Conan vs Sticky Notes

The dawn was a thin red smear on the horizon, like hot blood wiped across a steel blade. Towers of glass and concrete rose on either side, their windows catching the first light giving the impression the city watched him with a thousand unblinking crimson eyes.  Once again, due to circumstances beyond his control, Conan was late for work.

He took the on-ramp as if it were the narrow causeway to a besieged keep, fast, wheels squealing, engine coughing and wheezing. The highway yawned before him, six wide rivers of asphalt, each one choked with cars and trucks that moved faster than his pickup could manage, each guided by men and women who trusted in the painted lines as if they were runes of protection, nearly oblivious to the dangers whizzing around them.

Conan’s pickup grumbled, faithful as an old worn out warhorse. He gripped the worn leather wheel until his knuckles blanched. In his ear, a small voice from the dashboard whispered directions in a ridiculously pleasant tone, like a sorcerer’s charm meant to lull the wary.  Not few were the crashes that occurred because that sweetly intoned voice periodically gave false directions. Conan ignored it.  There was no time to pay attention to Judy, his name for the dear machine.  The roads were littered with the results of her occasional hallucinations.

A gap opened in the far lane. Conan signaled, and began to merge. The traffic surged and hissed around him, like a herd of wild beasts, with horns blaring, and tires screeching. And then, as if conjured by the spite of the road, the youth appeared.

He was scarcely more than a boy, beard still patchy, cap backwards like some tribal mark. His machine was low, bright, and absurdly loud.  He came darting through the lanes, cutting between the sedans with the arrogance of a high prince who believed himself immortal. The boy’s face was lit by the pale glow of a screen, his eyes not on the road but on the tiny world in his palm.

Conan’s nostrils flared. He felt the old instinct in his bones, older than cities, older than law. Not quite mysticism, perhaps, but close.  Danger, it warned out of the corner of his mind.

The boy swerved, too late, too sharp. His car clipped the rear corner of a lumbering van. The van fishtailed like a wounded ox. A chain of horns erupted, red lights flaring across the spectrum, a cacophony of outrage and fear. Tires screamed. Metal struck metal with a sound like shields splitting.

The van spun. A smaller car struck it and crumpled, folding and cracking as if made of plastic. A black sedan lurched across the lanes, sliding into the side of a jeep. Cars began crisscrossing lanes in a panic. The herd stampeded.  

Conan did not pray. He did not panic. He glanced to the left and right for a brief calculating moment, and then moved.

He wrenched the wheel, not with the delicate corrections of a timid driver, but with the brutal certainty of a man steering a stallion through a battlefield. He watched the angles, the momentum, the blind spots where death hid. His foot hammered the brake, then eased up, and then hammered again, as if he were taming a beast with heel and rein.

A sedan slid sideways in front of him, its driver’s eyes wide and empty, mouth shaping a sound that never became a word. Conan slipped behind it by inches, the way a knife hisses as it slices the air without hitting the flesh. A puff of smoke curled from someone’s tires like incense from a brazier.  To almost everyone the scene was a blur.  Everyone except Conan.  

For one heartbeat, the world narrowed to the width of a spear-shaft. Conan’s truck shuddered as something heavy struck the road behind him; debris, perhaps, or only the echo of a disaster further down the line. Then the space opened, and he was through and surged away from the wreckage behind him.

In his mirror, the boy’s bright car skittered to a stop, unharmed, as if the gods favored fools. The boy raised his hands in outrage at the ruins around him, as though the carnage were an inconvenience inflicted upon him by lesser men.  He was furious at all those damn stupid cows that made this happen.

Conan growled low in his throat, a sound that might have been laughter if it contained any mirth.  It didn't.

“Civilization,” he muttered. “Aye. A fine gleaming civilization you have here.  Well done.”

He drove on. He was late and needed to make up for lost time.

The steel-and-glass fortress of his employment rose from the city like a polished tomb. Conan parked his pickup among the other vehicles.  There were rows upon rows of them, packed so tightly that a man could scarcely squeeze between their flanks. Jeremy Williams and Tod Roberts were rolling in too, both carrying their satchels like men shouldering shields, faces already drawn with the weariness of an endless siege.

Inside, the air was bone-chilling cold.  It was summer, so that was expected. Conan grit his teeth as he passed the security gate.  He presented his badge and entered the gray maze of cubicles. The walls were low, the ceilings high, a landscape designed to make a man feel both exposed and insignificant at the same time.  The decor was bleak with gray artwork and fluorescent bulbs.

