A Spear Has No Branches

SibirnSibirn Member Posts: 14 Apprentice
I don't know how I forgot to post this. From the Serenwilde event, Sibirn's interview with Grey.

A deafening howl echoes, as if emanating from right next to you, as a white mist sweeps into the
area like breaking dam.

Grinning broadly, you say, "Mist friend!"

Arien nods her head enthusiastically.

The howl begins to grow slightly quieter. Still, you hear your heart begin to quicken. Fear begins to flood through you.

You have emoted: Sibirn grips a mighty waraxe tightly, glancing about frantically, trying to watch all directions.

It grows quieter, more distant. Still, you feel as if it is approaching, You feel a need to run, but
you don't know where it's coming from to run away from. You can finally think from the noise, but 
you can't think from the fear. But you know - It is coming.

The howling is almost silent now. And you are sure. It is almost here. It is hunting you. You are
prey.

You have emoted: Sibirn stills, squeezing his eyes shut as he lets go a mighty waraxe, letting it
hang loosely at his side, breathing in deeply.

Pounding fills your ears as a group of misty white hounds rush in and grab you by your ankles.
Quickly, a misty hole in the ground opens up, and you are dragged into it by the hounds, finding 
yourself elsewhere.

The highest temple tier.
Three tiers are distinguishable in this tall standing stone, illuminated by its own soft, pulsing
glow.
You see exits leading southeast, south, and southwest.

You have emoted: Sibirn cracks open his eyes, glancing about.

p stone
Formed of three uneven, vertical sections marked by narrowings in the pillar, cracks and citrine
-hued mosses cover the majority of this standing stone's surface. Upon the middle, lopsided tier, a 
symbol of angular marks is carved into the stone, nestled in the midst of elaborate knotwork. A soft 
glow emanates from the rock, bathing it in its own wan illumination.
It weighs about 1000 pounds.
It has the following aliases: stone, standing, standingstone.

You have emoted: Sibirn examines a tiered standing stone carefully, looking it over.

Moistened temple walls.
Surrounded by a muted glow, this pillar-like stone is curved in curious proportions.
You see exits leading south, southwest, and northwest.

Treading over ruminant skins.
A faint nimbus of soft light is emitted by this tall, narrow stone, the rock leaning at an awkward
angle.
You see exits leading northeast, southeast, and south.

The taupe and dusty midway.
Leafy vines all but cover a wide rock anchored into the grass, nearly smothering the faint glow
enveloping it.
You see exits leading north, northeast, southeast, south, southwest, and northwest.

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p stone
Reaching about mid-waist upon the average human, the low stone is overgrown with lichen edged with
subtle lilac coloration. Knotwork patterns have been chiselled into the rugged granite, though 
clearly some time ago as they are worn and nearly faded now. Three, curving stripes are distinct 
amidst the patterns, which seem to curl around them before spreading further throughout the rocky 
surface. A dull glow is exuded by the very stone itself, barely illuminating the grasses around it.
It weighs about 1000 pounds.
It has the following aliases: stone, standing, standingstone.

You have emoted: Sibirn ambles forth, eyes alert as he examines each stone, ears twitching.

The taupe and dusty midway.
Leafy vines all but cover a wide rock anchored into the grass, nearly smothering the faint glow
enveloping it.
You see exits leading north, northeast, southeast, south, southwest, and northwest.

A bracken-clutched hollow of hoarfrost.
A chunk of rough stone lays at the base of this tall, thin rock, clearly broken off of the stone's
crown. The husk of a cloven bramble-throne looms here, little more than a throng of brittle, dry 
brier surrounded by the scent of blood. Leaning upon his throne, Grey rests here, a massive 
greatsword in one hand and his wound clutched in the other.
You see exits leading north, northeast, and northwest.

A bracken-clutched hollow of hoarfrost.
A chunk of rough stone lays at the base of this tall, thin rock, clearly broken off of the stone's
crown. The husk of a cloven bramble-throne looms here, little more than a throng of brittle, dry 
brier surrounded by the scent of blood. Leaning upon his throne, Grey rests here, a massive 
greatsword in one hand and his wound clutched in the other.
You see exits leading north, northeast, and northwest.

