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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Journeyman" data-source="post: 1687189" data-attributes="member: 9958">Rain.  It fell in sheets tormenting the lands beneath its drenching weight and relentless mediocrity.  The lighting flashed and the thunder beckoned in vociferous echoes as the tones of Mishkali* and Azakriel*, in yet another celestial argument, made their displeasures known.      The storms moved across the northern plains of Rothloria with terrible swiftness, for the winds backing them would not slow their progress for any trivial need of sightseeing or leisurely saunters of normal west to east progression.  This was a storm with a purpose.  It was a storm intent on fulfilling prophecy and ushering in a new age on the Prime, even if those below, organic and inorganic both, did not know such a turn of events was taking shape.    The drought ending tempests moved ever southward, and upon finally meeting the superior temperate crosswinds, came to a deafening halt.  The storms fought their fates for a time before beginning to burn out over the course of the night.  However, for the citizens of the Kalimshirean District below, and the Wylds accompanying them, the drenching and unrelenting rains held in stasis above were a horrid omen indeed.    So began the Night of Eternum.  Many would look back on that storm with a longing for simpler times, perhaps as a moment where their lives may have taken a different course.  Yet the cogs of the mill stop for no mere wish of the teeth; the river moves inexorably on despite the protestations of her eddies and currents within.    Havenview weathered the night as best a small hamlet could in those days.  The Havenroot had overflowed its banks sometime around twilight flooding the cross haired main streets with a thin (yet rising) layer of muddy water.  Many of the torches and few streetlights lit at nightfall had long since guttered out despite the attempts of Robb Freemason to relight them.  Nights such as these made the Torchlighters a ruthless and thankless guild to owe one’s life too, yet the guildsman continued his ruined fight while curious townsfolk watched from the safety of their random homes or patron empty shops.    Kirian Starshine gazed too out of his favorite window behind the bar of the Haven’s Rest all the while drying the last pewter mug from a lunch that seemed far, too far, in the past.  Placing the used and quite spent washcloth under the counter top within its bucket of cleaning water, and without even pausing to think, he began preparing another round of full ale mugs for the overworked Kelsa to distribute to paying customers.  Why the citizens demanded to come and frequent his establishment on a night such as this was beyond him, but it made money and as a Founder* he was not about to disappoint.  Taking a deep breath, and filling the last mug full, Kirian noticed the humidity building in the room again.  Uttering a small cantrip under his breath he returned the balance of the common room’s dampness to a less oppressive weight, for now at least.  “My, my, my, but Robb is going to catch fever out in that tempest.” Kirian mused as he observed the Torchlighter wander by, curses muted by the thick pained window.  Hazel Elven eyes reflecting back at him, Kirian began to worry at his Irti* wondering whether the storm was an omen, or simply answers to the many overheard prayers of his patrons wishing for water and rain to end the recent rash of droughts.  Whatever its cause, this storm’s nature was unlike the greater majority the mage had witnessed in his long Elven life.  Storms very rarely lingered with such intensity for so long a time.  If the drenching torrents did not fizzle out or move their anger on soon, Eredricht was going to have his poor hands full.  He would need to make a note of this night in his journal for sure the mage contemplated.That last thought jarred him, for of all of Havenview’s populace not to have shown up in the Rest on a night such as this, Eredricht was the last man Kirian would have placed upon a list detailing such.  As the small township’s Knight Appointed Commission, and as acting sheriff, the middle aged human would do well by calming, greeting, and mingling with the slew of townsfolk hunkered down for a long night of drinking and carousing here.  Not that this was the best evening Kirian had managed to arrange for entertainment.The Nobae* peered through squinted eyes at the disaster taking place on the stage opposite his position in the common room.  What could only be described as a self-made shell of a charlatan was currently attempting to amuse Kirian’s customers with a claim of creating a magical talking cane of high intelligence.  While patrons shuffled their feet across the straw covered floor, dug at ear wax, or picked at their food, this Ike, as he named himself, motioned and gestured like a flailing and off balance amateur tight rope artist.  Kirian could understand why Ike’s small halfling assistant, sitting on the stage’s edge nearly out of sight, was attempting to hide a grimace of self-loathing.  Then the halfling’s hands began to move.  In a series of gestures nearly concealed from Kirian’s trained eyes, the smallman cast a spell.The Talking Stick of Iridar, for Ike had so gloriously named it, began to speak in a slow and deliberate speech all the while glowing with a ruddy, red light.    “I am the great cane of Iridar!  Fear my wrath and heed my master’s needs!”,   issued the obvious attempt at ventriloquism.  A patron in the back of the room guffawed.  An apple core flew, true to its wielders aim, right into the forehead of poor Ike’s braincase.  As Ike, startled, dropped the “The Great Cane” patrons mocked and jeered having finally found an outlet for their qualms concerning the tempest outside.  Yet, as Kirian helped his sole barmaid Kelsa balance a new round of twelve pints on a platter, he couldn’t help but frown himself when the young halfling, attempting to distract the crowd back to the cane, caught the small device on fire with a carefully obscured cantrip.  Freshly laid, and quite tender, straw began to smolder.    “Nobody is better than somebody when it comes to entertainment!”  Kirian muttered as he pushed his way through the bemused spectators to douse the small fire with the bucket of cleaning water from his earlier exploits.  He nearly threw the remaining liquid over the embarrassed Ike, but remembering his composure simply gave the simpleton one of his region famous stares of contempt while returning to his bar-side post.  Traveling showmen would have a hard time in the future convincing Kirian, even when desperate, that they were able to pull off unrehearsed performances of any quality.    “Kelsa!  I’m going to check on Tobin in the yard.  You’re in charge, set Ike down at a table in back, and by Nefrotis we shall have a less than disastrous evening by my return.” were the words flying from the mage, turned innkeeper’s, mouth as he exited through the kitchen door.  Sympathetic townsfolk began to sing inn songs to make the room less oppressive, and so it was that Randall Scarbrough and Tess found the Haven’s Rest upon their inauspicious arrival.  * Mishkali, Mithangeean goddess of storms, is a minor goddess aligned with chaos and neutrality.*Azakriel, Mithangeean god of nature, is a minor god aligned with neutrality and good.*A Founder is the term in Rothloria given to a settled adventurer commissioned by the Senate to found a new township, or take over governing of an existing one.*An Irti is a tightly braided piece of hair signifying a Nobae’s profession as a practitioner of magic.*A Nobae is my term for wood elf.</blockquote>

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