dear friends; be a guide for louts and drunkards!

Rewan is despondent upon hearing about the death of Obok Metaldrinks. The bard sang a small repose for departed friend. Silence loomed from the tent where Rewan sat. Everyday he looked out from realm's stage, only to see favored patrons leave one by one. How cruel is it that Horen's curse struck him slow, while a friend of many years falls to unknown cause. His chest ached both with grief and the Gravelord's "gift" that drank the sorrow with glee. As the sun came up, the Talespinner rode. Horse and rider entered the abandoned city where the cavern walls seemed to swallow them whole. They navigated past rotting barricades and empty tavern, past abandoned stalls and unlit pyres. Leaving the steed behind, Rewan entered the crypts where the darkness beckoned. The dead laid in chiseled repose as Rewan scanned with torchlight an empty tomb. Offering flowers and a bottle of ale in the indentation, he stood there with tears in his eyes. He would like it, Rewan mused, that he be here with his kin. Where marble knew not the name of favored son, spoken word shall have to do. "To Obok Metaldrinks."

IMPERIAL PROCLAMATION A CALL FOR JOURNALISTS Issued and averred by the office of, His Excellency, Jerome Halcourt af Brasca, Imperial Reeve 7th of Owyn’s Light, 644 AA ✠ HEED, LEAL SONS OF HOREN; Attention, fine citizens of the Imperium! The Imperial Gazette is set to be reinstated, and new editions of the newspaper shall become available for your reading pleasure. In order to make the Gazette the premier publication that you seek out for all your journalistic needs, this missive is published in order to inform you that the Gazette is hiring. For those interested in educating people in their fields or in making their thoughts and insights known to a wider audience, read further! Our paper is happy to offer a space for your words to be seen across the realms. As part of our publication, we are looking to expand coverage of topics. These include the following topics found in previous editions and of particular interest to the common folk of the Empire, such as: ✠ Horoscopes, Fortune Telling ✠ The Jousting and Melee Circuit ✠ Natural Sciences and Alchemy ✠ The Written and Spoken Arts ✠ Economy, Trade, and Foreign Affairs ✠ Interviews, Discussions, and Musings ✠ Politics, Elections, and Governance ✠ Opinion Pieces Is your interest or topic that you wish to write about not found in the above list? Please reach out to the Imperial Reeve for advice and consultation on any topic that will bolster the body of work our citizens will enjoy. Please note that all columns, articles, and stories are subject to approval by the Reeve’s Office. Interested applicants for columns or willing to act as reporters, interviewers, and writers under the purview of this illustrious publication may write a letter of interest to the Director of News of the Office of Civil Affairs, Mister Rewan Talespinner (IGN: cometking123), and arrange for an interview within the Imperial Gazette Offices at Winburgh Court 1. AVE IMPERIUM H V M A N I T A S I N V I C T A HIS EXCELLENCY, Ezra de Senna, Imperial Vice Chancellor, Count of Edessa. HIS EXCELLENCY, Jerome Halcourt af Brasca, Imperial Reeve. MISTER, Rewan Talespinner, Director of News, Imperial Gazette.