Ariss

Many years have passed since we arrived in this strange and unknown land. Many years since the night that we went to bed in our homes, surrounded by our families, on our journeys, in inns or taverns… only to wake in the beautiful wilderness of another world. The wise ones speak of a Shattering of the world, of a gem that contains the world. They speak of many pieces of said gem, each containing a world and many different lands. So much do they say, yet what is it to us, those of us that still stare at the stars in the night, blinking away the tears of sorrow for all that we lost, for all the loved ones we had to leave behind.

And yet… we prevailed. From our midst rose a leader to guide us on our first steps and the first huts changed to large camps, to houses and towers. On the side of the mountain, rising above the waters of the lake we built our home, more beautiful than any town we had ever seen before. We built a home for all our hopes and dreams, for the first children to be born into this strange new world, for laughter and joy in such evil times.

This, too, is over. The city of our dreams has fallen to a power unknown to us, a power within us. Once more do we wander; once more do we seek a home. Many paths lead through this land and at each turn our numbers dwindle. Each of those that leave shall find their own home, live their own lives. Many of them we shall see once more, some we will not. Such is the fate of our life. Such is the nature of this land.

And yet there is hope. Hope to regain what strength we had in the beginning, hope to unite in times of need and face what dangers oppose us. How we shall do such I cannot say. Up here in the mountains, where the view seems endless on all sides, up here we see the wilderness that separates us. So few are the dwellings of our kind, tucked away in valleys, in forests and caves. Once the last packhorse reaches the top of the pass we shall set out again. Wanderers in foreign lands… wanders among the worlds. May the virtues guide our feet…

Ariss

Loneliness is a strange thing, is it not? All of us left, each group seeking their own luck, their own fortune, each trying to be apart from the others. Yet it is not in the nature of a human to strive for loneliness. We claim to seek it, claim to love it, wave it like a banner to keep the world at bay. And even while we shout at others to go away our hearts beg for them to stay, to leave us alone, yet to keep us from being alone. Strange are the hearts of our folk.

And thus, after we scattered to all corners of the land, we now seek comfort in company once more. Towards Mistas we turn our minds, the great town of the south. Here, even before the gate is reached, a new inn has been opened, welcoming the wary travellers with roaring fires, an ale thick and strong enough to cut with a knife, beds and sometimes even breakfast. Of course there are the rumours of the food growing short, yet out on the bustling market squares there seems to be no sorrow in the faces of the people.

Some even hail from Lakeshire to the east, the peaceful town in the east. People quip that its citizens even nail the butter to the bread to keep the pixies from stealing it, yet light are the hearts of those that need not fear more than a pixie’s jest. And yet the road to Mistas is long and full of dangers. Few are those that dare to travel.

Only the west is worse, where dark forests hide many dangers. Even with the wise ones offering shelter to travellers in need it is only few that set out on such a perilous journey. Even the gypsies are seen no more, yet word is passed of a gathering in their desert camps to celebrate the rise and fall of Montor.

Thus are the hearts of men, and thus do their feelings guide their hands and feet. Many more meetings shall we have in days to come, old friends, old rivals. Many meetings in many places. Let us join together wherever we meet and lift a drink in the memory of what has been.

Ariss

Is it not so that a single spark may ignite the greatest fires? Few were the meetings among the travellers, yet great their effect. From near and far new sparks leap up to close the gaps among the flames once more, to find new roads to old friends and to fight back the loneliness that engulfs the settlers.

High above the world the gates of the great Castle of Karnaugh have opened and like snakes of gleaming silver the companies of courageous soldiers emerged, descending from the height to bring order into the wilderness below. Towards the east and south they travel, seeking to restore the old roads of Montor. May the virtues guide their feet and lead them to the arching bridges of the Citadel in safety. And to the west they venture, into the great forests. Whispers speak of great horrors among the trees, yet what could stand against their spears and shields?

Out of the desert ride the gypsies, colourful scarves streaming like banners in the wind. Like a wisp they dance along what path they find, seeking to see the world and its treasures. Whoever they meet they share their tales with; tales of the new watch post on the road to Montor, of the caravan aiming for the pass and the expeditions to the south. Like friends of old they share the wonders of the desert: glass blown out of coloured sand, figures of granite, precious and beautiful. Dried fish from the lake and meat of the lizard. And none part such a meeting without the feeling of having made a friend.

Stranger still are those that came at night. Hooded men and women, heading no inn, no invitation. To Mistas they travel, seeking audience with its leaders. More have been seen heading further east. And to Karnaugh they came, to hammer at the gate in the dark of the night. Rumour names them wizards, witches, wise ones and teachers. Their modest introductions name them emissaries, mediators and advisors. Known to all is the sigil of the Temple of Knowledge on their robes.

