Reply to thread

Message

<blockquote data-quote="Manbearcat" data-source="post: 6608813" data-attributes="member: 6696971">The young man dies as peacefully as a nasty sucking chest wound will allow.&nbsp; His eyes flash with their dieing light.&nbsp; His body caries on it's futile efforts to live after the soul has fled.&nbsp; Then it ceases completely.&nbsp; Perhaps you give him some solace with your requiem for the repose of his soul.&nbsp; Maybe one day you'll know.Rawr looks at you when you address him and then turns to regard the distance forlornly.&nbsp; It is quiet save for the wind.&nbsp; And it is very cold.&nbsp; White covers the ground everywhere.&nbsp; Again, this is like the Hindu Kush mountain range or NE Afghanistan and the people of the highlands and Giliad's Rest are basically the equivalent of our world's Pashtuns...in complexion, culture, and disposition.&nbsp; Their world has been a harsh one.&nbsp; They have been steeled by the elements, a tight culture that has perfected the art of living in such an inhospitable realm, and by their violent history in order to survive it.When you and Rawr set out, a light snow flurry dusts the air before and all around you.&nbsp; The trail is not a difficult one to follow as everywhere else it is extraordinarily dangerous or outright impossible passage.&nbsp; Your sense direction tells you that you are ascending on a due northerly course.&nbsp; After a winding ascent of thirty minutes, the trail ends at the edge of a rise.&nbsp; As you approach the edge, your nose, eyes, and throat become suddenly irritated.&nbsp; You feel a wave of warmth and your nose takes in the distinct smell of sulfur.You hear the sounds of children (10) laughing and splashing in water while their mothers (3) playfully scold them.&nbsp; The rise gives way to a drop some forty feet below you that must be hand climbed or rappelled down.&nbsp; The women are washing linens in hot springs and singing songs.&nbsp; While their dialect of the Common tongue is a bit rough for you at first, the vernacular is not beyond your means.&nbsp; Their songs venerate the Elder Primal Spirit of Fate and Uncertainty.&nbsp; Those of an optimistic bent venerate her as Grandmother Spider.&nbsp; These are not those songs.&nbsp; This particular ode is to the Fate Weaver and is about her impartiality in the affairs of mortals...about her indifference to their plight.&nbsp; It is a song of self-reliance, of pride in the understanding that there is an organization to existence at all and that they have a role to play, however meager.They are unguarded, but the women all have spears within hand's reach.&nbsp; These are not soft city-folk.&nbsp; Any one of these women would slay a good-sized boar with no trouble...and three apiece if their little ones were threatened.</blockquote>

[QUOTE="Manbearcat, post: 6608813, member: 6696971"] The young man dies as peacefully as a nasty sucking chest wound will allow. His eyes flash with their dieing light. His body caries on it's futile efforts to live after the soul has fled. Then it ceases completely. Perhaps you give him some solace with your requiem for the repose of his soul. Maybe one day you'll know. Rawr looks at you when you address him and then turns to regard the distance forlornly. It is quiet save for the wind. And it is very cold. White covers the ground everywhere. Again, this is like the Hindu Kush mountain range or NE Afghanistan and the people of the highlands and Giliad's Rest are basically the equivalent of our world's Pashtuns...in complexion, culture, and disposition. Their world has been a harsh one. They have been steeled by the elements, a tight culture that has perfected the art of living in such an inhospitable realm, and by their violent history in order to survive it. When you and Rawr set out, a light snow flurry dusts the air before and all around you. The trail is not a difficult one to follow as everywhere else it is extraordinarily dangerous or outright impossible passage. Your sense direction tells you that you are ascending on a due northerly course. After a winding ascent of thirty minutes, the trail ends at the edge of a rise. As you approach the edge, your nose, eyes, and throat become suddenly irritated. You feel a wave of warmth and your nose takes in the distinct smell of sulfur. You hear the sounds of children (10) laughing and splashing in water while their mothers (3) playfully scold them. The rise gives way to a drop some forty feet below you that must be hand climbed or rappelled down. The women are washing linens in hot springs and singing songs. While their dialect of the Common tongue is a bit rough for you at first, the vernacular is not beyond your means. Their songs venerate the Elder Primal Spirit of Fate and Uncertainty. Those of an optimistic bent venerate her as Grandmother Spider. These are not those songs. This particular ode is to the Fate Weaver and is about her impartiality in the affairs of mortals...about her indifference to their plight. It is a song of self-reliance, of pride in the understanding that there is an organization to existence at all and that they have a role to play, however meager. They are unguarded, but the women all have spears within hand's reach. These are not soft city-folk. Any one of these women would slay a good-sized boar with no trouble...and three apiece if their little ones were threatened. [/QUOTE]

Verification