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Gellor's Blog

January 28th, 2021

Chords in the Rift, Pt 2

Bucolic… was that the right word? It seemed critical to him that he used a good term. He knew, at least, that he was a bard, and that such things were important to bards.

Bucolic… The word simply seemed to have a tinge of the negative. Maybe that came from the disconnection he’d felt from the world around him, as if the air itself felt guilty touching him. He imagined a kingfisher suddenly finding itself on a mountain peak: bewildered, cold, dizzy, curious. The image felt apt.

But bucolic seemed to fit the village just as aptly. It had a few crisscrossing cobblestone streets, through the town square marked by a temple of bleached stone, but the rest were dirt paths tamped hard by the footsteps of laden workers. There were thatched houses, a pair of wells built of rough-hewn stone, and up a twisting path lined by blue-flowering shrubs stood a sturdy manor house of more coarse, grey masonry. Were he to choose a song for the place, the notes would be low and long of bass and high of a twittering flute...

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January 28th, 2021

Hearth's Fall (RP Intro)

[This is an RP intro for the second character I have planned to create in Rift]


The dust was the worst of it.

The shaking and rumbling of the caverns was a distraction, but the deep caverns and holds of Earthmarrow were not strangers to these. No dwarf worth his hammer or her axe dreaded quakes for their own sake. It was an ancient point of honor to build and carve one’s home to be immune to the worst of the effects, and every shaking of the world brought with it the potential for new lodes. Yet the shocks they now felt were not natural, but rather were potent reminders of the siege machines and foul magics that doggedly tore at their home.

The stench of the air, for certain, tugged at the soul with acrid hooks. Every waft carried reminders of the sacrifices of the clan: the metallic tang of blood, the putrescence of corpses, the pungent smell of pitch-fueled torches, and the musky stench of goblins. It had been a pestilence of goblin-reek for weeks, falling heavily through airshafts, pooling in corners where rent flesh laid upon bare rock, and suffusing chambers that had once been warm, cheerful homes...

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January 28th, 2021

Chords in the Rift (RP Intro)

Five sharp notes carried out over the lake.

Born of an aged and antiqued mandolin they were. The notes seemed to hover for a moment over the water’s chop, stirred by the zephyr, before dissipating into echo and the wind’s deep whistle.

By the lake’s edge, under a stout and rough-barked tree, sat the man who cradled the instrument as if it were a slumbering child. His face was yet young, if the still-smooth features and the thin beard were to be trusted, but a few strands of grey had crept into his forelocks, and his fingertips were well calloused.

His cape was an earthen brown, and his pants and jerkin were of deep greens, so he almost melded into the scene. Almost. His boots were city-make, black and red and gaudy in the fashion of foppish townies. The cloak was held at his neck by a brooch of brass, and upon it was embossed a device: a spoked wheel backing an angular rune.

Several of his songs spoke of the device, but none clearly, as if listeners were meant but to know and be reminded of it...

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