And yet, they, too, carry the flame from which new sparks will take flight. Travellers from distant places search and find, meet and depart. Let us come together under the stars of the night and share mead and meat in the spirit of old Montor, the everlasting dream of friendship.

Ariss

How often does it happen that the human mind adapts to its surroundings? That it forgets about what is missing in its daily toil, thus keeping the spirit raised and unhappiness at bay. Yet often it needs no more than one little hint to trigger long lost thoughts and desires. Such is the fate of settlers that lack more than they care to remember and still wake in the mornings with a song on their lips. And still it takes no more than a flash of colour among the trees to make them rediscover the pain of their solitude and their desire for new faces, new tales from distant places, new memories to add to their own.

Great was the joy at all the meetings that took place on this day. The guards upon the towers of the citadel hailed not only one, but two parties of friends today. Weary from the road and the skirmishes with orcs and beasts hidden among the trees, the soldiers of Karnaugh were the first to march across the arching bridges into the yard. Near dawn, chatting and singing like they know no danger, the gypsies from the desert arrived, just in time for the great feast held to celebrate the occasion. And not only to the north do the gypsies travel. In the south one of their caravans reached Lakeshire, heading for Mistas. For the night they set up camp to the north of the town and villagers and gypsies alike gathered round the great fires to share their food, wine and tales; scaring children with talk of great spiders in the woods to the east. Late at night another stranger joined the meeting, hailing from the Temple of Knowledge, emissary for the town of Lakeshire.

In Mistas, the mood of the people was dampened when the city council declared that the food rations would be halved for the time being. Yet at night here, too, the people gathered, listening to the stories of the Shattering as they were told by the emissary from the temple, with many a tear shed at the sad memories. For this, too, is a desire of man, that he can not only share his joy, but share his grief as well. And so laughter and voices rise up the stars as the night turns old and a new day breaks.


Tonight the meetingplace for those that wish to discuss the game is the Guarding Spirit tavern in Umbra, 8pm GMT. Tomorrow Spiritwood, friday Trinsic Rose.

Ariss

And as it breaks the stars fade in the sky once the sun begins to rise. Dew sparkles as the first rays of light are broken in the tiny drops, lasting but moments before it fades and disappears from sight. Tiresome was such a night; be it around the gypsies’ fire, in the vaulting halls of the citadel, the inns at Mistas or the studies of the Temple. One by one the settlers grumble and mumble as they creep out of their beds, their tents, wagons or the shrubbery that they had slept in.

Those with strong will and discipline ready themselves and before the sun rises high above the mountains the soldiers of Karnaugh stand ready for the way home, waiting only for the gypsies to assemble their carvan. For both head towards the pass on this day: one group to report home, the other following for the welcome protection on the dangerous path. Wagons loaded with food and goods creak and groan in protest once the horses begin to pull, then rumble westwards over the bridges and into the forests.

To the south, near Lakeshire, the camp wakes slower. Only some children laugh and run about, trying to shake the elders out of their blankets. Late at night the decision had been made to rest another day to try and trade for food. And once the sun is high in the sky the merchants and foragers move out to make trades with the farmers and fishers settled here.

At the gate of Mistas citizens hail the small groups of soldiers that ride out, heading east for Lakeshire as well. Patrols on the road have been ordered after reports of travellers gone missing have arrived and the few straying wanderers cheer for those that seek to offer safety.

High in the north though, black wings bear even darker words towards the castle. The expedition heading west into the woods had been attacked in the depth of the night. Hasty scribblings with a shaking hand tell of giants, tall as trees and wielding such for clubs. Among them one-eyes monsters wielding terrible magic. Soldiers crushed before even awake, one fourth of the group fallen or expected to die before the sun rises again. More than 15 others wounded. The remainders seek shelter in a valley to the south, tending to the wounded till they can move again, not before at least two more mornings have gone by.

Long nights are followed by hard mornings. And while some pray for the sun to rise and free them from the terrors of the night, others curl up under comfortable blankets to doze for just a little longer…


New player to be added later. Join in all. Meeting to discuss the game tonight at Ye Olde Spiritwood Tavern. Tomorrow Trinsic Rose. Saturday to be decided yet. Feel free to write with proposals.

Ariss

Like nature’s blanket lies the fog on the land, filling the space among the plants and trees, the huts and homes. Like ghosts its strands rise and dance at the faintest breeze before dissolving once again as do dreams at dawn. Like a carpet does it swallow sounds, making the world a silent, sullen place.