He reached his own cell and stopped.

His cubicle wall had been… adorned.  Again.  As usual.

Bright square sticky notes in a dozen colors clung to the fabric like exotic fungi. Some were scrawled with imperatives: ASAP, blocker, urgent!!! Others bore strange commands: “Circle back,” “quick win,” “ship it.” A few had been slapped on at odd angles, overlapping, as if the scribe had been drunk or possessed.

And pinned at the center, like a trophy taken from a dead enemy, was a printed notice:

“Wrike Project Management System is being decommissioned as of this morning.  Please refer to management for project details.”

Conan stared at the words, feeling a coldness in his gut that no air-conditioning could explain.

Jeremy leaned over the cubicle wall, eyes hollow. “They killed it,” he said. “Upper management. Said the system was ‘too complex’, but we can translate that to 'too expensive', most likely.”

Tod appeared behind him, clutching a coffee like a man clinging to the last warm ember in winter. “They want us to do the project off the wall,” he whispered, as if speaking too loudly might summon something.

Conan touched a sticky note. It peeled away too easily, like dead skin.

“A council of imbeciles,” Conan said slowly, “who throw away the map in the midst of war.”

Jeremy gave a humorless laugh. “They said it promotes collaboration.”

Conan looked at the wall again. The notes fluttered faintly in the draft from a vent above, shifting, trembling, as if alive. He felt the faintest prickling at the back of his neck, the same sensation he’d felt on the highway a moment before steel began to fly. It was absurd, of course. A man could not be wounded by a mere piece of paper.  Could he?

And yet…

He imagined, with sudden clarity, how the day would go: a note falling unseen to the floor; a task forgotten; a deadline missed; an executive’s wrath descending like an axe. He imagined the project, a mission-critical enterprise system, collapsing under its own weight, not from lack of skill, but from lack of order, like an army routed because its generals preferred feasting to strategizing.

He sat down heavily into his creaking swivel chair.  Screens glowed to life, vomiting fresh plagues: servers buckling, permissions stripped, programs gone mad. The ticketing system, the new Task Master of this age, spat demands at him in endless succession.

And now, above it all, the sticky-note wall loomed like a crude shrine.  In between putting out technical fires, he was to work on Project Mohawk's absurdly complicated infrastructure based on whatever he could surmise from the sticky-note parade.  Great.  

Conan fought as he always fought. He did not wince or complain. He did not plead. He hunted the miscreant code through tangled lines, strangled it, and threw its corpse to the void. He patched one breach only to see three more open. He spoke calmly into meetings where management argued about feelings instead of outcomes.  His tone never wavered.  And when his advice was ignored, as ever it was, he went back to his desk and kept up the slog.

At midday, sent out on a simple errand for provisions, Conan stepped into the parking lot and found another combat zone.

The sun beat down on black asphalt that shimmered in the heat. Vehicles prowled the lanes between rows, moving with the stealth of predators. Some did not roar at all but were silent machines that glided without warning, like ghosts.  The electric car. Silent and dangerous, like a viper of glass and steel. He paused for an instant.

A woman backed her massive SUV out of a space without looking, trusting her tiny screen and a beeping charm to save her. The beast surged toward him with a sudden lurch.

Conan sprang aside, boots scraping gravel, and slapped a palm against the vehicle’s rear quarter with the casual force of a man stopping a door. The driver’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Sorry!” she mouthed, though her lips formed it as an afterthought, and the word was forgotten as soon as it was formed. 

Then, a low-wheeled shopping cart, loose and rattling, slipped out of the grasp of an aged shopper and began rolling downhill with malicious purpose toward a row of parked cars next to Conan. Without a thought he lunged, caught it by the handle, and wrenched it around before it could strike. The cart shuddered, resisting, as if it possessed a will of its own. Conan cursed it, and rattled it with two hands until it stopped moving.  The elder came and took the cart from the giant's paws, muttered a minuscule gratitude and continued his rattling journey down the lot.

A gust of wind swirled grit and plastic wrappers across the asphalt in a spiraling dance. Conan watched the trash whirl like a tiny storm and felt again that faint prickle, that hint of something watching from the beyond the edges of ordinary things. Perhaps it was only exhaustion. Perhaps it was the city’s way of speaking.  He glanced in the direction but saw nothing but shimmering cars, trash, and... wait.  A crow.  When he spotted it, the crow lifted itself into the air with a single 'Caw' and flew between two cars and vanished.  He raised an eyebrow, grumbled and made his way to the box-store to get the office supplies he needed.