You have emoted: Sibirn ambles in, waraxe held at the ready.

p grey
He is a towering man and carries the air of a once-proud man reduced to a weathered, gaunt figure
existing only as a shadow of what he once was. Alongside a slightly hunched posture, his gait is 
stiff, the man limping and favouring his left leg; the creases and weathering crossing his walnut-
hued, angular countenance fail to mask the subtle expression of pain upon it, his emerald eyes dim 
and empty. Further alluding to his age, his beard is long and greying, a wild mane of ash-and-ebon 
hair pulled back against his scalp and bound into a matted, horse-like tail. He wears nothing but a 
tattered and bloodstained loincloth and worn leather sandals, the bare flesh of his muscle-rippled 
form covered in smeared blue woad-paint illustrating the remnants of faded tribal patterns broken by 
slashes, bruises and other wounds. The faintest aura of immanidivinus energy surrounds the marred 
man, subdued and at times seeming only to be a trick of the senses as laboured breathing moves his 
chest in and out. Tiredly, he clutches his abdomen with a scarred hand, partially covering the deep 
gash from which thick blood still seeps, soaking his waist with a deep ruddiness.
Grey almost glows with nearly god-like power.
He weighs about 625 pounds.
You cannot see what Grey is holding.
It has the following aliases: grey, man, gray.

Grey inclines his head politely to you.

You have emoted: Sibirn nods subtly at Grey, flashing a toothy, canine filled smile.

Simply, you say to Grey, "You are a good hunter."

Grey says, "You can put your axe away. There is no need for it here. If you wish to leave, you may
simply ask, though with the stipulation that you will be unable to return."

You have emoted: Sibirn nods, keeping his eyes upon Grey as he carefully sheathes his axe.

With a flourish, you slip a serrated double-bladed waraxe into a forest-green leather frogge.

Merely a towering mass of tangled brambles upon first impression, the purpose of this morass becomes
apparent with the revelation of the cloven, dead tree stump at its base, levelled to form a seat. 
The stump is surrounded by a convoluted throng of dry brambles, any foliage upon their brittle stems 
long-since fallen away to leave only bare, woody thorns that threaten any who would ensconce 
themselves in their repose. The woven brambles backing the sombre throne have been ripped asunder, 
sharp detritus littering the ground around it atop a bed of dried sweetgrass, the aroma of which has 
faded and grown overpowered by the heavy stench of iron -- for the brier and its immediate vicinity 
are beset with both dried and fresh stains of blood. Customarily meant for an individual of import, 
the throne is besieged by an aura of sorrow and solemn finality; all life has left its organic 
components, leaving only a broken husk behind.
It weighs about 500 pounds.
It has the following aliases: throne.

Grey smiles slightly as he leans back in his throne. He speaks in a raspy voice, "I would like to
apologise for the method in which you were brought here, but the old adage of times and measures 
applies. I am sure you have many questions. I am happy to answer what I am able."

A resplendent snow phoenix with wings of golden ice has no food in its feedbag and is starving. She
tries to return to the Stables of the Green Hand for care.
A resplendent snow phoenix with wings of golden ice has lost a level.
Midnight shadows coalesce around a new day, and Mother Night embraces the land in utter darkness.
It is now the 9th of Juliary, 501 years after the Coming of Estarra.

Glancing about, before returning his gaze upon you, you say to Grey, "Do you claim to be my friend?
I have had bad luck with such, lately."

Grey says, "I will allow you to make that decision."

Grey says, "I am not here to sway you. I am here as a watcher, and I only intervene when I must."

Nodding absently, you say to Grey, "I am here, watcher."

Grey says, "As you are. Do you have any other questions?"

You have emoted: Sibirn stretches out, muscles rippling as he limbers up, before taking a seated
position.

Simply, you say to Grey, "No."

You give a pained sigh.

Grey says, "Then I have my own. What are your thoughts on duty?"

