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[5E] The Kalarian Precipice - Chapter One
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<blockquote data-quote="97mg" data-source="post: 7344127" data-attributes="member: 6799460"><p><strong>Pesserl: Black Stick</strong></p><p></p><p><strong>Kalair - The Great Tower</strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p>Kalair’s great tower was a feat in itself. A black hook-shaped mass formed from the very basalt of Marix’s southern shores, reaching out of the ground to tickle low-lying clouds. No mere mortal had built this. Somewhere back in time one could only imagine the violent geological forces that had shaped such birth. It had taken generations of masons, smiths and engineers to bring about the transformation. An entranceway had been chiseled out, then stairs, windows and rooms…</p><p></p><p>It was exactly one year ago that Richhild had stood upon the tower’s dizzying summit and placed his lips against an enormous device, the horn of an ancient sea-beast. The spiraling mass featured in many an old text, but even Kalair’s best historians still argued about the origins, especially how such an archeological find came to arrive on land, let alone how it might have been transported up the tower.</p><p></p><p>Richhild wouldn’t be kissing the end of a sea god’s protrusion today, and this pleased him. It had been nerve wracking in truth, naming the year that was soon to be concluded, The Year of Fruit. Hardly memorable or wrapped with mystery was it. Still, they’d had bumper crops and it had kept pastry-makers happy, and little folk healthy. The naming had occurred as always at the upper balcony, the first thing catching the sunlight had been an apricot tree…</p><p></p><p>“Black,” said Richhild.</p><p></p><p>It was tradition for last year’s spokesperson to select the next, at random, a wooden cup filled with painted sticks.</p><p></p><p>“Haha, you’re up, Pesserl,” a hairy dwarf proclaimed, offering the fellow councilor a firm slap on the back.</p><p></p><p>Poor old Pess was quite a sight to behold, he had only one arm for starters. The aged man was one of the council’s less pedestrian members. He was short and bald with deep set green eyes, a slow mover these days, and rather stinky given his choice to live as a recluse. But this was the council. All races and classes were to be represented, and of the latter he was certainly near the barrel’s lower scraping area. At least they didn’t know that the man’s thoughts were as dirty as his manner and garb. With any luck the year wouldn’t be named via an expletive. The dwarf might be though.</p><p></p><p>So well before dawn, up Pess went, alone, one doddery step after another, up and up the spiraling basalt steps lit with neatly spaced sconces along the way. He prepared himself for the work. </p><p></p><p><em>A short speech, close me eyes, stand, look out across the lands, and name the first thing that me thinks of, other than a man’s crotch or a woman’s teat.</em></p><p></p><p>He sniggered to himself.</p><p></p><p>Safely yet painfully the old bones carried him to the summit. Chest heaving, he coughed and spluttered in those final steps. A little rest, and then he put his mouth to the horn’s smaller orifice. Better get onto it then.</p><p></p><p>“Ahem.”</p><p></p><p> A pause.</p><p></p><p>“Kalair united. Me friends... I, Pesserl Furheim have been marked by ballot…”</p><p></p><p>He coughed again. </p><p></p><p>A few moments later he composed himself and resumed, “a servant of me people, and our council of peace, to name for you this day the year to come.”</p><p></p><p>The gruff tone of Pesserl’s voice boomed across the land. It is said the horn can be heard as far away as the southern hills! This was not the time to make oneself a fool.</p><p></p><p>He closed a pair of tired eyes, fighting an old man's desire to sleep. There was no hurry. He’d do this in his own time. The year would not begin until Pess said so, and thus empowered for the first time in his life, he'd let these moments linger.</p><p></p><p>To be continued.</p><p></p><p><Otiroth if you'd like to actively listen out and eavesdrop for interesting gossip and info, feel free to make a Perception check #d20+3 . Based on the roll I'll see what we can muster up <img src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" class="smilie smilie--sprite smilie--sprite1" alt=":)" title="Smile :)" loading="lazy" data-shortname=":)" /> ></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="97mg, post: 7344127, member: 6799460"] [b]Pesserl: Black Stick[/b] [B]Kalair - The Great Tower [/B] Kalair’s great tower was a feat in itself. A black hook-shaped mass formed from the very basalt of Marix’s southern shores, reaching out of the ground to tickle low-lying clouds. No mere mortal had built this. Somewhere back in time one could only imagine the violent geological forces that had shaped such birth. It had taken generations of masons, smiths and engineers to bring about the transformation. An entranceway had been chiseled out, then stairs, windows and rooms… It was exactly one year ago that Richhild had stood upon the tower’s dizzying summit and placed his lips against an enormous device, the horn of an ancient sea-beast. The spiraling mass featured in many an old text, but even Kalair’s best historians still argued about the origins, especially how such an archeological find came to arrive on land, let alone how it might have been transported up the tower. Richhild wouldn’t be kissing the end of a sea god’s protrusion today, and this pleased him. It had been nerve wracking in truth, naming the year that was soon to be concluded, The Year of Fruit. Hardly memorable or wrapped with mystery was it. Still, they’d had bumper crops and it had kept pastry-makers happy, and little folk healthy. The naming had occurred as always at the upper balcony, the first thing catching the sunlight had been an apricot tree… “Black,” said Richhild. It was tradition for last year’s spokesperson to select the next, at random, a wooden cup filled with painted sticks. “Haha, you’re up, Pesserl,” a hairy dwarf proclaimed, offering the fellow councilor a firm slap on the back. Poor old Pess was quite a sight to behold, he had only one arm for starters. The aged man was one of the council’s less pedestrian members. He was short and bald with deep set green eyes, a slow mover these days, and rather stinky given his choice to live as a recluse. But this was the council. All races and classes were to be represented, and of the latter he was certainly near the barrel’s lower scraping area. At least they didn’t know that the man’s thoughts were as dirty as his manner and garb. With any luck the year wouldn’t be named via an expletive. The dwarf might be though. So well before dawn, up Pess went, alone, one doddery step after another, up and up the spiraling basalt steps lit with neatly spaced sconces along the way. He prepared himself for the work. [I]A short speech, close me eyes, stand, look out across the lands, and name the first thing that me thinks of, other than a man’s crotch or a woman’s teat.[/I] He sniggered to himself. Safely yet painfully the old bones carried him to the summit. Chest heaving, he coughed and spluttered in those final steps. A little rest, and then he put his mouth to the horn’s smaller orifice. Better get onto it then. “Ahem.” A pause. “Kalair united. Me friends... I, Pesserl Furheim have been marked by ballot…” He coughed again. A few moments later he composed himself and resumed, “a servant of me people, and our council of peace, to name for you this day the year to come.” The gruff tone of Pesserl’s voice boomed across the land. It is said the horn can be heard as far away as the southern hills! This was not the time to make oneself a fool. He closed a pair of tired eyes, fighting an old man's desire to sleep. There was no hurry. He’d do this in his own time. The year would not begin until Pess said so, and thus empowered for the first time in his life, he'd let these moments linger. To be continued. <Otiroth if you'd like to actively listen out and eavesdrop for interesting gossip and info, feel free to make a Perception check #d20+3 . Based on the roll I'll see what we can muster up :) > [/QUOTE]
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