18th of Ymiden, Arc 718
I will now tell you
The story of the crone
Within Skalden's murky waters
She lives, we atone
I heard her voice, myself, as a child
And the darkest whispers of nightmares...
Against her, were mild;
she said,
Call upon me,
Feel my name
Make a wish
For power, gold or fame
Children fall
And rise in blood
Justice shall remain
In their hearts, in the mud
Suffering comes, the pain one day goes
For the living that live those Sheoran woes
Magic is not right
But magic has might
And so we all fall prey
To the dying of the light
Was it a song, or poem? He did not know. The woman who sung it strung the hairs of her lute, wearing a bard's cap, a golden hoop-like medallion, and a greatly colored blouse; iridescent, with all the colors of an arch of rain made visible in the sky. Her hat had feathered hair of its own, complimenting her long red locks. She was a performer, but more than that - she held an ideology that was as certain as the morning sun. Within her songs, she shared the contemptuous tales of mages; their evil, their misdeeds.
Only, the story of Skalden's coven of witches was possibly... real. A collection of mages that worshiped great spirits, unbeknownst to him. He had remembered only the Argosian mages who had sacrificed their lives to Yashul, a great voice in the darkness. But he was perhaps a fabrication, or the lingering hum of an artifact. How else could he have truly been real? Were there spirits greater than the apparitions in dreaming? Did they live upon this world?
It was an uncertain thing. But as Alistair had devoted his life only to purifying the world of mages that he lived in, all of the witches of Skalden needed to die. In the face of his view of injustice, Alistair's justice was - as always - sole, and singular. There were no grey areas; there was murder, or exemption.
But first, he needed to learn about these crones. They were often called hags, feather-fiend predators, dwellers of the wilds that lived among the murky forest wetlands. Such tales were often fabricated, though he was entirely uncertain of the origin of this one. Only that his targets were many, and numerous.
Alistair brought himself to approach the bard, shadowing her upon the cessation of her show. With a disquieting apprehension showing upon his half-scowling expression, he spoke, calling out to her after a far from subtle approach.
"Bard," he called her. "I'd like to speak with you."
I will now tell you
The story of the crone
Within Skalden's murky waters
She lives, we atone
I heard her voice, myself, as a child
And the darkest whispers of nightmares...
Against her, were mild;
she said,
Call upon me,
Feel my name
Make a wish
For power, gold or fame
Children fall
And rise in blood
Justice shall remain
In their hearts, in the mud
Suffering comes, the pain one day goes
For the living that live those Sheoran woes
Magic is not right
But magic has might
And so we all fall prey
To the dying of the light
Was it a song, or poem? He did not know. The woman who sung it strung the hairs of her lute, wearing a bard's cap, a golden hoop-like medallion, and a greatly colored blouse; iridescent, with all the colors of an arch of rain made visible in the sky. Her hat had feathered hair of its own, complimenting her long red locks. She was a performer, but more than that - she held an ideology that was as certain as the morning sun. Within her songs, she shared the contemptuous tales of mages; their evil, their misdeeds.
Only, the story of Skalden's coven of witches was possibly... real. A collection of mages that worshiped great spirits, unbeknownst to him. He had remembered only the Argosian mages who had sacrificed their lives to Yashul, a great voice in the darkness. But he was perhaps a fabrication, or the lingering hum of an artifact. How else could he have truly been real? Were there spirits greater than the apparitions in dreaming? Did they live upon this world?
It was an uncertain thing. But as Alistair had devoted his life only to purifying the world of mages that he lived in, all of the witches of Skalden needed to die. In the face of his view of injustice, Alistair's justice was - as always - sole, and singular. There were no grey areas; there was murder, or exemption.
But first, he needed to learn about these crones. They were often called hags, feather-fiend predators, dwellers of the wilds that lived among the murky forest wetlands. Such tales were often fabricated, though he was entirely uncertain of the origin of this one. Only that his targets were many, and numerous.
Alistair brought himself to approach the bard, shadowing her upon the cessation of her show. With a disquieting apprehension showing upon his half-scowling expression, he spoke, calling out to her after a far from subtle approach.
"Bard," he called her. "I'd like to speak with you."