He returned to the fortress with his provisions intact. The sticky notes had shifted.

Had someone moved them? Had the vent done it? Had his mind, worn thin by some strange sorcery, invented the change?

Conan did not know. He only knew that one note, reading "deploy at 4", now hung by a single corner, trembling like a man on the edge of a cliff ready to jump.

He pressed it flat with two fingers and secured it firmly to the cubical with a thumb tack. Then he went back to war.

By the time the sun sank and shadows crawled once more through the canyons of the electronic city, Conan was exhausted. His eyes burned. His throat was hoarse. His hands shook with the after-tremor of a hundred small battles. He rose from his chair like an old soldier rising bloody and broken from mud, and trudged out into the hot twilight. His trusty pickup waited patiently, and grumbled as usual when he started her up.

The neon glow of Ma’s Carbuncle called to him like a hearth-light. The smell of black bread and mystery meat lifted his spirits as he pushed through the front door.

Within the all-hours joint, the air was thick with fumes from iron skillets and bubbling cauldrons. At one booth a grim-faced truck master was speaking of “routes” as if they were raids into hostile territory, and barked orders at the grime covered men sitting with him. At the counter, weary analysts were sniffing at smoky potables.  One was muttering something about an upcoming tax audit.  The others ignored him and were stuffing their churlish faces.

And there she was.  Sonya the server.  She moved through it all with the sharp grace of a blade dancer, ever bright and filled with sardonic vitality. Her copper hair was just catching a ray of crimson sunset, as her bright and amused eyes, like emeralds, settled on Conan as he made his way past the baboons.

He took his regular perch. Sonya arrived as if summoned, sliding a plate before him piled high with dark steaming meat on dry black bread. His favorite. She set down a cup of blackwater that steamed like a cauldron of witch’s brew.  He gazed at it with bemusement.

“Your favorite,” she said, brows flat, lids half lifted. “Let me guess.  Rough day at the office.”

Conan grunted, and tore into the meal as if it had insulted his ancestors. “Technology is but the blade. It is the hands that wield it that doom us.”

Sonya leaned closer, just enough that Conan caught the faint scent of perfume behind the coffee and fryer oil. “What did they do to you this time?”

Conan swallowed, then jerked his head toward an invisible wall only he could see. “They cast away the great ledger of our tasks,” he said. “The one that tracked our battles and our burdens and informs us of where the next battle is to take place. Instead, they are pasting scraps of colored paper on the walls like children making offerings to a rain god.  We're expected to maintain the same level of productivity.  Most cannot.”

Sonya’s lips twitched. “Sticky notes.”

“Aye,” said Conan darkly. “the paper ghosts of productivity lost.”

She laughed, quick, sharp, and controlled, like a woman who would not give the world too much satisfaction. “And you survived, yet again.  Wonderful.”

“I survive,” Conan said. “That is what I do.”

Sonya refilled his blackwater with the casual authority of a queen granting mercy. "You're still my hero, Conan," she said.

“Your words make the darkness a mite brighter,” Conan replied, almost grudgingly, as if the compliment were a coin he did not often spend, and a slight concern that the spirits of malice might hear them and do mischief.

Sonya’s eyes narrowed with practiced suspicion, but the corners of her mouth rose despite herself. “Careful, Conan,” she said. “Talk like that and I might start giving you free refills.”

Conan snorted. “Do not insult me.”

Her whiplike tongue had found its mark, as always. She drifted away to tend to the crowd of miscreants, and fend off some accountants who had mistaken her patience for interest.

Conan ate until the shaking in his hands eased. Outside, the traffic howled and screeched its everlasting cacophony, and the city’s lights flickered awake, filling the skyline with the only stars it knew.

When he finally rose, his body felt heavy with fatigue, his shirt splattered with dark meat-sauce and coffee. He stepped out into the night. The air was cooler now, but it did not feel refreshing.  The drones above buzzed incessantly with their night deliveries, occasionally whirling into buildings and crashing to the ground, or showering sparks for unknown reasons.

