I am no longer young, even judged by fellow Eldalie. I am near the zenith of my powers. And yet, each day, it seems, brings me new enemies. I fear that soon, by sheer luck, one of them will strike me down despite my caution and abilities. Continue reading
It seems the actions of the thief known only as the Crimson Fox have deeply earned the ire of the elves of Ered Eithel. The Den Mother, leader of the Red Gloves, was taken into elven custody on Wednesday, and the terms of her release have been submitted to the Tribune in the form of an open letter to the Red Gloves, penned by Cora Vossla Vaendena’aes. Continue reading
It is difficult to put pen to paper and describe these events that I have witnessed, but I shall persevere. My style will be terse, and I will not dwell upon the agonies that I almost unwillingly relate.
During the time at the height of the plague, I had had a rather bad day. I had contracted the plague myself, and I had not eaten. I had tried to open a portal to the planes, but it had backlashed upon me, and I was bruised and battered. Shortly thereafter, a dragon vomited upon me, and before I could wash, I collapsed in the mud under the influence of the plague in a sudden fit of fatigue. During my unconscious time, something nibbled on me. I was roused by the demon named Daun, who set my feet in the direction of Ered Eithel. I arrived, in a hideous, smelly, bloody, sick state, to the tavern in time to see yet more horror unfold before my eyes. Sacia, Tari Emmaline, Kwuda, Sine, and one other I did not recognize stood near Daewin and a demonic form.
This demon mage had apparently tricked General Daewin into allowing him to cast a blood-magic spell upon him. As I came in, I saw Daewin draw his own sword and drive it into his own heart in most effective manner. The demon then called a portal, which swallowed the pair of them. Professionally, I admit to some envy at this, for I cannot call a portal in such a short time, and, furthermore, had just been emphatically denied an open portal by the Mysts! In any event, only Emma had time for any retribution, Singing a spell that caused the demon great agony as he left our plane. For what it is worth, I caught the essence of that scream in a coil of hair, should it become needful for tracing the evil thing across the planes.
The Mystara Tribune’s Mailbox becomes a repository for things that baffle and confuse me. Whether it’s the liquor laced ramblings of an angry drunkard, a confused passerby dropping in letters meant for the post, or simple random writings left with no explanation or causation you’ll find them here, in the Random Acts of Randomness column. Please understand that these are verbatim copies of things received by the Tribune that did not come with instructions or enough information to follow up as actual articles. They’re far too wordy for The Dish, and they’re completely and utterly unverified. So make sure you take them with a healthy grain of salt!
Submitted by Vossla
The heroism of Strawberry the Fae Princess shall hereby be recorded in the annals for posterity to marvel at. It was in the afternoon of the third day of the second moon since the greenskins and their hirelings and birdlike allies laid waste to Taure Rhun. The village of Ered Eithel had just been dedicated, but the war was, if anything, more bitter than ever.
The elves in court were stunned to see the heroine walk proudly into the palace, hauling a well-trussed green form in her arms. Strawberry announced her capture with admirable calm and complete lack of bravado. Truly, an admirable display of forbearance.
Although the captured greenskin was only two inches long, it was fearsomely ugly and its skin could be more aptly described as a shell, carapace, or even exoskeleton, it was so horny and tough. The elven military took charge of the prisoner. Do not look for the creature in the open air again, but rest assured that every iota of secret knowledge will be extracted from its brain.
All hail Strawberry!
The following arrived with a wax seal imprinted with a Griffon, but no other information as to what this is or why it is. It reads to me as the wine-soaked ramblings of a drunkard. Or could it be connected to the letter that prefaced the assassination of Her Highness Princess Isabella deViana?
