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<blockquote data-quote="ThirdWizard" data-source="post: 6636958" data-attributes="member: 12037"><p>Factotum Berroda’s office smelled of soot. The coals of her own personal forge glowed in the dim light of the room, a small one but with a heat that could never quite be quenched. Still, she didn’t really use it that often. She just liked to look at it, to smell it, said it reminded her of who she was and what she coudl be. At the moment, the bariaur Factotum stood looking into it, Mozzy seated behind her, uncomfortable. Berroda was aging, her hair and fur turning gray and she wasn’t quite as muscular as she had been thirty years ago in her youth, her hammer now traded for a quill and ink. The Godsman had been looking into the glowing coals for a full three minutes now after Mozzy had explained what happened and asked her question. At this point, Mozzy wasn’t sure if her boss’s boss was looking to answer her question at all. After all, this was generally outside the responsibilities of Mozzy’s rank, that of a simple Namer. If she didn’t get any answers from her faction, though, she might have to drop the entire investigation, let others take care of the murders of her own faction members. At least two of the Anarchists she knew to still be alive. As long as they lived, and as long as what they wanted was still out there, the attacks could continue. She needed information if she were to proceed. She needed Berroda to trust her. So, she remained silent and waited patiently.</p><p></p><p>At last, the Factotum turned, looking back into Mozzy’s eyes, nodded, and then turned away again toward the embers. “Thram Kip. I was hoping that the name wouldn’t have gotten around. But, when you put someone in Harbinger House, I suppose you expect some rumors.” Berroda trotted behind her desk and sat down, pulling out a thin stack of formerly loose papers all bound together into a sort of ad hoc booklet. On the cover was written “The Sounding Stone” in some of the finest penmanship that Mozzy had ever seen. “This is our entire knowledge base on what Kip was working on, a theory as to the inception of a planar oddity known as the sounding stone. It represents none of his actual work and only information on the stones that was collected previous to his research being conducted. In it are accounts of the powers of these stones, which Kip to my knowledge was the first to piece together. At least, he was the first to create an account of them that realized there was more than one.” Berroda watched Mozzy carefully as she talked. Mozzy listened intently.</p><p></p><p>“A sounding stone is a thing,” Berroda paused, “not necessarily a stone. A person keeps it on them, and the sounding stone becomes an echo of their deepest beliefs. Eventually, it collects those beliefs enough to make them true in some way. The person has no way to influence how this effect manifests. They just have the satisfaction of knowing that their beliefs will become real.”</p><p></p><p>Mozzy nodded, her eyes widening.</p><p></p><p>Berroda turned to one of the pages in the makeshift book. This one was a dirty leather page, written in by a some kind of burning process. Mozzy didn’t recognize the script. “<em>The Tale of The Sword of Namshel</em> is one such instance. Namshel was a devotee of Pelor who fought against the tides of evil. For him, the sounding stone took the form of a citrine, which he used as the centerpiece of his holy symbol: the sun from which Pelor’s holy light emanated. His lot in life was to fight baatezu, which he did with great fervor. His most hated enemy was a cornugon of great intellect and deceit named Brigak. The two squared off, finally, in the pits of Baator. In that battle, all of his companions lost their lives, and he was thrown to the ground. Brigak gloated over his battered body. That is when Namshel’s holy symbol glowed with a brilliant light that stunned the baatezu. When the light subsided, Namshel was holding a sword glowling with an amber light, and fully healed. The devil died that day.” </p><p></p><p>Berroda slowly turned the leather page, using great delicacy. Mozzy could tell that the page was old, possibly ancient. Berroda let her finger glide across the page, coming to a stopping point a few lines down. She frowned as she read the next part.</p><p></p><p>“Namshel retired after that. The physical trauma took its toll, and he built a new grand temple, teaching of Pelor to many who came to hear his tale. Upon his death it was said that the holy sword spoke. What it said is passed down within what is now referred to as the Order of Namshel. The fate of the sword, like the words it uttered, has been lost to time.”</p><p></p><p>“Do you know where this temple is?” asked Mozzy.</p><p></p><p>Berroda looked up. “We’ve searched, but found nothing, only rumor.”</p><p></p><p>“It’s an amazing story. And… its true?”</p><p></p><p>“According to Thram. And, he is meticulous. If he says it’s true, I believe him.”</p><p></p><p>Mozzy nodded considering. Thram Kip. He was recently an up and comer, destined to be the next Factol some said. Now apparently he was in Harbinger House, a place she had only heard about in whisper. She wasn’t sure what it was, but Berroda had said the name like she was talking about more than a simple building. That matched what little she knew about it.