Ok, I really need to start reading what I cut/paste from now on. The story is that of Gavinlon who was an arial shaman. The description is of some lowbie thief I deleted, and the second description is Kaderavek's. nt

Ok, I really need to start reading what I cut/paste from now on. The story is that of Gavinlon who was an arial shaman. The description is of some lowbie thief I deleted, and the second description is Kaderavek's. nt:
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Posted by Ponderer(VIP) on November 11, 1999 at 07:09:53:

In Reply to: Stories, descriptions and such posted by Ponderer(VIP) on November 10, 1999 at 11:51:34:

> Elderion asked me to post/email him some descriptions, so I dug through my stories and found one that is from a relatively recent/failed Imperial thief hopeful named Kaderavek. I also used this story for Diakeron and Gavinlon both of who failed as well. I make up this shit and then delete at 20 or so and wonder why I even bothered spending my time writing it in the first place.
> *****************************
> "There's a tiny shanty up in those hills, that's where it all began." said the weary traveler, beginning to weave his tale.

> "It was a dark, tempestuous night. Hail the size of a gnome's head fell to the ground, pummeling any that were foolhardy enough to be out on such a night. I was working my way towards my mother's home, she'd fallen dreadfully ill, and on a whim had decided to cut through the forest and shave a few days off my journey. Sure, it wasn't the safest choice I'd ever made as wife's tales often tell of witches and warlocks nabbing the wayward traveler, but I wanted to make sure I was there to say loving words to my mother before she passed. The day was new, but the night was young when I heard that first bloodchilling shriek coming from the tiny building I was doing my best to avoid getting too close to. My curiosity wouldn't let me bypass seeing what was occurring within, so I crept on silent feet to the wall of that tiny building. I peered through a seam in the wall, you know...where two boards were nailed together, but not close enough to deny a peeper like me from abusing the shoddy craftsmanship. Anyways, as I peered through the seam I saw an arial woman giving birth and a half-elven mid-wife helping her along. The father, who curiously was a human, was a drunken mess, seemingly passed out in a nearby chair. The woman was also drunk, you know...to take the edge off the pain. The mid-wife had just given her another shot of what appeared to be whiskey when she let out a scream so loud I fell backwards. I quickly regained my composure and retook my position. It appeared as though the child was being born breech, that is feet first. Now, I was born breech, so I know it's difficult on the mother as mine had problems from my birth onward. This poor lady though, she wasn't taking it very well at all. Blood dripped in bucket fulls onto the floor, creating a pool of blood that had nearly covered the entire floor. She was very pale and began coughing up blood as well, when suddenly everything stopped. She went limp with the child only halfway born. Dead she was, and the mid-wife knew it immediately. What I saw next was dreadful; cursing and spitting the mid-wife yanked the poor child out ferociously. The child was mainly human in appearance. Sure, feathers dotted his body in small patches, and the wings of a birdman were present, but other than that he was human. It was a tense beginning to that child's life."

> The weary traveler pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes his lips, shaking his head all the while.

> "I tell you, it was terrible. The mid-wife wrapped the child in rough material and gave, no tossed the child towards the father who was still blind drunk. The father glared down at his newborn and cursed his spirit and life right then and there. The child was crying which directly led to a wicked lashing from the father. If I'd have been a larger man I'd have stormed in there and thrashed the both of them. That poor child...the mid-wife lay sobbing over the dead mother. The father, having dropped the child to the floor, threw her away from the body and slapped her across the face. I was flabbergasted I tell you! The horror nearly made me howl with agony. The father fell over the body, crying almost as bad as the child. The mid-wife approached the body once more but the father attacked her viciously. After he'd thoroughly beaten her she ran out into the woods. At that moment I decided to watch over the development of this child from a distance."

> The weary traveler wipes a tear from his eye, trying to do it so that you don't notice his moment of fragility.