Few are those that leave their homes, forced by necessities or tasks. In Lakeshire the carts of the gypsies move out and onto the road for Mistas. Some of what they had arrived with remains behind and food fills the wagons and packs of horses now. The men call for haste, the women for caution; all fearing the dangers ahead in the narrow, winding valleys of the south. Riders scout ahead and set the way by means of marks and signs on the ground and the wagons follow, the families silent and watchful. Today, they shall make the road in safety. But tonight, they shall be greeted at the gates of Mistas by the sound of a single horn, blown from the highest tower. Deep, slow and moaning it will be, summoning up the memories of those that did not survive the patrols of the day. Woven cloth covers the bodies of the fallen, hiding the horrible patches of burnt flesh and molten iron, while the priests prepare their burial in the sacred valley beyond the town. Like a fog the sight settles in the mind and hearts of those who shall patrol in the morning, dousing their energy and bringing fear.

In the north, too, silence covers the land. Only some ravens race across the sky, bearing messages. Eventually the sun will dissolve the fog like a bad dream, leaving nothing but fading memories of things that have been. And while some will remember and weep, others shall wake and forget.


Terort Skitas - The Temple of Knowledge - needs a new player!! Please write a message and join in. Game meeting tonight at the Trinsic Rose.

Ariss

Is it not so that only the absence of something truly reveals the worth of it? Who can say they value what they have plenty? Of course, moral and religion may dictate thankfulness for what we are given and many whisper words of gratitude in prayers. Yet that, too, is nothing but a ritual till the loss has made itself known. Only then does the soul truly reveal what is important to us. Only then does the longing for what we seek rise like a tide, washing over us till nothing remains but the desperate desires howling in the dark.

There are days when the voices around us, the laughter and songs, drown the voices within. And there are the other days, the silent ones, where people remain to stare at the sky or out across the waves, each lost in their own thoughts. These are the days when the ghosts rise to walk the earth and losses make themselves felt.

With the fog still lingering, silence still rules in the lands of Ilshenar. The caravans have moved out in north and south and with them went the laughter and merriment of the meetings that took place. All around, people wait. Wait for news, wait to hear of save arrivals, wait for messages. Yet on this day, none will come. What moves have been made in the game of life have yet to be finished.

Only in Mistas, at night, shall the horn break the silence once again, telling people of yet another loss to add to their lives, another patrol lost on the road. Some mutter, some curse, some weep… yet eventually, silence claims them all.


Game meeting tonight at Trinsic tavern. Tomorrow at the Guarding Spirit before the University begins. Monday yet to be decided. No more meetings in the Rose due to general hostility of the staff.

Ariss

Light reflects on the polished armour of the soldiers that move out across the bridge of Mistas, accompanied by the cheers of the citizens. They are the second troop to move out today, following a smaller group that left before, trying to lay a trap for whatever danger lies hidden in the woods. Over a hundred soldiers on the march, fanning out to search the woods besides the road. Hours later they will return, telling tales of strange trees that suddenly move to throw fire and magic at the soldiers. More than six of those were discovered and put to the torch, with only few wounded.

On their return they follow the carts of the gypsies, finally arriving at Mistas, wagons loaded with the much needed food for the town. Late at night they shall leave again, loaded with ore and metals and heading for the north-west, among them soldiers from Mistas for protection.

In the north, too, a caravan arrives, slowly ascending the side of the mountain to reach the pass. Together with them the soldiers of Karnaugh arrive, reporting back from their expedition. They bring food, tidings and maps from the east and news from the plains. In the courtyard of the castle they are welcomed, quickly unloading the wagons to trade food for ore and metals. Yet low are mood and morals, for earlier that day the remainders of the expedition returned, bringing with them the wounded and dead, smashed and hurt by giants in the night.


Game meeting tonight at the University, 8:45 pm.

Ariss

How often is it said that life is but a game, that humans often make no more than figures on the board, without control over their own destiny? How cynical does this sound to us, how bitter and nasty. And yet… and yet it does apply, at times. Often does it happen that decisions are made for us and we follow, masking our own lack of power by convincing ourselves that we had had other choices, yes, that we wished things to be like this, for everything else would have been worse. But could we really have acted differently, even if we had wanted to? Are we not all caught in the nets that we weave around our lives and which eventually trap us on our path?

Many moves were made and the figures slide across the board which is Ilshenar. From Mistas the caravan with its guards still aims for the north-west, keeping close to the mountains to avoid the swamp, yet in return risking harpies throwing stones from above or chunks of discarded rock turning into gargoyles.

