In Search of Powerful Memories!

Gandian Ravenscroft

Gandian Ravenscroft

Knight
Chicago Staff
Marshal
Hello!

A person’s mind and its many memories are fascinating, but the farmers I conversed with seem to have nothing but boring, dull, and grey memories of their distinctly mundane lives. Memories are supposed to stimulate the mind, enthralling you with the details and their impact! Memories are supposed to fill you with emotion and make you feel as if you are really there! Stories of how "the harvest was better last year" are just stale… so I tire of dealing with the simple memories of the farmers, and rumor has it that the adventuring folk have done more exciting and interesting things.

So, what memories of triumph and, perhaps even more powerful, what memories of sorrow fill your minds? Who can tell me the greatest memories of the adventurers, the ones that make you feel full of emotion the moment you think of them?

- Divirian
 
Distant threw the mist.

Child of no people.
Lady of a land under a fake name.
Banished from a home for the sake of others lies.
Desiring to be useful and to do good, yet knowing nothing of the world or one’s self.
Years of hardship and struggle, Hope and fear.
Part of no group and part of no land now.

What memory’s do you seek?

The history of a shattered world the death of a garden and dragon of a vale.
Immortality striped from a people so there body’s might wither and die.
The war of bugs and a queen of destruction?
A friend like bother and his broken path.
A lost lover and years of unrest?
A quest of undoing and bring life back to a dragon of green.
Epiphany’s of hate bring clarity of love
Apples and lies?
Memory’s shoved on one’s mind by a dyeing hart burning with pain and hounded of thousands of deaths?

What memory’s would you ask of a girl full of hope smiling and laughing joyfully, wanting nothing more than to help. What memory’s would you have of eyes that have seen Death, pain, fire, destruction, war, blights, famine & starvation, banishment, torcher in a pit from her own kind, and so much more.

What memory’s would you ask of a child with no blood? Ask and it will be given.

Greetings dreamer. My name is Lady Leata Moss of Parna, Defender of Hope in a land with no name.
 
Lady Moss, your voice echoes far through these strange Mists, but I can feel that your memories are still quite strong!

But what of those within these Sheltered Lands? The tales of this land are those that captivate me most, for here is where I dwell. Whether you have been adventuring for a long time or just a little while, surely you must have some memories that have stuck with you, and I'd love to hear them! Your memories need not be extraordinary per se; they just need to be better than all these farmers' boring stories!

- Divirian
 
Story's of your land I have not.
So, I will wish you well then on the quest to rally the dreams of your local folk and hope there voices reach me as well, in there stumbler memory's have a strength seldom seem to see anymore.

If you ever have need of me my mind if always open to the dreaming mists. You need merely call out and ask.
 
Divirian,

A wise man once said, "Words have power, and memories are knowledge". While indeed, what you request, and ask, are very similar to those words of wisdom. For what reason do you wish to have these memories of knowledge and powerful stories? Here is a lesser known tale, in fact, only but a few know of it, and one of them is no longer with us.

Let me take you back, to October of 1511, the night the Prince was rescued. While that is a greater known tale, one you most certainly must have heard, let me tell you the tale, of a Dryad, who fell during that mission, and after 1000 years of agony, found his way back into the world of the living, as if time only passed but an hour:

The last thing the Dryad saw, was his comrades piled next to each other, he had no idea whether they were alive, or dead, but slowly as the seconds went by he saw them fade away into nothingness. At this time, the ritual was almost over, only a few minutes left. While his friends laid there unconscious, a single thought went through his mind, "Acceptance". As the corrupt pressed him against the thick brush, he knew his escape was not an option. Again, he looked at his comrades, this time, all those within the circle, all those with the ability to change the tide of this fight for the better merely watching the carnage around them. The last things the Dryad thought while the claws of the Corrupt came down at him were why did his comrades within the circle choose not to fight? Why leave the few of us to defend Marsters, against an unstoppable army? Just like that, the Dryad died.