> "That was 15 years ago. I watched that small arial child grow I did. I saw nearly every day of his life, watching from a distance hoping to help him in any way I could. His was a rough life, I'll tell you that straight off. He'd spend most of his earliest years in swaddling clothes...you know, when you bind a baby up tightly in material. So tight that they can't even move. I hated that, seeing that poor child trying to wriggle himself free. You could tell it was hard on his body, I can't imagine the ache in those wings that couldn't be stretched or moved in any way. He'd cry constantly. It was obvious the roughness of the material was causing chafing. You know…his father wouldn't change those clothes for weeks. Can you imagine? What a breeding ground for disease...all of that excrement just building up and building up. It couldn't have been comfortable. To make matters worse, only weeks after his birth he'd receive his first switching...right across the face. He still bears that scar you know, from his chin to his ear it is. It was ghastly, I nearly fainted when I saw the father raise that thin branch over his head and bring it down upon his newborn baby...and the cigar burns! Only the depths of hell could spawn a father that would burn his child's limbs with the end of a tobac cigar. I counted 64 times he did that, 64 circular scars upon that child's arms and legs...I'm sure there are more though, some that I wasn't there to witness. My frail body couldn't help him though, his father would've beaten me worse than he beat that mid-wife."

> The weary traveler starts to pace, muttering to himself. Looking him over you see that he's perhaps 6' tall, but he must weigh only 100, maybe 115 pounds.

> "I did help him though, after he'd grown a bit. I began to talk with him when he was 7. I understood everything about him as I'd seen it all happen. We talked for the first time near the old mine shaft where he was put to work. He wasn't very receptive to strangers. Everybody he'd ever known beat him so I'm sure he was wary of allowing another possible child abuser into his life. We talked though, after he'd gotten use to my approaching him. His father made him work almost every day; at least those that he was sober enough to give directions. Field weeding, mineral finding, mining, hunting...that child was worked more by the age of 7 than most people work all of their natural lives. Hideous, that poor child's life was hideous. I tried to feed him once and awhile as all his father ever gave him were scraps. I also tried to instill a little faith within his soul…you know, that the divine beings would shower him with mercy and protect him from further trouble. I also told him that I'd protect him personally, though he knew as well as I did that I was hopeless in that area. He knew his fate was up to divinity and the temperament of his father."

> The weary traveler sighs at this point, glancing at you momentarily.

> "Things did begin to look up for the boy, but not until his teenage years. All the preaching, all of the faith began to change the boy. You could almost sense it about him, that his inner-strength, spirit, and will were blossoming into something grand. At first he wasn't sure what to do with his newfound strength. I told him a bit about the Theran priests that adventured not too very far from his home. He seemed keen on that thought, adventure that is, or maybe he thought of it as escape. He always wanted to hear about the shaman's guild and the things taught within. You know…he picked up on the rudimentary prayers of that guild as fast I could tell him that they even existed. Personally, I think the boy had the divine help that I prayed would surround him daily, but I'll never know. Of course, he would start to pray against his father…something that I advised against even though the man was deserving of whatever befell him. His father would never know what was happening, he'd just suddenly fall blind, or contract a serious disease. It was almost humorous, but the boy took it a bit too far. I couldn't stop him; his anger had grown too strong. After he yelled something to the effect of "You'll never hurt me again father!" he glared at the man and destroyed him where he stood. I'm not sure what prayer he called upon the man, but I surely hope the words never fall into the wrong hands."

> The weary traveler looks up from his hands and almost smiles, as if what he is about to say might somehow brighten things.

> "The boy, now free of his father's torment, would make his way down from the hills to Galadon where he would join the shaman's guild. He really streaked through the ranks I tell you, he was a natural. I followed him up until about his 6th advancement. I just couldn't keep track of him anymore, but it's probably for the better anyhow. He was doing fine on his own."

> A sudden look of sadness crosses his face.

> "Sometimes I wish I was still watching over him. I still hear some things about him now and then though. I overhear a gleeman's tale or a bard story that gives mention to great shaman spreading the words of their deity across the land. I don't know what the boy is doing, but I know he'll be Ok. He'll be Ok."
> *********************************

> His description was:

> A birdman thief hovers nearby, his feet touching ground only
> periodically. Feathers of darkest black cover his entire body
> except for on the edges of his wings where blue feathers prevail.
> His armor appears to be made of a lightweight metal, overwhich he
> wears a sheer black material that serves to dull the reflections of
> light that might give his presence in the shadows away. His silver
> beak is twisted into an everpresent sneer. Eyes of steely gray
> pierce your heart with coldness. His face is cold and emotionless,
> the sinewy musculature of his jaws constantly working. An array
> of daggers line his belt in various kinds of sheaths. A staff hangs
> across his back, and a single sword hangs in a scabbard of unmatched
> quality. He's fairly tall, accentuated by the fact that he's floating
> 5 inches above the ground.