He drove home down the lanes of peril, wary as any man crossing a haunted wood. He thought of the boy on the highway, unharmed amid wreckage, mocking the crowd of people whose lives he disrupted, and it made him clench his jaw with righteous indignation.  He thought of the sticky notes trembling on his wall like nervous omens. He thought of the parking lot’s silent chariots and rolling traps.

Perhaps there were mystic powers governing this world. Perhaps there were none. In the end, it mattered little. The danger was real either way.

Conan the Programmer / Analyst arrived at his tiny dwelling-hole gritty and tired, and as he shut the door behind him, he could not help but feel that tomorrow the city would awaken hungry again.  By Crom… it always did.

Outside a crow caw'd in the distance.

Elthos Yellow Clay Story Map

Instead of simple maps that show what is in a given area, I like to superimpose over that the actual story as it's being played, with past, present and (possible) futures also represented. These story maps act as a memory device for me as the GamesMaster, and also provide the Players with an interesting representation of the game, and helps to keep the story in their memories. Those things that appear to them to be ambiguous and mysterious are just as well. I don't explain them. I simply keep them in mind while we are playing. If one of the 'possible futures' does transpire they can see it afterwards on the Story Map as a form of foreshadowing. And that works great.

These are wonderful little devices if you happen to have the time, artistic bent, and creative imagination for it. I love them. And over the years I've accumulated a neat stack of Story Maps that never fail to entertain me again long after the campaign has completed.

Edit: Venger Satanis (google+) mentioned this post and Story Map on his blog here. Cool. :)

The Kobolds of Elthos

The Kobolds of the Red Hills are hardly known by the human world, and that's a problem.  It wouldn't be a problem, except that the Kobolds are annoyed, and so they're making it a problem.  The reason they're annoyed is because they prefer to be left alone.  But as it happens, the humans just keep expanding into new territories, and building new villages and towns out where the Kobolds have been wont to live for all these many eons.  Why it's just bound to rub them the wrong way, don't you know?

Kobolds come in two varieties.  They're either Woodland creatures that emerge from the hearts of old broken trees, or they're Earthland creatures that emerge from rifts in the ground.  In fact this is why Kobolds are known so well by miners.  The name Kobold, as you may have guessed, comes actually from the word Cobalt, the element, which in its pure form is a hard, lustrous, silver-gray metal.  You might think this therefore this sort of maybe makes Kobolds a kind of Elemental. And in a way you would kind of sort of maybe be right about that.  In the World of Elthos, they're even called parum elementarium by the Alchemists.  It is even said that Kobolds can transform themselves into Cobalt when they so choose.  Well, at least those that emanate from Earthland.  It is likewise said that Kobolds that emerge from the hearts of broken trees can turn into wood, and often do so during the day, looking for all the world like old mossy tree branches with funny faces.  At night both kinds of Kobolds transform into their 'little human' forms and, well, kind of run amok, really.  

Now among Kobolds there's not only two distinct branches of the family, but there's two distinct societies as well.  And the two do not get along at all.  One branch is called the Su'unkar, and the other branch is called the Shi'inkar.  The confusing part is that the two branches are not divided by whether or not they are Woodland or Earthland creatures, but rather instead by the philosophy of their Clan Elders.  And there's a whole lot of Clans among the Kobolds   

The Su'unkar are not really the big thinkers of the Kobold world.  They're more interested in the enjoyment of their meager material pleasures.  In fact, the Su'unkar call themselves "the soup eaters", on account of their love of soups.  Yes, they really do love soup, those guys.  And this reflects their disposition and inclinations about life.  They try to enjoy what they've got.  Now you might wonder where they got the idea of making soup from to begin with.  Yes, from the humans, of course.  In fact this is also reflective of their disposition and inclinations.  They like to imitate the humans, and in fact do try, more or less, to get along with them.  They call the humans "little brothers", and love to mimic human traits and society.  So these are the kinds of Kobolds that you'll find wearing vests and shoes and little hats with feathers and such.  They can usually speak a little bit of the human language, with a rather atrocious accent, but passably understandable to most people who have a little patience and time on their hands.  But even so, most humans won't really have much truck with Kobolds of any variety.  This is because they can be pretty damn annoying.  Kobolds love to play a little game they call "Tricks & Traps".  It's not an especially nice game, but they do think it's terribly funny.  Sometimes, even, people get killed.  But this just makes the Kobolds laugh all the more.  It's not very nice, actually.  But Kobolds view humans, really, as interesting little bugs that recently showed up in the world, and they kind of enjoy playing with them the same way human kids might enjoy playing with ants, or other harmless insects.   For them, it's really just a form of amusement.  A morose and dangerous form of amusement, but still... can we really blame them entirely?