However, to his surprise, when he woke up, he found himself in a rotting, dead, forest. The sky was black, the air had a chill to it, he knew not where he was, but he felt deep pain. He glanced to his sides to see metal shackles binding his wrist to the rotting trees around him. He thrashed but the chains would not budge. He then noticed in front of him a black box, and on top of that box, was a metal key. He tried to reach for it, but he was barely out of reach. A day went by and he spent it all attempting to reach this key, all while his shackles caused him great pain. A week went by, then a month, then many months. He thought he was getting closer, he thought the shackles had weakened, however they had not. He reached and reached until even a year went by, the sky was still black, the trees were still rotting, the air had and chill and the shackles...the shackles had a sign of rust in one of the links. The Dryad thought this was a mere trick his mind was playing, but that's when he reached out again, and he knew, yes, he knew he was getting closer to the key, but not quite there. Years and years went by, while his body was in the same condition, his mind was starting to fade. He reached and he reached, the agony of the metal against his bark-like skin only reminded him of his desire, his need to not be bound, his need to be free. By the time the chains were fully rusted, he did not know how many years had passed, 10, 100, 1000?, he had lost track many years ago. The day he broke free, he grabbed that key and unlocked his shackles, thanking that the key fit into the lock. As he stood up for the first time in centuries, the Dryad tried to find his location. He wandered for many days, but they were short, compared to his centuries of torment. That is when he came to a cave, it was damp, and within showed a perfect staircase made of stone leading down. He followed it.

Down he went, step by step the light from outside faded, and the darkness consumed him. After another step, he found himself in a dungeon full of metal cells. He began to run back up the stairs, but a force prevented this intended path from being taken, and instead thrust the barkskinned one into a cell. He relapsed to all those years chained, and now this time, he was confined again. He desperately tried to smash the door, over and over, his knuckles bleeding from the skin upon metal. He kept this up for who knows how long. Time had ended for the Dryad. He accepted that time had no meaning, he just wanted to get out. Then it happened, the door loosened, and while he found himself free he heard the sound of running water from the stairwell; however it was not running water, it was a thick, crimson liquid, the kind he knew far too well which had covered his hands while he smashed the door. The blood came in fast, thick, and eventually filled the entire room. He was drowning he knew, it was truly the end. As his lungs released the last bit of air, he felt pulled to the ground. A hole had opened up and he was being flushed down. Suddenly he was falling, falling, falling. with no end in sight. He should have been used to this by now, he should have known this endless pit would truly lead nowhere. He should have known hope was lost, that he would never see his friends again, or his kind. So he fell. So he fell.. So he fell.

The years passed, or what he could only imagine were years, or what seemed like them as he continued to fall. The sensation, the unknowing when you'll hit the bottom, if one exist is a feeling of it's own. A state of constant worry. It's only when you accept your fate do you ever finally hit the bottom, and unfortunately for this person, he did not accept his fate before he hit the bottom. Though when he did, when he finally hit the bottom, more agony awaited him.

It was dark, it was wet, he was knee deep in what he could only imagine was, well, he dare not think it. It was here where for the first time in a long, long while that he saw a shining light. It floated in front of him, he tried to grab it, but it flew just out of reach. He thrashed through the liquid, desperately trying to reach it, to reach the feeling he hoped would free him from this nightmare. Again! Again! Again! he tried to grab it, each time just out of reach. He begged, he cried, he pleaded, to no one but himself and he tried to grab this beacon! Then, as he finally laid one finger on the light, he tried to grab it, and this time he did. He had both hands around it when the light flashed, blinding him.

He was in a circle then, eyes starring at him, his hands clutched around the neck of a foxkin, while familiar green hands tried to pry his hands free. He could hear himself echo through the woods, his cries of rage, freedom and despair culminating into one single sound. He then truly opened his eyes then, and with one last scream, he fell to the ground, finally free.