Murderers around every corner, a would be[SIC] farmer selling us out to monsters in the night. Towns people going missing and howling at night. Low and behold guardsmen leaving the city while on duty, following some unknown man out into the wilderness. Dead bodies piling up in the forrest[SIC] and whisperings of tunneling worms consuming travelers whole! Dragons, winged beasts, patrol the skys[SIC] and breath fire down on the world scorching the earth. The blight has come, a dark time of reckoning. Beasts of myth and of folk tale stalk out of the mists hungry for human flesh and blood. Giant green men from the south, at least eight feet high! Trust not the heretic who practicing magic[SIC]! They will sooner feed your daughters to the myst in return for more power. Blood washing ashore from the harbor and blood soaked planks marking every fifth step! What cruel ritual is this tht[SIC] one would bath[SIC] the docks, the port in blood. Murderers around every turn, the farmers seek to take the kings bride as sacrifice to their gods! What cruel ritual, what a sick twisted offering, th[SIC] king being forced to ransom his money to the Mers with no doubt! What sick game does the deep play on the minds of the sailors at port! Why are the guardsmen leaving the city walls! What manner of dark ritual is preformed at night by the witches in the woods…
Concerned townsmen[SIC]
((These are notecards that are received by the Tribune that lack instructions, graphics or indications as to what should be done with them. This Column is published in an effort to publish submissions to the Tribune. However, the contents of this column are not verified, OOC Consent is not sought out, and publication in this column is solely at the editor’s discretion. Any Submissions thought to be rules violations will not be published and will be forwarded to the Admin Team))
The nation of Taure Rhun wishes to thank Mystara, especially the wolf pack and the humans, for their assistance in recovering our Tari and capturing the abductor.
By way of addendum, the elves have visited justice upon the guilty party, artistic impression attached.
-Vossla
The elves of Taure Rhun are looking for this male humanoid, about human sized and dressed roughly. He is wanted for questioning in the disappearance of Tari Emmaline. Any substantive information will be rewarded. A small chest of gold for the capture, alive, of this individual.
Please seek Cora Vossla (Vossla) of Taure Rhun if you have any information about this male or the disappearance of Tari Emmaline.
Once upon a midnight dreary, Vossla pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —
While she nodded at her reading, suddenly her eyes were leading,
Pages flipping, fingers feeding, seeing much but wanting more.
¯¨’*·~-.¸¸,.-~*’¯¨’*·~-.¸¸,.-~*’¯¨’*·~-.¸¸,.-~*’¯¨’*·~-.¸¸,.-~*’¯¨’*·~-.¸¸,.-~*’¯¨’*·~-.¸¸,.-~*’¯¨’*·~-.¸¸,.-~*’¯¨’*·~-
Broken and strewn upon the side of Mystara’s central mountain that would later be home to Mystara’s dragons was the ruin of an ancient city, caught in the upheaval of Mystara’s creation and thrown there haphazardly, repurposed. Among its broken stones in the mists of morning Rauna would walk upon occasion. The mage grew curious over time, her craft leading her to sense lingering power in the place. Her curiosity turned to a hobby, her hobby to an obsession. She scried and pried and even delved, gaining many a blister as she patiently shoveled away overburden. She learned much of this lost civilization, of the Court of Aven and the bold and joyful folk that inhabited it.
Rauna was fond of her king and queen, though Rauna herself was a tolerated oddity in the village. When the queen became pregnant, Rauna resolved to bestow a blessing, the best she could think of. Enamored of the ruins of Aven, her thoughts turned to the veined, glowing metals she had found in the inner temple, and she crafted a blessing ritual to bestow the joy she could feel from the long dead civilization upon the child. She wrought the blessing flawlessly, or so she thought, and cast it upon the unborn child as the mother slept.
When the princess was born, however, she was malformed and sickly, with shriveled legs and far too gaunt to be healthy. It was sadly predicted by many that the child would not live out the week. When the child did, it was predicted that she would not live out the year. Rauna felt sure that it was her fault. Rauna left her cottage, and the village, and went to live a half-life as a guilt-ridden hermit among the ruins that had now brought pain as well as joy.
Nearly two decades later, the princess Aia still clung to life. A servant would, from time to time, wheel her around the village so that she could take in some fresh air, and the princess was glad of the excursions, though after an hour, her spindly neck could no longer support her overlarge head, and she would slump into her chair.
The smith apprentice happened to see her one day, and looked with kind sympathy upon the shriveled creature in the fancy dress in the wheeled conveyance. The princess saw the handsome young man, too, and smiled. After that, the apprentice, whose name was Jored, asked his master about her. “Cursed by a witch!” his master replied. The young man was intrigued. Jored inquired further, and was eventually directed to a collapsed cottage, long abandoned, at the edge of the village. Jored heaved away debris to find all that might be expected in a modest cottage . . and a little bit more. There were three small figurines, fashioned of a strange, veined metal. The figures were of a guardsman with odd, stylized armor, a fantastic creature with four arms, and an ornate, miniature chair. Jored examined them with wonder, and also a craftsman’s eye, admiring their fine workmanship. He took them.