On the other side of the divide we have the Shi'inkar.  Now these are the true thinkers, the wizards, the old ones and the formidable sorcerers of the Kobold world.  And they're frankly up to no good at all.  Running into them is most often a bad thing, and quite perilous.  Fortunately, there are actually very few of them, so the risk is small that anyone will actually see them.  However, that doesn't make them any less terrible.  They're kind of like the Su'unkar in that they like to play "Tricks & Traps", but in their case the tricks and traps are rather enormous, and slow moving, and sometimes take centuries to unfold... but when they do a whole lot of people wind up dying.  They're the source of all kinds of troubles for the human race over the centuries, though in most cases the humans never found out the true causes of their demise.  And oh my how those old and wicked Kobolds can laugh, and laugh, and laugh.  In fact it's said by some that the greater storms coming off the Oceans, the ones that are truly destructive, have in them howling winds that are the laughter of the Elder Kobolds.  So, yes, friend, you really wouldn't want to meet any of the Shi'inkar.   But if you do, just remember, whatever they're doing, you should try your absolute best to derail it.  Because whatever they're cooking up is meant to do you, your family, your friends, your town, your province, and your entire race as much harm as they can think up.  

Anyway, that's a little bit about Kobolds in Elthos. 

Stick Figures From Hell

I made up a tiny little Mini-Elthos-RPG that uses the Elthos ODS Rules as a backbone.

It's a silly little thing, but somehow I like it anyway.  So here you go. 

Stick Figures From Hell

The Mini-Elthos RPG

:)

Enjoy.

The Life and Death of Lord Dunn

In the mountain town of Hobbington there are legends and rumors regarding Lord Dunn that are considered common knowledge, and as they may be of interest to the Adventure's Guild, I will record them as I have heard them from the locals in the town. It should be noted that the legends and rumors change somewhat depending on which area of the town the residents come from. Those who live in the wealthy area known as 'The Heights' have a tendency to look highly on Lord Dunn, and so those elements of his legend that shine brightest are emphasized, while the rumors regarding his demise are somewhat marginalized. Those who live near 'The Old Quarter', which is the lowest area of the town, and the poorest, have far more colorful versions of these matters. I will include both and let the reader decide which among them has the greater veracity.

According to legend, Lord Dunn was a Baron in the Kingdom of Oswald. When Good King Oswald's twin children were captured and taken by some unknown force out of the Kingdom, the King and Queen were besides themselves with anxiety. Lord Dunn was the first of the Lords to propose sending expeditions far and wide to seek news of the children. When the mysterious Queen Watho arrived shortly thereafter, she consoled the Royal Household by stating that she knew the children had been kidnapped by an evil wizard who happen to be her rival in an hitherto unknown kingdom across the Western Mountains. Lord Dunn was again the first of the Barons to propose taking an army over the mountains to confront the villainous wizard. Seeing as how the Campaign would lead into unknown territory it was decided that a third of the Barons would join the expedition under the guidance of Queen Watho who knew the passes through the mountains. And so the army was gathered, retainers equiped, and a following of artisans for the upkeep of the force was assembled, and they set off over the Western Mountains. These events occured many decades ago. It was unfortunate luck that caused an avalanche to block the pass leading back to the Kingdom of Oswald, and so the army had no choice but to forge ahead, and eventually made their way into the Glendale valley. Although a quarter of the army had perished of cold and privation, it was Lord Dunn's good leadership that allowed the remainder to survive the terrible journey. Lord Dunn also distinguished himself while crossing the snow capped mountains by leading the van, and defeating several mountain monsters along the way, the greatest being a huge troll named Otorg the Red who lived in a massive cave high up on Whitefrost Mountain who had threatened the life of Queen Watho.

Finally Lord Dunn lead the van into Glendale valley, as guided by Queen Watho. He was told that there were a number of old towns that had been abandoned long ago, and could be easily occupied while the Oswaldians sought a pass by which they could return to their own Kingdom. The closest of them was a place she called Hobbinton, and only a week's journey southward. Beyond that by another week or two would be other hill towns. Though the Barons wished to complete their mission and return quickly to their own Kingdom, that was now impossible. And so it was that Glendale was settled by the Oswaldians.