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Comments:	> > Elderion asked me to post/email him some descriptions, so I dug through my stories and found one that is from a relatively recent/failed Imperial thief hopeful named Kaderavek. I also used this story for Diakeron and Gavinlon both of who failed as well. I make up this shit and then delete at 20 or so and wonder why I even bothered spending my time writing it in the first place. > > *************************** > > "There's a tiny shanty up in those hills, that's where it all began." said the weary traveler, beginning to weave his tale. > > "It was a dark, tempestuous night. Hail the size of a gnome's head fell to the ground, pummeling any that were foolhardy enough to be out on such a night. I was working my way towards my mother's home, she'd fallen dreadfully ill, and on a whim had decided to cut through the forest and shave a few days off my journey. Sure, it wasn't the safest choice I'd ever made as wife's tales often tell of witches and warlocks nabbing the wayward traveler, but I wanted to make sure I was there to say loving words to my mother before she passed. The day was new, but the night was young when I heard that first bloodchilling shriek coming from the tiny building I was doing my best to avoid getting too close to. My curiosity wouldn't let me bypass seeing what was occurring within, so I crept on silent feet to the wall of that tiny building. I peered through a seam in the wall, you know...where two boards were nailed together, but not close enough to deny a peeper like me from abusing the shoddy craftsmanship. Anyways, as I peered through the seam I saw an arial woman giving birth and a half-elven mid-wife helping her along. The father, who curiously was a human, was a drunken mess, seemingly passed out in a nearby chair. The woman was also drunk, you know...to take the edge off the pain. The mid-wife had just given her another shot of what appeared to be whiskey when she let out a scream so loud I fell backwards. I quickly regained my composure and retook my position. It appeared as though the child was being born breech, that is feet first. Now, I was born breech, so I know it's difficult on the mother as mine had problems from my birth onward. This poor lady though, she wasn't taking it very well at all. Blood dripped in bucket fulls onto the floor, creating a pool of blood that had nearly covered the entire floor. She was very pale and began coughing up blood as well, when suddenly everything stopped. She went limp with the child only halfway born. Dead she was, and the mid-wife knew it immediately. What I saw next was dreadful; cursing and spitting the mid-wife yanked the poor child out ferociously. The child was mainly human in appearance. Sure, feathers dotted his body in small patches, and the wings of a birdman were present, but other than that he was human. It was a tense beginning to that child's life." > > The weary traveler pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes his lips, shaking his head all the while. > > "I tell you, it was terrible. The mid-wife wrapped the child in rough material and gave, no tossed the child towards the father who was still blind drunk. The father glared down at his newborn and cursed his spirit and life right then and there. The child was crying which directly led to a wicked lashing from the father. If I'd have been a larger man I'd have stormed in there and thrashed the both of them. That poor child...the mid-wife lay sobbing over the dead mother. The father, having dropped the child to the floor, threw her away from the body and slapped her across the face. I was flabbergasted I tell you! The horror nearly made me howl with agony. The father fell over the body, crying almost as bad as the child. The mid-wife approached the body once more but the father attacked her viciously. After he'd thoroughly beaten her she ran out into the woods. At that moment I decided to watch over the development of this child from a distance." > > The weary traveler wipes a tear from his eye, trying to do it so that you don't notice his moment of fragility. > > "That was 15 years ago. I watched that small arial child grow I did. I saw nearly every day of his life, watching from a distance hoping to help him in any way I could. His was a rough life, I'll tell you that straight off. He'd spend most of his earliest years in swaddling clothes...you know, when you bind a baby up tightly in material. So tight that they can't even move. I hated that, seeing that poor child trying to wriggle himself free. You could tell it was hard on his body, I can't imagine the ache in those wings that couldn't be stretched or moved in any way. He'd cry constantly. It was obvious the roughness of the material was causing chafing. You know…his father wouldn't change those clothes for weeks. Can you imagine? What a breeding ground for disease...all of that excrement just building up and building up. It couldn't have been comfortable. To make matters worse, only weeks after his birth he'd receive his first switching...right across the face. He still bears that scar you know, from his chin to his