Eyes hard, you intone to Grey, "The tribe serves the chieftain, who serves the tribe."

Grey says, "I see."

Grey says, "And this is your only duty?"

A bracken-clutched hollow of hoarfrost.
Dead and sombre, a thicket of lifeless bracken engulfs the southernmost alcove of the bright temple,
the light wan here, subdued and grey as it filters through twisted and tangled branches. Hoarfrost 
covers everything in a powder-like layer, cloaking the chaparral in dull paleness. The oaken vines 
still manage to break through the brambles, cloaking the rounded walls and joining at the southern 
apex to form a single scene: a stag fallen to its fore-knees, the proud animal speared with a shaft 
through its narrow chest. Amber copal resin designates the buck's blood, already forming a pool 
below which seeps onto the hollow's ground, frozen in viscous trails. A chunk of rough stone lays at 
the base of this tall, thin rock, clearly broken off of the stone's crown. The husk of a cloven 
bramble-throne looms here, little more than a throng of brittle, dry brier surrounded by the scent 
of blood. Leaning upon his throne, Grey rests here, a massive greatsword in one hand and his wound 
clutched in the other.
You see exits leading north, northeast, and northwest.

Grey says, "Yes is a perfectly acceptable answer. I just wish to understand."

Chuffing as he breaks eye contact, staring off into the distance, you say to Grey, "My duty is to my
tribe, my ancestors, my chieftain, and my elders, in that order."

You intone, "One vision, one spear, forever forward."

Grey nods slightly, leaning back in his throne. He grips the wound at his abdomen tighter, the blood
pouring profusely from it. He speaks once more, "You gathered some moss from the antlers of the Hart.
May I have it?"

You have emoted: Sibirn smiles, staring intently at Grey. "That depends, watcher. Are you friend,
food, or foe?"

Grey says, "Food."

Laughing, you say to Grey, "I think you would taste terrible, and food doesn't normally speak."

With a grin, Grey says, "Well, that's too bad."

You have emoted: Sibirn pulls himself out of his sitting position, groaning as he heaves his massive
form up, ambling toward Grey.

You have emoted: Sibirn peers intently at Grey's wound, stretching and forming the moss. "Bad wound,
this."

You have emoted: Sibirn glances up toward Grey's face expectantly.

He is a towering man and carries the air of a once-proud man reduced to a weathered, gaunt figure
existing only as a shadow of what he once was. Alongside a slightly hunched posture, his gait is 
stiff, the man limping and favouring his left leg; the creases and weathering crossing his walnut-
hued, angular countenance fail to mask the subtle expression of pain upon it, his emerald eyes dim 
and empty. Further alluding to his age, his beard is long and greying, a wild mane of ash-and-ebon 
hair pulled back against his scalp and bound into a matted, horse-like tail. He wears nothing but a 
tattered and bloodstained loincloth and worn leather sandals, the bare flesh of his muscle-rippled 
form covered in smeared blue woad-paint illustrating the remnants of faded tribal patterns broken by 
slashes, bruises and other wounds. The faintest aura of immanidivinus energy surrounds the marred 
man, subdued and at times seeming only to be a trick of the senses as laboured breathing moves his 
chest in and out. Tiredly, he clutches his abdomen with a scarred hand, partially covering the deep 
gash from which thick blood still seeps, soaking his waist with a deep ruddiness.
Grey almost glows with nearly god-like power.
He weighs about 625 pounds.
You cannot see what Grey is holding.
It has the following aliases: grey, man, gray.

Grey lifts his hand from the wound, holding it out. He smiles, a slight grimace on his face as he
speaks, "It could be far worse."

You have emoted: Sibirn nods, stretching the moss between his surprisingly nimble paws, working it
as he presses it against the wound, claws carefully shaping it to the shape and contours.

Almost absently, you say, "Last time I saw a wound this bad, the cubmate didn't make it."

Grey says, "I've survived this one for thirty years. It is just time to heal it. But I am sorry for
your loss."

Grey says, "What is your thoughts on the current events in the Serynwodenhillirim?"