</p><p></p><p>While Mozzy thought, Berroda turned to another page. This script was in Common printed with a fine hand upon good paper that was still white and crisp. It looked recently written with a meticulous hand. “This is taken from an oral story of an anonymous Bleaker that is spoken of in the Hive. For him, the sounding stone took the form of a round pebble, which he had affixed to a silver necklace he wore at all times. The tales do not mention his name, but he ran the soup kitchen for the Gatehouse at one point in the not-so-distant past.”</p><p></p><p>Mozzy glanced down at the page. There was a picture of the necklace that Berroda had mentioned. It didn’t look like anything special. Truly important things rarely did.</p><p></p><p>Berroda continued reading. “This man believed that all could be redeemed, that if one accepted their fate, their place in the Multiverse, that they could then overcome that which held them back whatever it may be. If one understood that there was no point to anything, and that desire was a futility, that people’s minds would no longer be troubled. This is the basic tenet of the Bleak Cabal. One day, just like any other, the pebble on his chain cracked and broke in two. At first the man was dismayed, believing that he had done something wrong. However, a miraculous thing happened. Many of the insane started making sense. They didn’t seem crazy anymore. Over the next few days, the Bleakers started releasing those within the Gatehouse in droves, many of those released joining the Bleak Cabal Faction. For a single day, there were no inmates in the entire asylum. The Gatehouse emptied. Records corroborate this information, and it seems this happened roughly three hundred and forty years ago, give or take. The name of the Bleaker, however, is lost to time.”</p><p></p><p>“And that story-” began Mozzy</p><p></p><p>“Has been verified against official Bleak Cabal records, though not through official channels.” Berroda closed the book “And, those are but two stories that Thram was able to piece together. There are many more.”</p><p></p><p>Mozzy felt like she should say something about the implications, but she was floored by the idea that this was possible. Did such things really exist? What would happen if the Revolutionary League were to get their hands on some of these stones? How should she respond? She decided to just say the first thing that popped into her head after hearing that. “What can I do?”</p><p></p><p>Berroda smiled. “There is something we would like to get our hands on that we’ve let lie for too long now.”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ThirdWizard, post: 6636958, member: 12037"] Factotum Berroda’s office smelled of soot. The coals of her own personal forge glowed in the dim light of the room, a small one but with a heat that could never quite be quenched. Still, she didn’t really use it that often. She just liked to look at it, to smell it, said it reminded her of who she was and what she coudl be. At the moment, the bariaur Factotum stood looking into it, Mozzy seated behind her, uncomfortable. Berroda was aging, her hair and fur turning gray and she wasn’t quite as muscular as she had been thirty years ago in her youth, her hammer now traded for a quill and ink. The Godsman had been looking into the glowing coals for a full three minutes now after Mozzy had explained what happened and asked her question. At this point, Mozzy wasn’t sure if her boss’s boss was looking to answer her question at all. After all, this was generally outside the responsibilities of Mozzy’s rank, that of a simple Namer. If she didn’t get any answers from her faction, though, she might have to drop the entire investigation, let others take care of the murders of her own faction members. At least two of the Anarchists she knew to still be alive. As long as they lived, and as long as what they wanted was still out there, the attacks could continue. She needed information if she were to proceed. She needed Berroda to trust her. So, she remained silent and waited patiently. At last, the Factotum turned, looking back into Mozzy’s eyes, nodded, and then turned away again toward the embers. “Thram Kip. I was hoping that the name wouldn’t have gotten around. But, when you put someone in Harbinger House, I suppose you expect some rumors.” Berroda trotted behind her desk and sat down, pulling out a thin stack of formerly loose papers all bound together into a sort of ad hoc booklet. On the cover was written “The Sounding Stone” in some of the finest penmanship that Mozzy had ever seen. “This is our entire knowledge base on what Kip was working on, a theory as to the inception of a planar oddity known as the sounding stone. It represents none of his actual work and only information on the stones that was collected previous to his research being conducted. In it are accounts of the powers of these stones, which Kip to my knowledge was the first to piece together. At least, he was the first to create an account of them that realized there was more than one.” Berroda watched Mozzy