You wanted a story, of that may have been a trick of the mind, or one, that may have truly existed. One person knew the truth of that story, one Dryad, who is no longer a Dryad of Gaden knows that story all too well, and now you do as well.

Words have power, and memories are knowledge..... you should be careful what knowledge you seek.

- Asher Oakheart, an Elf of Gaden.
 
Oh Oakheart, your memory captivates me! The poor creature, doomed to such a fate... the emotion here is incredible! The fear, the most primal and instinctive feeling, of the dryad simply radiates from this memory! Excellent, Oakheart, excellent! The power of this memory is immense, and perhaps someday I will have memories of this caliber for myself.

Other adventurers, come forth and tell me your memories as well! My appetite for these pieces of your past is nowhere near sated, and I am sure yours' aren't as well! Come, expound upon your memories for your fellows and me to hear and drink in!

- Divirian
 
Divirian,

I must agree with Asher, memories hold much power. Still, I will tell you the tale of a young elf, and how he became lost and alone.

There once was a peaceful village in the Southeast of Gaden. A small village, but one with great aspirations. The inhabitants were kind, they would almost give you the clothes off their backs if you needed them, but they weren't particularly skilled in any way. Most were farmers, a few were more skilled artisans, and we always seemed to have a small group of fighters and healers. When I say small, I mean a tiny group, only five or six strong. Still, it was enough to discourage any bandits. It was a quaint place, a little dull, but the living was good. That is, the living was good.

Dusk had just fallen and the town was quiet. Almost everyone had settled in for the night, the spring had just arrived, and the villagers were tired from preparing the fields for the spring plantings. The skies were clear, the night, calm. The only ones still up were two of the fighters keeping watch. Suddenly a cry broke through the stillness. It simply screeched "Run!" And like that the simple village was under attack by a threat far beyond the experience of the fighters. A young elf, still half-asleep looking out of his window, had to rub his eyes and look again. What he saw was a creature of pure evil, one that slaughtered everything in its path. His elder sister, seeing him stunned grabbed him and told him to follow her. They ran with their father through the burning village, dodging and weaving through the houses of their friends, through the carnage. As they were nearing the edge of the village, he tripped and fell right in front of one of the creatures. It was at that moment when the young elf knew true fear. The boy was paralyzed. His father then came running towards him. The creature turned to the elf's father and ripped him in half in front of the elf. His sister took advantage of the moment of distraction to pull the boy to his feet and to urge him to run. They ran long into the night, stopping only for brief moments to breathe. They ran further and further from the amber glow that was their home. Once they knew that it was safe, they stopped to rest in a forest clearing. The boy, finally able to think asked his sister what the creatures were. His sister told him that they were Corrupt. They had all heard the tales of the creatures, but the boy thought of them as almost a myth. Quite unfortunately, the Corrupt are and were, very real.

The next few years passed quickly. The boy learned the arts of healing from his sister, quickly picking up the arts of stopping wounds from bleeding and, over time, even a few spells to augment that knowledge. Then disaster struck again. As the pair was traveling through a forest, a rainstorm blew in, reducing the siblings vision to only a couple feet. As they stumbled through the forest, they soon lost sight of each other, the thunder and pounding rain drowning their cries for the other. The boy stumbled on, until he collapsed behind the large stump of a tree. When he awoke, his sister had vanished. The elf, no longer a boy then swore that he would find his sister, no matter what it took. He took to traveling the country searching for any signs that would lead him to his sister.

I hope my story has satisfied you. However I will again echo Asher's words, you should take care in the knowledge you seek.

-Tauran Stormsteel
 
Of memories, I have few that I'd be willing to divulge, for fear that someone might use that knowledge against me, however, I have a great deal of memories of good times at the tavern, singing songs and drinking ale with my kinsmen. On one particular occasion, my friend Durgen consumed enough ale to kill an average man, I'll tell you, that dwarf could drink! And memories of what the old town storyteller would tell, great tales of battles of old and epic adventures! That dwarf... he was my true inspiration for setting out from home... I think... My favorite probably goes a little something like this.