You have emoted: Sibirn eyes flick up to Grey's own, searching, before nodding his acceptance,
pressing the moss hard as he holds it in place, letting it soak the blood. A bitter laugh escape his 
throat as he says, "A big word, for a big man. Too many Chiefs, no driving vision."

Grey chuckles slightly. "Perhaps, and I have heard such a few times. Sadly, such is beyond my
interference though. In this case, I mean the situation with the half-formed."

Shrugging, you say, "Was friend. Not too right in head. Did bad things. Now foe."

Grey says, "Fair. Sadly all too common a situation, even when not dealing with their kind."

You have emoted: Sibirn nods, pressing the moss harder, brows knitting together as he works it in,
obviously experienced.

Grey inhales slightly, speaking once more, "What would your choice be?"

You have emoted: Sibirn grabs his battle standard, ripping off a long strip from it, tearing at it
with his teeth, before pausing, looking up at Grey, "Depends on the choice."

Grey says, "If given the choice to befriend Seniit once more, would you take it? And if that choice
were not available, would you slay him or just exile him?"

Grey says, "There are many choices to be made I suppose."

You have emoted: Sibirn grunts, wrapping the strip of layered cloth tightly around Grey's abdomen,
pulling it taunt over the moss as he replies, "Yes, if he was sane, and of no threat to my tribe. If 
not available, kill. No being deserves to consigned to such a state, being slowly driven mad by time 
and the void. Return his essence to the cold winds, so that he may rejoin his kin."

As if to himself, you whisper, "All deserve a chance to be friend."

Grey says, "His kin were exiled, not killed."

Grey says, "Charune was too weary to strike a final blow against Xarriv."

You have emoted: Sibirn pauses, looking up once more at Grey. "An enemy left behind is a spear aimed
at your back. The potential of future friendship must be balanced by the needs of the tribe."

Pulling tightly at the cloth, you say to Grey, "That is why I am warrior, not chieftain."

Grey says, "There is a query then. How does Serenwilde intend to kill Seniit?"

Frankly, you say to Grey, "From what I have seen, mope about until he grows bored and leaves or the
spirits or divine deal with it, all the while arguing with each other."

Grey says, "I have a better plan."

You have emoted: Sibirn pauses, looking up to capture Grey's eyes with his own, a savage grin
spreading over his maw.

Grey says, "Serenwilde needs to learn to handle their own problems. I am but a watcher... until I am
not. When I am not, I prefer to tip the odds."

Grey says, "What if I could offer an edge?"

Grey says, "I think you have seen some of what I can do."

White mist coalesces into a wolf adjacent to the throne.

You have emoted: Sibirn pulls the cloth painfully tight, tying it off as he stands up, blood
drenched paws clenching as he nods.

Simply, you say to Grey, "I am your spear, Watcher. Guide my blade."

Grey grimaces slightly, leaning back in his throne. He responds, "Before you agree fully, I must
warn, this is not an agreement to be taken lightly. This is a blood oath to form the bond."

Grey says, "You are free to say no."

You have emoted: Sibirn laughs bitterly, fur dripping with blood as he shakes his head. "You mistake
me, Watcher. I agreed the moment I stepped foot here. The bad mist must be stopped. The tribe must 
be defended, no matter the cost."

Grey nods, then leans forward. "Very well. Forgive me, then."

You have emoted: Sibirn stares into Grey's eyes, a cold, dark fire flaring as he nods.

Grey stands from his throne and raises his greatsword high in the air. Bringing it high above his
head, the white mist coalesces around it, and he brings it down upon your head. The world fades.
You have been slain by Grey.
You cease bearing a standard.
A swirling force begins to tug at your soul and the world spins around you. (1.075s)

Your soul is flung back to the prime material plane. Slowly, a skeleton forms from the aether, and
muscles appear upon the bones, bubbling up in a frothy spray of blood. Finally, new skin stretches 
out and covers your new body, and you step out from the Moonhart Mother Tree.
The Moonhart Mother Tree.
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