carefully as she talked. Mozzy listened intently. “A sounding stone is a thing,” Berroda paused, “not necessarily a stone. A person keeps it on them, and the sounding stone becomes an echo of their deepest beliefs. Eventually, it collects those beliefs enough to make them true in some way. The person has no way to influence how this effect manifests. They just have the satisfaction of knowing that their beliefs will become real.” Mozzy nodded, her eyes widening. Berroda turned to one of the pages in the makeshift book. This one was a dirty leather page, written in by a some kind of burning process. Mozzy didn’t recognize the script. “[I]The Tale of The Sword of Namshel[/I] is one such instance. Namshel was a devotee of Pelor who fought against the tides of evil. For him, the sounding stone took the form of a citrine, which he used as the centerpiece of his holy symbol: the sun from which Pelor’s holy light emanated. His lot in life was to fight baatezu, which he did with great fervor. His most hated enemy was a cornugon of great intellect and deceit named Brigak. The two squared off, finally, in the pits of Baator. In that battle, all of his companions lost their lives, and he was thrown to the ground. Brigak gloated over his battered body. That is when Namshel’s holy symbol glowed with a brilliant light that stunned the baatezu. When the light subsided, Namshel was holding a sword glowling with an amber light, and fully healed. The devil died that day.” Berroda slowly turned the leather page, using great delicacy. Mozzy could tell that the page was old, possibly ancient. Berroda let her finger glide across the page, coming to a stopping point a few lines down. She frowned as she read the next part. “Namshel retired after that. The physical trauma took its toll, and he built a new grand temple, teaching of Pelor to many who came to hear his tale. Upon his death it was said that the holy sword spoke. What it said is passed down within what is now referred to as the Order of Namshel. The fate of the sword, like the words it uttered, has been lost to time.” “Do you know where this temple is?” asked Mozzy. Berroda looked up. “We’ve searched, but found nothing, only rumor.” “It’s an amazing story. And… its true?” “According to Thram. And, he is meticulous. If he says it’s true, I believe him.” Mozzy nodded considering. Thram Kip. He was recently an up and comer, destined to be the next Factol some said. Now apparently he was in Harbinger House, a place she had only heard about in whisper. She wasn’t sure what it was, but Berroda had said the name like she was talking about more than a simple building. That matched what little she knew about it. While Mozzy thought, Berroda turned to another page. This script was in Common printed with a fine hand upon good paper that was still white and crisp. It looked recently written with a meticulous hand. “This is taken from an oral story of an anonymous Bleaker that is spoken of in the Hive. For him, the sounding stone took the form of a round pebble, which he had affixed to a silver necklace he wore at all times. The tales do not mention his name, but he ran the soup kitchen for the Gatehouse at one point in the not-so-distant past.” Mozzy glanced down at the page. There was a picture of the necklace that Berroda had mentioned. It didn’t look like anything special. Truly important things rarely did. Berroda continued reading. “This man believed that all could be redeemed, that if one accepted their fate, their place in the Multiverse, that they could then overcome that which held them back whatever it may be. If one understood that there was no point to anything, and that desire was a futility, that people’s minds would no longer be troubled. This is the basic tenet of the Bleak Cabal. One day, just like any other, the pebble on his chain cracked and broke in two. At first the man was dismayed, believing that he had done something wrong. However, a miraculous thing happened. Many of the insane started making sense. They didn’t seem crazy anymore. Over the next few days, the Bleakers started releasing those within the Gatehouse in droves, many of those released joining the Bleak Cabal Faction. For a single day, there were no inmates in the entire asylum. The Gatehouse emptied. Records corroborate this information, and it seems this happened roughly three hundred and forty years ago, give or take. The name of the Bleaker, however, is lost to time.” “And that story-” began Mozzy “Has been verified against official Bleak Cabal records, though not through official channels.” Berroda closed the book “And, those are but two stories that Thram was able to piece together. There are many more.” Mozzy felt like she should say something about the implications, but she was floored by the idea that this was possible. Did such things really exist? What would happen if the Revolutionary League were to get their hands on some of these stones? How should she respond? She decided to just say the first thing that popped into her head after hearing that. “What can I do?” Berroda smiled. “There is something we would like to get our hands on that we’ve let lie for too long now.” [/QUOTE]
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