Queen Watho however, had caused a great stir when she advised the Barons that since they were trapped on the west side of the mountains that they ought to swear loyalty to her own Kingdom which was further to the north of Glendale valley. Lord Dunn considered this request and held council, but the other Barons lead by Lord Beltaine refused it, declaring that such disloyalty to Good King Oswald would be worthy of a shameful death, and so in a pitch of wrath Watho stormed off with her brother, a powerful wizard in his own right, and they vanished upward into the snow capped mountains to the north. This left Lord Dunn in a difficult position, as most of the Barons thought he had shown obsequious weakness to Queen Watho by failing to denounce her plan immediately. And so it was that the army was divided, and Lord Dunn with his knights and retainers and the bulk of the lesser sorts of artisan workers headed through the tall hills to the east in search of Hobbington. The town, it is said, was not named after Hobbits as is supposed by some, but rather after Hobgoblins where were said to occupy the Old Quarter by Watho when she originally described the ruin to the Barons.

As it happened Lord Dunn after many sundry adventures along the way, finally found Hobbington on Zatok Mountain. It was a ruin at that time, and some portions of the town were completely destroyed. However, the adventurous men, and their wives and children, who had come over the mountains, made the best of things and began building the town up again. No one knew anything about the former inhabitants, but it seemed that once upon a time, long long ago, a prosperous fortified mountain town had been thriving there. Bridges were repaired, water ways cleared, buildings renovated and all was well. A town council was elected and approved by Lord Dunn, and various town institutions established, including Saint Elaine's Hospital, The Court House, the Prison, and the town's wealthy people took ownership of 'The Heights' and Lord Dunn and his family and Knights occupied the Palace. There were two pagodas in the town, one in the center, and one near the Palace Gate, that two groups of monks took possession of. The one in the center was called The Pagoda of Heavenly Harmony and Divine Light, and the other was called The Dragon Gate Temple. The mayor took ownership of the upper area beneath the lake and discovered the water works that fed the fountains of the town, and soon they had flowing water and all was well.

It was not long, however, before strange rumors began to spread. It seemed that people felt that there were ghosts in the town. Especially in the Old Quarter, which at first was occupied by the poor, but then most of them moved away into other districts, and now the Old Quarter is hardly occupied at all. It is said that Lord Dunn himself spent many months and then years investigating the warrens beneath the Old Quarter and became obsessed with discovering its secrets. Rumor has it that he also took a mistress at that time, who was a powerful sorceress. She gave Lord Dunn a magic cloak, ring, and sword and with these he began to oppress the people of the town. There was a rebellion, but the cause is not clear. The Mayor of the town became the leader of the rebels and fought against the Aristocrats, and that warfare went on for some time. The Monks of the Dragon Gate sided with the Aristocrats, while the Monks of Heavenly Harmony sided with the rebels. Civil strife became epidemic and many people died. The Court was burned down, and the Palace was invaded.

Suddenly one night there was heard a great wailing on what is now known as Dunn's Bridge leading into the Old Quarter. A crowd gathered to see what it was, and they saw Lord Dunn himself on the top of one of the four spires holding a blazing torch. In a fit of rage or despair he flung himself to his death in Dunn's Brook, and vanished into the dark swirling waters, never to be seen again. After that the rebellion ceased, and the Mayor of the town gained control of the various factions and there has been a tenuous peace ever since.  Blights of strife, famine, and disease break out now and then and life in the township seems somewhat precarious.  The environs round about are populated by ferocious beasts, and there are rumors of ghosts and devils throughout the region.   It is said that Lord Dunn haunts the bridge to this day, and having investigated it on our arrival in Hobbington, we can confirm that there are indeed strange forces at work on and around Dunn's Bridge, especially in the dead of night.

As yet we are just at the point where we have trained enough Adventurer's to begin exploratory Missions, and we will continue to record discoveries as we find them.

Rothmon Thornwood, Guild Master of the Hobbington Outpost
Guild Archive - September 26, 151 New Kingdom

Vignette: A Stone in the Forest

A friend of mine challenged me to come up with some Elthos Vignettes which are examples of the kinds of people, places, things and events that exist in my World.   So here is one of them, named "A Stone in the Forest".