At their destination, the small hunting outpost that was so fittingly named “Tervasarb Reg” – the forest home – the people bristle with activity, preparing for the arrival of the caravan by feverishly preparing what goods they have to offer. Bows are spanned and arrows notched and loosened onto the target butte to test the aim and handling, furs and leathers are stacked, herbs hung up to dry and hunters vanish in the undergrowth to scout the lands around.

Where they deal with dense forests and swamps, the gypsies in the east wander the searing desert in search for resources that can be used in trades. Soon the caravan that is on its way home from the Pass of Karnaugh will return to its home and new goods will be needed to trade when it leaves once more.

Such are the stones that move, while others halt in their path and wait. Who can claim to have seen all stones within the play, or to know their true face and abilities? Invisible hands make invisible moves and only time will reveal such to the eyes of all…

Game meeting tonight, 7:45 pm GMT at the Moonglow Beergarden. new faction to be added tonight. Still factions unclaimed, join in and have fun.

Ariss

Games within games enfold as those that one day are but the pawns of those that lead their fate themselves start to play, raising spirits and hearts to meet the woes of another day. Of all the places it is the castle of Karnaugh that becomes the home for such an event. Meat and mead are carried into the great courtyard and fires are being lit to celebrate the homecoming of the expedition and the arrival of the caravan. Originally preparing for their return home the gypsies stay after all, soon singing louder than all and entertaining the yard with their jesting and music. Darkness falls like a curtain outside the castle and the bright fires turn the castle into a world of its own, all sorrows outside forgotten for one night.

Far to the west another caravan arrives, the large wagons cramping the narrow yard of the Forest Home. Soon here as well fires are lit and tales are shared while the merchants haggle and trade, half laughing half trying to shout the others down.

In the south all remains quiet for a change.


Sorry for the short one today, but I am rather busy. Game meeting tonight at the Sword and Shovel tavern in Valoria, 7:45 pm GMT. New faction to be added.

Ariss

Treasured are the skills of those that can turn simple materials into complicated tools, goods to simplify life, weapons or any other things that the human mind can devise and hands can craft. Famous are those that become masters of their art, whose sign on a ware is a mark of quality and value.

Far to the east the crafters bustle und the searing desert sun, making space and plans for the construction of new wagons. Many things will be needed and frowns cross their face as the lists grow longer with every passing moment. Plenty are the needs of men, yet scarce the supply of goods in such a wild land, where towns and traders, crafters and gatherers are scattered and few.

Still they make new discoveries, devise new things and brood on new inventions; for the human mind loves to see the fruits of his labour grow and shine at the end of a day. Some go further still, enjoying with childlike glee to try and tinker, to play with what they find and make things work. A simple stone, a heap of ore, can make their minds forget the world and set to work on prying out its secret, its use and its weakness. As soon as the gypsies arrived with their samples or ore and stone the Citadel began to hustle and bustle like a heap of ants. Tests were made, samples hammered, heated, dunked, pinched, pierced and tasted, broken and reassembled, twisted and turned, cursed and praised.

To the west, the inhabitants of the Forest Home set to work as well, trading ores for bows and arrows, fresh supplies and even a falcon for the hunt. And having waited long for new materials their crafters, too, set to work on making new knifes, heads for arrows and spears, nails and bolts. The gypsies laugh and sing and remain to spend the night, another celebration staring around roaring fires, roasted meat and casks of ale. On the morrow they shall wake with sore heads like their brothers and sisters that left the Pass today to return home, still thinking of the great feast the night before.

Only in the south do the nimble hands of miners and crafters rest as they stand before the yawning mouth of the Lakeshire mines, daring not to set a foot into the darkness that claimed not one, but two of them by now. They who live from the treasures of the earth now fear its embrace. Such is the fate of those who know how to craft: that their goods are used by all, yet that they need the help of all to make their goods at times.


Game meeting tonight at 7:45pm GMT in the Trinsic tavern.

Ariss

Simplicity

Often seen as the fruit of laziness and inability, yet at times the greatest display of skill and design. To deliver a whole image in just some words. To capture beauty in a simple stone. To devise clear lines that guide the mind. To avoid great effort where none is needed to reach the goal.

Simplicity

Deep in the desert the artists carve on blue stone. If asked they would jest; would tell you that they simply chisel away everything that is no part of the figure they create. And yet their works are beautiful and invite the soul to dream.