But his master was not pleased. “Witch toys!” he snarled. His master pointed imperiously toward a glass retort that contained the etching acid, “Dissolve them, boy! Now. While I watch to make sure you do it!” the angry smith folded his arms and glowered at Jored. Jored unwillingly and slowly went across the room to drop the trio of metal sculptures into the vat of acid. They fizzed. The master smith grunted in satisfaction and turned away to attend to the bellows. Jored sighed, feeling as though something beautiful had been lost, feeling as though a door had been closed.
The fizzing sound grew louder. Jored turned to see foam erupting from the glass vat, spilling over the sides in copious amounts. As Jored stood, eyes widening, a tendril of foam reached the forge. Instantly, there was a flaming explosion centered on the figurines inside the vat of acid. Shards of veined metal and glass, splashes of acid, and great gouts of flame engulfed Jored, and he was thrown backwards by the shattering shock.
Jored was ruined by the accident, though he survived. His face was broken and twisted, blackened skin stretched awkwardly over half melted flesh. One eye squinted nearly shut. Hips and legs were twisted so that Jored forevermore lurched awkwardly and painfully and at a slow pace. His voice was ruined, too, and he could speak only in whispers or a raspy growl. The princess Aia came to see him while he was mending, for the accident at the smithy was of considerable local importance. They spoke, she in barely audible but sweet tones, and he in soft rasps. That they both felt some instant kinship was undeniable, and they talked as if they were kin long separated, only stopping when the princess could hold her head up no longer and had to be wheeled away.
Jored’s dreams were troubled. Perhaps it was the shards of ancient metal that were lodged in his muscles and bones that caused it. In any event, he dreamed of a bright, festive court, full of joy. But he himself was barred from it, lurching in the darkness outside the fair hall. He wanted to join in, but could only smell, and hear, and catch glimpses of the wonders within. He woke up in a sweat, thinking of keys. Fashioning the keys. Finding the keys.
One morning, after a particularly vivid dream that left a taste of longing in his mouth, Jored lurched out of his cottage, for he had moved from the village and into the witch’s old cottage, and squinted at the nearby mountain. His arms and hands were still strong and agile, and he used a pair of crutches to speed his progress as he undertook a spontaneous journey up the slopes of the mountain. Driven by an inner call, his slow, painful path was unwavering as he ascended the slopes. He came upon broken pillars and ruined arches and walls, and he lurched past them. Topping a slow rise, he squinted to see a plaza and dry fountain, with some stubs of arches in a ring, the original airy architecture springing to life in his mind with a shock of recognition, for he had dreamed of this place, again and again and again.
“Go away!” a cracked voice suddenly commanded. The witch Rauna glared at the misshapen trespasser from the far side of the plaza.
“Who are you?” rasped what remained of the smith’s apprentice, and then something added words to his speech, and he went on, “You are not of the Court of Aven!”
Rauna gasped, her protective ire forgotten, and nimbly climbed over to examine the crippled visitor. “What know you of Aven, stranger? That name is forgotten. Forgotten and gone.”
Jored answered with the truth, rasping painfully, “Because I dream of it. Almost every night. I dream of searching for the key to it.”
“The key?” Rauna smiled sadly, “Well. You and I both, then. But I have not found a way. Well. Not an easy way.”
“What do you mean, woman?” Jored did not understand.
In answer, Rauna searched in her bag and withdrew a hunk of metal. It was the ancient metal of Aven, and it had been hammered and beaten into the rough shape of a person, but the figurine was clumsy and artless. Rauna offered the lump to Jored, “Not very good, is it? I tried, but I cannot make it right.”
Jored took the figure and examined it, slowly turning it in his hand. His voice dropped to a whisper. “No, it is not right. It is . . it should be two, not one.” Jored then rasped louder, “Do you have other metal, woman? I cannot try to work this figure without some . . practice pieces.”
Rauna thought this over, thought about the dreams of the cripple, thought about his strong hands and the way they seemed to know the veined metal they touched. Finally, she said, “Aye. Sit thee down. I’ll send you home with a fair bit. But only because I think Aven’s got you. Got you like it’s got me.”
And so it happened. Jored went back to his cottage with several pounds of twisted, ruined metal. There, he dreamed and hammered, half in this world and half in another. He fashioned the metal with skill that was only partly his, until he had a small collection of figurines, each detailed to perfection. If Jored was unclear on how to shape a figure, he would sleep. In the morning, the missing details would be clear in his mind.