ear it is. It was ghastly, I nearly fainted when I saw the father raise that thin branch over his head and bring it down upon his newborn baby...and the cigar burns! Only the depths of hell could spawn a father that would burn his child's limbs with the end of a tobac cigar. I counted 64 times he did that, 64 circular scars upon that child's arms and legs...I'm sure there are more though, some that I wasn't there to witness. My frail body couldn't help him though, his father would've beaten me worse than he beat that mid-wife." > > The weary traveler starts to pace, muttering to himself. Looking him over you see that he's perhaps 6' tall, but he must weigh only 100, maybe 115 pounds. > > "I did help him though, after he'd grown a bit. I began to talk with him when he was 7. I understood everything about him as I'd seen it all happen. We talked for the first time near the old mine shaft where he was put to work. He wasn't very receptive to strangers. Everybody he'd ever known beat him so I'm sure he was wary of allowing another possible child abuser into his life. We talked though, after he'd gotten use to my approaching him. His father made him work almost every day; at least those that he was sober enough to give directions. Field weeding, mineral finding, mining, hunting...that child was worked more by the age of 7 than most people work all of their natural lives. Hideous, that poor child's life was hideous. I tried to feed him once and awhile as all his father ever gave him were scraps. I also tried to instill a little faith within his soul…you know, that the divine beings would shower him with mercy and protect him from further trouble. I also told him that I'd protect him personally, though he knew as well as I did that I was hopeless in that area. He knew his fate was up to divinity and the temperament of his father." > > The weary traveler sighs at this point, glancing at you momentarily. > > "Things did begin to look up for the boy, but not until his teenage years. All the preaching, all of the faith began to change the boy. You could almost sense it about him, that his inner-strength, spirit, and will were blossoming into something grand. At first he wasn't sure what to do with his newfound strength. I told him a bit about the Theran priests that adventured not too very far from his home. He seemed keen on that thought, adventure that is, or maybe he thought of it as escape. He always wanted to hear about the shaman's guild and the things taught within. You know…he picked up on the rudimentary prayers of that guild as fast I could tell him that they even existed. Personally, I think the boy had the divine help that I prayed would surround him daily, but I'll never know. Of course, he would start to pray against his father…something that I advised against even though the man was deserving of whatever befell him. His father would never know what was happening, he'd just suddenly fall blind, or contract a serious disease. It was almost humorous, but the boy took it a bit too far. I couldn't stop him; his anger had grown too strong. After he yelled something to the effect of "You'll never hurt me again father!" he glared at the man and destroyed him where he stood. I'm not sure what prayer he called upon the man, but I surely hope the words never fall into the wrong hands." > > The weary traveler looks up from his hands and almost smiles, as if what he is about to say might somehow brighten things. > > "The boy, now free of his father's torment, would make his way down from the hills to Galadon where he would join the shaman's guild. He really streaked through the ranks I tell you, he was a natural. I followed him up until about his 6th advancement. I just couldn't keep track of him anymore, but it's probably for the better anyhow. He was doing fine on his own." > > A sudden look of sadness crosses his face. > > "Sometimes I wish I was still watching over him. I still hear some things about him now and then though. I overhear a gleeman's tale or a bard story that gives mention to great shaman spreading the words of their deity across the land. I don't know what the boy is doing, but I know he'll be Ok. He'll be Ok." > > ******************************* > > His description was: > > A birdman thief hovers nearby, his feet touching ground only > > periodically. Feathers of darkest black cover his entire body > > except for on the edges of his wings where blue feathers prevail. > > His armor appears to be made of a lightweight metal, overwhich he > > wears a sheer black material that serves to dull the reflections of > > light that might give his presence in the shadows away. His silver > > beak is twisted into an everpresent sneer. Eyes of steely gray > > pierce your heart with coldness. His face is cold and emotionless, > > the sinewy musculature of his jaws constantly working. An array > > of daggers line his belt in various kinds of sheaths. A staff hangs > > across his back, and a single sword hangs in a scabbard of unmatched > > quality. He's fairly tall, accentuated by the fact that he's floating > > 5 inches above the ground.

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