It was a cold and stormy night, when five adventurers stumbled upon an ancient tower. The five were a Human, cloaked in robes of midnight blue, channelling Celestial powers of great strength, a courageous Tribesman, with an enormous maul he favored over all other weapons, a Hobling, one who was renowned for his prowess in the arts of lock-picking and trap-working, an Orc, clad in ancient armor, with a masterfully crafted blade, and a shield, and finally, the old storyteller, a Dwarven Earth Mage of some power. They sought shelter in the tower from the dark storm raging overhead and made camp. The Hobling decided he'd take a look around the old tower, since such places interested him. What he found, he did not expect. This tower housed the dead of ages ago, and they rose again to assail the intruders of their realm. As soon as the Hobling found out, he swiftly ran to his friends to warn them, however the scene he found was not what he expected. The rest of the group was already fighting a small group of undead who had come from the crypts below. The feeble undead were only slightly challenging for these heroes, and it was then they knew what they must do. They must venture into the crypts and destroy the source of these undead.

They set out immediately, lest more of the foul creatures would beset themselves on them. As they went into the cellar of the tower, the Dwarf began to feel a chill feeling, something that none of the others could feel. He felt something... Evil... Something truly evil, something that he neglected to mention much of any time since. When they found the cellar, they discovered a horrid scene. Gruesome deaths were staged all about the room, from all members of all sentient races, and a lone figure stood in the room. A lich. A lich of power so ancient, he had mastered both the Celestial and Earthen forms of magic. It was down here, in this cellar, he had been mustering his power for centuries, the adventurers knew he had to be stopped. However, this lich did not attack, he merely stared at the adventurers, and with a voice that sounded both dry and old, yet strong and dark, he spoke to the heroes, "Why have you come here? Why now? Why after centuries of leaving me to rot have you returned?" The Celestialist answered, "We have come seeking shelter for the night, when we were attacked by several undead, we set out to investigate, and that has led us to you. Tell us, have you conjured these creatures?" The lich began to laugh, it was a chilling sound... Something that the storyteller was reluctant to remember, so he continued, with the lich saying, "Every tower needs soldiers to defend it no? Look around you. Look at these would-be murderers, what have I done wrong, what have I done that warrants my immediate death?" To which the brave Orc burst out, "Necromancy? Punishable by more than just death in these lands! Your very existence is a stain upon this earth, you vile creation of death!" The lich said, "Well, I am not willing to submit myself to that fate simply because of the magics I employ." The Dwarf, everso quiet, listening closely throughout this whole conversation, finally spoke, "You and I are similar in a way. You may cast the magics of Chaos, whereas I employ the powers of the Earth, however the magics are bound, in an opposite sort of way. You are created wholly of Chaos, of stealing the life from the Earth and employing it for destruction. I use the Earth to bring life, to ease pain, to strengthen the Earth. We are opposites you see, and unfortunately we both cannot exist without some sort of conflict. So, I will offer you this,if you cease the draining of the Earth's forces, we will not have to destroy you, but if you should continue to channel Chaos, we will have to eradicate you.' The lich stopped and thought, many minutes passed by before his response, "I see the wisdom in your words Dwarf, however, what should I do, I will be hunted, I may very well still be hunted, there is nothing for me to do, nothing except to disappear." The lich's face then grew very sad, "I am tired of this life. I am tired of living too long and having so many enemies for my existence, I am ready to leave this place." The heroes looked at the lich in confusion as he faded away into nothing, before realizing that it was not a lich at all, simply the memory of a lich who had lived there ages ago, and had been destroyed after a great battle (they later found his remains among the many slain adventurers). The heroes then slept calmly through the night and departed the next morning.

Whether this story is true or not, I do not know, the Dwarven storyteller did indeed have some Earthen powers himself and I believe it was true. And furthermore, this is part of my inspiration for becoming an adventurer, not all the fighting, not all the riches, but the discovery of things great, of things terrible, and making these lands greater for all. And of course, the seeking out of fine drink never deters a dwarf and his travels.