When all looked perfect to his eye, he packed them carefully and ascended the mountain once again. Rauna was there. In silence, Jored spread the figurines before her, and her eyes widened with surprise . . and then brimmed with tears. “So right,” she whispered, “It is well done, smith. You have made the keys.”
“I need but one key,” Jored half-protested.
“Aye. And I think I know which is yours. Do you?” Rauna suddenly looked up from the row of tiny sculptures to Jored’s ruined face.
Jored shook his head in the negative, but that gesture was a lie. He had always felt that the figure of the proud, noble lord was the one for him, but . . . clearly that was impossible. Rauna merely smiled, then spoke, seemingly changing the subject, “She dies. It will happen soon.”
Jored’s eyes grew wider, and he somehow knew that it was the Princess Aia that the witch referred to. His eyes then flicked to one of the figurines, a Lady of the court. But not just any Lady, it was the Lady that had come from the same lump of metal that his own key, the noble lord, had come. He trembled a bit, his head shaking from side to side, feeling dislocated and dizzy.
“It is my task, smith. You are not quick enough, cannot run so fast as I. I am not young, but I am strong enough for this. Sleep. Dream of opening doors. I shall return.”
Jored found that, insane or not, his heart agreed with Rauna’s and he watched the nimble woman whisk away down the mountain. He closed his eyes. Perhaps he slept, or perhaps he was so close to Aven now that sleeping was no longer necessary to reach it. Half entranced, he placed the Lord and Lady figurines precisely, not far from the dry fountain, setting the others well aside.
Rauna’s crime was, perhaps, too outrageous and too sudden to guard against. Precisely how she stole the sickly Aia she never told anyone, but some hours later, Rauna struggled back up the mountain, the shriveled princess in her arms, swaddled in warm cloth and too weak to protest.
The arrival of the princess awoke dancing lights in the floor of the plaza, fleeting, harmless electric storms under their feet. Jored levered himself to his uneven feet as the air of magic made the air crackle. To his eyes, the ancient festhall faded into view over the stone bones of the ruin, water splashing merrily in the fountain, the hall abuzz with excited guests. Jored only half saw Rauna prop Aia up by the fountain and place the figurine of the Lady in her weak hands. Aia’s face looked peaceful and wondering.
Suddenly, a voice broke in, “Aia!” and the King and Queen rushed into the plaza, along with a handful of guards and the court wizard. But they, too, must have seen the vision of the living festhall, superimposed on the ruins, for they stopped and looked about in wonder. The queen only stepped forward further, looking imploringly at Aia. But Aia smiled and shook her head, “I go, dear mother. Do not fear or regret, for your love has brought me to great joy, in the end.” Aia’s voice grew stronger and stronger as she spoke, and the light surrounded her swirlingly. The festhall grew in solidity to all observers, and Aia’s swirling dissipated to reveal a gently smiling, richly dressed young woman. The woman spoke with Aia’s voice, but not weakly. “Mother and father, I go now to Courts of Aven, where I expect to be quite happy. I am betrothed, I think . . ” Aia looked toward Jored, eyes twinkling, and she laughed out loud and joyfully at the sight, continuing, “Milord, do pick up that little statuette you made . . ”
Jored needed that nudge, for his mind was awash with joy and wonder at the sights and sounds and feelings. Jored bent to pick up the figurine of the Lord, feeling the pain in his hips and knees for the last time as he straightened. Moments later, the proud, tall, straight young man answered his betrothed’s smile with one of his own. Slowly, he extended a hand toward the beautiful Aia, then gasped as her hand joined his. The gathered guests of Aven cheered and applauded as both lord and lady flushed brightly. The queen and king and their retinue slowly joined in the applause, and the feeling of joy persisted even after the living festhall faded from view as the light of dawn crept into the morning sky.
A fearful Wrongspell Rauna was relieved when she was not clapped in irons and thrown into jail, but instead was tearfully thanked. The mortal remains of Aia and Jored were reverently buried. After the funeral, Rauna thankfully scurried back to her mountainside retreat and caressed the row of figurines that the smith had made. Rauna smiled. Her life’s task was set. She would find those souls to whom the figurines were meant, and show them the way to Aven. When there was but one figurine left, well, who knew? Perhaps it would be Rauna’s, perhaps not. Mysteries do not unravel until the time for the unraveling comes.
The Mystara Tribune 