---

A wizened priest of Minvar, the Elkron of the Earth, came to the old forest to sit upon an ancient stone near the river.   He sat there in order to learn from the stone where the stone had come from and who was its lord.  During the three years of sitting the priest ate only once every other day and sat motionless on the stone, both day and night.  He even slept sitting.   This was so that the stone would speak to him, for stones speak very slowly and do not bide interruptions.  

It was a full fourteen days before the stone began to take notice of the little creature sitting on him.   Eventually he heard the little man’s voice calling to him, saying “who are you?”.   The stone sat for a while thinking about this.   Why would the little creature which flitted like lightning through the world be worthy of any knowledge of the great stone, whom he was.   But the little creature was persistent and the great stone saw that his heart was strong and determined.  This the old stone respected and he spoke.   The first sentence the stone spoke took three days.   And each sentence after that took a day or more, though eventually the old stone spoke more swiftly, though no single word took less than an hour.   And this is what the old stone said...

“I am Bjroknorenstienalar.”

The little creature was delighted and spent the next two days posing another question.   “Where do you come from?”

“I come from mighty mountain Bjroknorenstein.”

When the old stone saw that the little creature would listen to him, he began to consider that though the creature was small and fleeting, that knowledge of old stone would spread among the little creatures of the world, and old stone liked that idea.   So he began to sing a song of the old stone which he composed for the occasion.   The song can not be sung by human tongues,  but it’s words were as follows.

“We stones are old, and our memories are long, though not as long as the memory of the twinkling stars, who remember all.   Only the Mountain Lords speak with the stars for that is their wont, but we old stones speak to the earth and learn.  

I was born of the strife of the mighty Tectons, Gorundenor and Broekan, who began to collide many Mountain Ages ago.   Their striving caused Gorundenor to sink beneath the sea as Brokan rose high above to pierce the storm laden sky.   Near the front of the battle I was born in the fierce life giving magma of the conflict.   Such a journey as I have made you tiny creatures would not survive - not a single particle would be left to you, for on the gigantic back of Gorundenor and beneath the mighty heel of Brokan was I born of the race of true Granite and have lived long the life of a War-Stone.  

In my youth I fought in the Wars of the Magma Giants and was part of a great host led by colossal Bragknamnondor.    Beneath his banner we eventually found a fault in the foot of Brokan and by great splitting and melting and driving with the force of the Magma Giants we broke to the surface of the world and split the great Brokan’s toe, so that his toe was called Brokankarn and his wrath was great in those days.  

When we broke surface we suddenly found ourselves on the flank of a new war and fought against the Lords of the Air for a brief time but the Air Lords subdued the heat of our Magma and it was in that war that our legion was divided from the main army.  Under the banner of Morhardrahan the Strong our legion moved toward the sea upon the back of the Magma Giants and we fought there against the ocean for many an age. 

It was in latter end of those days that I was split off from my legion and stood against the sea alone, watching as the earth begin to fill with you tiny fleeting creatures which we call creatures-that-flit-like-lightning.  The ocean retreated when it fled eastward toward the rising sun.  After some time thereafter there came an age of ice which lifted me in its icy grip and moved me some great distance southward.  Then the ice retreated and I was alone on the plain but soon Ocean returned and we battled mightily once more, but there is no hope of winning a war against Ocean I have found.  

After a time a verdant forest grew round about me and many flitting creatures passed by, some as large as I was in those days, and very savage for flitting things.  These creatures were much ado about slaughter as I recall and their roaring could be heard a great ways off, and they were so large that when they walked the earth herself did tremble.

One day the Lord sent a Great Stone of Fire from the Heavens which hit the earth and made a great groaning in the world.  The sky grew dark and cold and there was again a long ice age.   And so I have watched and learned much through many an ice age since then and have journeyed far within the freezing hand of the Water Lord.

And so it is with the stones that we watch and learn and speak with the Mountain Lords and study the ways of Wind and Fire and Water that we might be warriors like the true Granite of old.  Such is the way of Stone-kind.   Now I sit here, an fat old stone and am slowly ground to dust by my old enemies the wind and the rain and have grown a nice burly head of moss and lichen.   Even so, I am old, yes, but compared with you I have a very long life ahead of me, little creature-that-flits-like-lightning.”

And when he had finished his song the old stone laughed for a good long time, for the tale was good and the ending of the song pleased him.

This conversation took many years, by the end of which time the old earth priest was very tired and hungry and returned to the temple and wrote the words of the old warrior stone in a book on such matters which can be found in the temple library to this day.