-Thorgrim Stoneaxe, of the Runebinder Clan
 
Stormsteel, your memory of these Corrupt intrigues me! I can see the fear of the people perfectly as I picture the scene... A grim attack at dusk, the time where the peace of day becomes the mysterious night and where each person's mindset changes from that of joy to that of caution! And the boy's loss of his sister... so tragic. The emotion fills my mind, and makes me eager for more!

Hrm... Stoneaxe, much of this "memory" you speak of is not your own! I do not mean to be harsh, but when you began, speaking of your revels in taverns with your kin, my mind grew excited, braced for a memory of happiness and celebration in the tavern... and then you turned from your memory to the memory of the storyteller! I was mildly let down! You yourself did not enter the tower with the five adventurers and witness the undead, so this memory did not resonate with you... but the ending, where you heard this tale and it inspired you to travel out as an adventurer; That was your own memory, and I could feel the impact it held for you! That sudden longing, the birth of a desire for adventure, to see the countryside and all of its wondrous inhabitants and beasts! It was deep and moving! Whilst you may not have intended it to be so, that second-to-last sentence was where the true memory lay!

More, people, more! Strain your minds to think of something you have experienced or felt that was strong! How about a tale of your adventuring days that you hold dear? I seek those with the greatest memories, so come forward and let us hear what your mind holds!

- Divirian
 
Hello All.
I have a few memories. Some sad some glad.

My memory starts with weakness and sadness. A family arguing, a son leaving, a friend thinking he's not strong enough to go with him.
The friend realizes to late that he should have gone anyways. A long time spent looking for his friend and having no luck. Going with caravans and others because he felt he was still not strong enough. Searching all over Roskaria for a good friend and not finding him, but never giving up.
Finally after over a decade of searching his dreams become strange. People seem to be talking to him, but he can't talk back. After a while he learns about this different type of dreaming and starts asking about his friend. People seem to know him. He is a great warrior but even better with his mind.

His search comes to an end after all this time. The joy and pure elation felt by him for finding his friend. Talking to people where he was found. Learning new things about a friend he thought he knew well. Finding new friends learning more about life and about battle magic.
Becoming a part of these other friends lives and staying to protect his friend. Living with all these old and new friends to make a difference.
Some live and others die. More grieving for a new friend but vowing to destroy the enemy which took her. But knowing he will be by his old friend and new friends till the end.

I will second the words of a new friend, and add to it if i may.
Words have power, and memories are knowledge..... you should be careful what knowledge you seek.
Memories and knowledge do not make the man but make him better to live with and protect his friends.
Glad tidings to you all.

Aldorian
 
Aldorian, your fine memory caught me off guard! At first, a tale of tragic loss, with a friend vanishing and a failing pursuit to find him, but then all of it takes a turn, with the memory of triumph at the friend's rediscovery! Simply exquisite! I never saw it coming, and your tale of success brings so much light into our discussion of memories, with all these other memories of solemn or grim happenings!

Who else has memories for us to enjoy? Who will recollect a marvelous tale next? Come, speak! The more, the merrier!

- Divirian
 
[[[Note: This is not a narration told in Talitha’s voice, but a scene played out as if you are there, living with her in the scene to follow. There is an underlying sense of restlessness that you may feel throughout the dream, as though you (or Talitha) cannot remember the last time you slept through the night. This is a real dream, thrust out into the open unbidden, rather than the focused conversation one might usually find here in “the dreaming”.]]]

Blood on my hands. I see it smeared scarlet over my skin and dripping from the tips of my fingers, threatening to stain everything that I touch. My breath begins to quicken as, finally, I start to wonder where it came from. Although pain crushes down on my chest, I know this blood isn't mine. I wish it were. Panic crawls beneath my unscathed flesh as, slowly, I tear my eyes away.