Simplicity

Late at night the sky above the Citadel and its twin bridges erupts in fire. Under cover of explosions some ragged scouts scramble for the safety of the yard, while the orcs on their heals turn back and flee in fright. Why shed blood if fireworks will do the trick… and are much prettier anyway.

Simplicity

To stay faithful to your fields and nets on any given day, heading not the call of great deeds, fame and fortune. To stay alert during hours of your watch as you stand atop the towers of your home, protecting those that rest within its walls. To sleep on the ground, among flowers and shrubs, covered by the night and guarded by your friends.

Simplicity

Sometimes the simple things need the strongest characters.


Game meeting tonight, 9pm GMT at the Spiritwood Tavern.

Ariss

Time flows like an infinite stream, tearing away everything in its grasp. Days and nights have passed since yet another new beginning has taken place and once more, the people settled into their fate. Caravans move back and forth, scouts roam the land to explore its many mysteries and messengers hast back and forth among the towns, two reaching Mistas and Karnaugh just on this very day.

First moves have been made and new plans devised, soon they will be tested for their worth and either bear fruit or perish. Eternally the stream flows and none know what lies ahead.


I will be away from tomorrow until tuesday. However, I tried to capture a victim to continue the game in my absence. In addition, I will attempt to look in occasionally and see things advance and hopefully move on without too many disturbances. Game meeting tonight, 7:45 GMT at the Keg and Anchor tavern in Trinsic.

Ariss

Fire! Friend and foe alike. Useful tool, giver of warmth, destructive element.

Many fires are lit under the firmament tonight, no two alike in kind, nor purpose. Horns awaken the citizens of Mistas when watchful guards spy the burning houses in the city. People form lines to handle the buckets of water, yet dawn lights up naught but heaps of smouldering wood and ashes where the two houses have been. Exhausted helpers gather around, staring into the fire with burning, reddened eyes, wondering what caused this disaster.

To the east, the mines of Lakeshire are lit day and night by torches thrown into the darkness by the miners. What began with chairs and tables at the entrance slowly turns into a barricade; by unspoken agreement never fully abandoned. None knows what happened in the caves beyond, yet after the disappearance of yet another miner and his horse, after a piercing scream in the dark, none dare to enter such a cursed place anymore.

Far to the west another tragedy takes place. Exhausted, shaking scouts tell of plants come to live, great mounts of leafs, roots and refuse sitting in the swamp, yet coming alive and trying to grab the passing explorers. Only by means of burning torches could those attacks be repelled, for like everything that grows, these beasts too seem to suffer from the heat.

Yet not all fires lit this night bear messages of fear and destruction. Like a dancing swarm of fireflies the lanterns of the caravans move through the night, hurried along by the outlook of arrival on the very morning. From the west the gypsies return to Mistas, with them the guards that served as escort as well as messengers from the Forest Home. Past the Citadel the second caravan travels home, expected to return once another day has gone by. In the citadel itself the glaring fire of the forges heat the room as the smiths work to reinforce the wheels promised to the gypsies for their new wagons.

Such is the nature of fire, that it is necessary, that it makes life pleasant and bearable, yet that it may bring sorrow and destruction as well. Use it with care, such as you would take care of a sharp blade, for it is naught but a weapon in the wrong hands.

Game meeting tonight, Keg and Anchor Tavern in Trinsic, 8pm GMT. Apologies once more for the interruption in the game.

Ariss

Suspicion, fear, hate. Like a phoenix from the ashes these feelings arise from the ruins of the houses in Mistas, jumping from citizen to citizen till every stranger is eyed, every unknown face suspected. Who would do such, why should it be done at all, why now, why in such a way? Questions that burn as brightly as the fires on the night before. Appalled by such mood the gypsies hurry on, past Mistas and towards Lakeshire. Soldiers from the great town of the south, now patrolling the road and the area around Lakeshire, ensure a safe trip, yet they, too, carry fear and suspicion in their hearts.

Far away in the north, where such news have not yet been heard, the gypsies trade with the crafters of the Citadel, exchanging a load of the curious blue ore for new wheels for their wagons. Further west, a small caravan of packhorses and traders strikes through Alexandretta’s Bowl and reaches the Pass of Karnaugh – traders from the Citadel presenting themselves and offering their service.

So few, and yet so many. Not enough people to colonise and meet what dangers the land holds, yet too many to know them all, too many to find those with murder in their hearts, too many to find those that throw torches in the night. And like a fire that jumps and spreads, such is the nature of suspicion: that it will flow and grow till it consumes all and destroys what remains.


Game meeting tonight, 9pm GMT at the New Spiritwood Tavern (which is a lot of fun and highly recommended for all!)