When I look up, the dull glow of an Earth Circle catches my gaze, and I wonder how I hadn't noticed it before. The light stretches lazily over the dirt and leaf litter around it, illuminating the pool of blood at my feet, turning it black as it soaks into the ground. Within the circle, a figure begins to form, building up flesh and bone from what begins as a concentrated glitter of light. As it forms, I stand frozen, anxiety tugging at the corners of my eyes. Please, not again… I've stopped breathing.

Soon enough, I recognize the thick dark hair, the contour of his side and the curve of his shoulders, as he lies there with his back to me. I swallow down the lump in my throat, threatening to choke me, and stumble forward. I rake my hands through the air at the edge of the circle, clawing at the magic barring me from him, begging the Earth to let me pass into its Circle.

Then I hear it. It’s the familiar deep growl of a wolf that sends a spark of adrenaline through me, like the last trace of lightning in my veins, and I feel the unbearable, desperate need to run. I think of the scars on my back, running for my life down a hill, with no chance of escape, and no one in sight.

The wolf growls again, bright eyes flashing through the depths of the surrounding forest. Rather than running, I press my back to the force behind me, planting my feet and standing as a guard over the Earth Circle, as though it weren't enough to protect the man within it.

I hear a soft laugh, amused, and the wolf emerges from the shadows. It pads slowly toward me, lithe shoulders moving languidly beneath her smooth black coat. As the wolf paces around me, stalking me, I hear the voice of a woman, as much like velvet as her laugh. “It’s too late, little girl.”

I've heard her voice before, in these nightmares. It haunts me.

My voice comes out hoarse. “No! No, it’s not. Please. Let me into the circle. I can save him.”

The wolf bares its teeth in the terrifying semblance of a grin. “This is only what he wanted. You were the first to find his blood on your hands. Isn't it fitting that you should also be the last?”

I think of small black stones clutched in my hand, my cheek resting against his knee as I waited for him to wake, the sound of my footsteps echoing against stone stairs as I ran down them, the swimming of my vision as I tried to focus on the teaching books, tried to learn far too late how to heal. I remember the look in his eyes when I told him what I’d done, the only time I could ever read him. And I recall other nightmares, where the pain in my chest was so great that I dreamed of tearing it out, the heart that only lead me into trouble, blood soaking the front of my shirt as I fell to my knees, pleading with time to fall backward.

“Let me save him!” I shriek.

The wolf pads up to the circle and brushes against it. Just like that, like a withering flower, the magic collapses, light shrinking into itself and fading out altogether. I collapse with it.

“It’s too late.” A soft laugh follows the wolf back into the forest. “Even if you could revive him, selfish thing, he would still be mine, in time.”

I fumble with the ties of my old brown cloak, yanking it off of me to cover his body with it. With shaking hands, I search for any sign of life. He isn't breathing. His skin is cold and I can’t find a pulse. Panic. I feel helpless, trying to fight off the tears that blur my sight. Crying will do no good. It never has. But despite my efforts to bottle them, the sobs tear through me unhindered, threatening to rattle me to pieces. My voice cracks when I call his name, pleading with him to wake. I shout into the trees around me, screaming for help and just screaming.

Alone. Useless.

When I have heard enough of my own wrecked voice echoing through the darkness and have no tears left to shed, I reach out and touch his face gently, apologetically, only to cringe back when I smear blood across his cheek. His blood. On my hands. Again.

I lack the will to breathe, to function. I notice my hand is clenched into a fist, and open it to reveal two small black stones, clinging to each other. I can only stare at them absently. This is all I have left, and even these I must give away.

I think of the night he finally kissed me, when all of the cracks had finally lined up to break me, and I feel ashamed that this is what my mind settles on. There were so many other memories. Lighter, younger. Before the blood, when the rain poured from the sky and lightning flashed above our heads, and I wasn't afraid to touch him, of hurting him, and hurting myself.

“That one is dead. Or better yet, he never existed,” he snapped.

The moon was high, the stars shining harshly down from the sky, casting on the world highlights of silver and shades of grey. He stood close to me, and when his fingers tipped my chin up, my mind blanked, fumbling for the right response as my heart raced and my hands shook.

I felt something become whole again. The cracks inside of me healed and the world seemed simpler for one brief, shining moment, as though everything was going to be alright, and the dawning of the sun in the morning could mean more to me than increased vulnerability.

But as he stepped back, he said, “There. That was the false culmination of your false ideas of who I was.”

I remember how cold and damp the grass was under my knees when my legs gave out on me. I was out there all night, in shock, staring at the dew on the ground and trying to put enough pieces back together so I could move again by morning.

It doesn't startle me when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I recognize it. I look up to see the man who has become my brother staring down at me. I have to squint through the sudden daylight streaming down through the trees. He helps me from the ground and pulls me into an embrace of green and leather and chainmail, which does take me by surprise.

“Let’s never do that again,” he says.

Drowning myself in his comfort, I nod. “I thought I’d lost you, too.”

But when the reply comes, it is not his voice, but the soft, malicious tone of a woman that says, “You will never lose me.”

[[[Note: The dream ends in a jolt of terror and abrupt darkness, as Talitha suddenly wakes up.]]]
 
As I don't appear to have anything better to do I suppose I will contribute what I may. I will share two things one is a memory of my own and one is a memory I shall share on behalf of someone who can no longer do so.


There was once a man of great honor, which you might find at odds with the fact that he became a pirate captain. He would take only cargo from ships of wealthy shipping companies. He would always do what he could to leave ship and crew intact with provisions enough to get them to safety. He was an odd sort of man but he had a charming personality and was very agreeable. One day this pirates luck ran out and his ship was overtaken by a vessel hired by three of the largest shipping companies solely to hunt down pirates. But the captain of the hunting ship was equally honorable and knew well the reputation of the pirate. So instead of the two ships coming to blows with heavy casualties the two captains agreed to let fate settle things between them. A table was set on the deck of the pirate vessel with two cups, the first mate of the hunting ship poured wine into each cup and poisoned one. The two captains were then brought to the table and each chose a seat in front of the cups. They both agreed that whichever man died both ships were free to take their leave with no bloodshed. And so the two drank. A moment passed and the pirate captain slipped from his chair dead. The hunting captain stood and picked up the body of the pirate captain and began walking to his ship, when one of the pirates tried to prevent him he said this "I would take my brothers body so that our mother has something to mourn." And with that the two vessels went separate ways.
-As honest an account as I can remember of a true story told to me by a dear friend.


I have seen the tears of evil men, and the blood lust of the righteous. I have been to the brink of madness and to the peak of clarity. I have watched good men be put to the sword and villains walk free. But I am just a simple man and my memories should hold no greater value then a farmers, so my memory is not of days won or lost. Of evil met or valiance seen. My memory is friendship. I walked the lonely path that so many of those who are called and call themselves Adventurers, and I learned to mistrust everything around me. I fought and pushed and worked and traveled, always seeking something but what I could not say. I had watched many a companion come and go until one day, a day when I found a home. A home that wasn't a place but people. And after a time I opened up to these people, and gave over to them a piece of myself. And until the day I die I will remain bound to these people by the iron of my spirit and the steel of my heart. I had found what I was looking for.


-York Winters
 
Memories that stick out in my mind, as you say, are full of emotion. The memory I will tell you is one of my sister. Not of blood, but one formed in battle. A warrior on the trade caravan I traveled with that taught me to hone my skills. This warrior, a gypsy woman called by the name of Tamarin Smit is one I would call family. Tamarin was fierce yet graceful in battle, fighting with a slender long blade. She was just as fierce in sparring, teaching me to find truth in my strikes on my opponent. I can't begin to count the number of times her blade pierced into my flesh. Strikes deep enough to draw forth my life blood and remind me where I am ignoring my defenses. Just as often though her strikes would accompany her sense of humor. Finding as much enjoyment in leaving her foe in a living state of humiliation rather than death.

One night as we stood guard beneath the moonless starry canopy that adorns our world, a group of would be bandits attacked. The night had already drawn long, the fire smoldering out as we had ceased feeding it sustenance. Stories of hunts and battles past continuing to dance forth from each others lips. The calm and quiet of the night stirred alive suddenly by the twang of an arrow sinking mere inches from Tamarins head. Battle was afoot, without a word we knew what must be done. Dousing the faint glow of the fire with a splash of water from my mug, we separated into the folds of darkness.

First coming upon a foe unaware, he had a short blade in hand. I quickly dropped him with a clawed strike to the kidney. His scream of pain was met by another a short distance away. Following the musky stench of another attacker, I was met with a large man bearing an axe seemingly as large as he. Yet another death cry was heard in the distance, my thoughts floating towards Tamarins quick strikes. I was shaken from the thought as the business end of the axe came flashing into view narrowly missing me. How I wished I had my polearm for such an encounter, but my clawed strikes were ever more pleasurable. We circled about trading blow for blow for what felt like an eternity. The man attacked again with a powerful strike, at that moment a look of confusion drew over his face. His pants dropped to his ankles while he was mid strike. The attack was already set in motion subsequently dropping him to the ground with a resounding thud. The coy smile of Tamarin appearing in the dim light behind the mans prone figure. I laughed knowing that she intended to teach this one a lesson. I backed off, observing how the man reacted furiously to the encounter. He tore the pants free from his legs as he began rising; axe in hand, turning upon Tamarin. Tamarin evasively avoided strike after strike, retaliating with subtle attacks of her own. Before the man knew what had happened, he stood there bearing his naked scratched up body before us.

Tamrin giggled, "It looks like there is a full moon out afterall. Perhaps you should worry more about your own humility than the possession of ours that you want so dearly."

With that, the man scurried away into the night leaving his pride behind as our prize. He kept his life intact that eve, his friends were not so lucky. Tamarin and I both shared in the humor of that assault. While potentially dangerous as all attacks can be, the encounter was one that shows the jovial nature of my sister Tamarin.

K'Tarn
 
Oh Talitha, your tale is exquisite, giving me shivers of hopelessness and terror with every word! The dreaded pain of desperation to save a friend, coupled with the presence of this horrific wolf... so deep! But I can sense something here, something strange... this memory was not brought forth to me; this memory came from your mind's unconscious thoughts, and I can tell that this is something important to you! Whether or not you intended to bravely share this thought, or whether your dreaming mind merely wandered to show me something unbidden, I am very pleased for what I have heard! Absolutely stupendous!

Winters, I can see that your connection to these people in which you have found home is deep as well, though it is so vague! It leaves me wanting so much more! From what you tell me, I know of that you are well-traveled and have seen much, but the succulent details of what you have seen and done are missing! Tell us more from your experiences! And as I told Stoneaxe, your first memory is not your own, and whilst it is a thrilling tale from a story perspective, it is still less intriguing because you are not recalling it from the depths of your own mind and experiences. A memory of your thoughts and emotions as your sailor friend told you the tale would be more in line with what I am seeking. But do not be discouraged! I am still very pleased by other pieces you told me!

K'Tarn, I am delighted by your memory! It was so very different than what I expected it to be, and the perfect balance of battle and laughter is beautiful! It is so wonderful to hear tales of battle that are light-hearted and joyous for once! Powerful bonds form through both adversity and contentment, and you must be very glad to have a friend like Tamarin! Most excellent!

Any more? Come, adventurers! Many have put forth their memories already, but that does not mean you have an excuse not to!

- Divirian
 
Come on, that's not a memory, Fern!

Try again!

- Divirian
 
Divirian,

No, it wasn't and no I can't.

Fern Woods
 
Divrian,

Come seek me out in a week's time in Hope's Reach. I have some tales for you, from this side of the mistwall, and beyond.

Eric Marsters
 
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