T-T-T
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"Vay"
Posts: 17
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Post by T-T-T on Dec 9, 2014 12:29:22 GMT -5
In various inns of Cormyr a burly man in a short-toga(roman style kilt) can oft be found sitting at tables near to the fire. A brooding figure, he rarely speaks unless spoken to, save to order his drinks, almost always strong spirits with a regular indulgence in whiskey. He is never without the company of a greatsword with a hilt wrapped in a supple golden leather, hosted in a finely tooled leather baldric. He often murmurs to the blade when he rests it against the wall next to him or hangs it off the chair he seats himself in - never out of sight or arms reach. Oft times when he sits alone for hours, he can be seen to take out a small booklet and a ratty looking quill. From the booklet he tears single pages, and the quill is dipped into dented tin canister that seems to serve as his ink pot.
After scribing his little notes he can occasionally be heard to mumble, in his thick dialect, "Dinnae burn 'em, ye say?"
On those occasions he leaves the little scrap behind on the tabletop to be picked up by whomever might pass - a barmaid, a serving wench, patron or perhaps the next adventurer that chances by.
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On a table in the Tipsy Imp
Go ye now, golden dove, Dinnae look back again, Fer even gild'ted wings de fly, An' take ye far 'way forbye.
---- // A translation of dialect would present: // Go you now, golden dove, // Do not look back again, // For even gilded wings do fly, // And take you far away besides.
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T-T-T
New Member
"Vay"
Posts: 17
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Post by T-T-T on Dec 9, 2014 19:53:43 GMT -5
On a table in the Regal Griffon
Se' te man whom de sit by, Ye could't be friend't te me, Yet ney fer him could ye 'en ken, Tha' in he de dark ride,. Fer wha a wee an bonny lass, Could't ken o' wicked't thing, An' call te a monster 'en fer sup, Te lose 'em innocent dream't.
---- // A translation of dialect would present: // Say to a man whom does sit by, // You could be friend to me, // Yet not of him could you then know, // That in him does dark ride. // For what a wee and bonny lass, // Could know of wicked things, // And call to you a monster then to sup, // To lose those innocent dreams.
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T-T-T
New Member
"Vay"
Posts: 17
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Post by T-T-T on Dec 11, 2014 23:03:35 GMT -5
At the Wailing Wheel in Suzail
Se dinnae look inte tha' hert, For ye ken ney te blame, Wha' could't be fer 'em te dream't O' wicked fiend'tish thing. Wha' o' Fire, O' Flame, O' Death, Tha' wake insid't o' night, An' follow 'im unte 'em days, Te stain wha' migh' delight. Ney ye wee an' bonny lass, Dinnae look te hert, Tha' man jes goin' te monster be, For rest is jes' a dream't.
---- // A translation of dialect would present: // So do not look into the heart // For you know not to blame // What could be for him to dream // Of wicked fiendish things. // What of Fire, of Flame, of Death, // That wake inside of night, // And follow him unto the days, // To stain what might delight. // No, you young, beautiful lass, // Do not look to heart // That man just going to a monster be, // For the rest is just a dream.
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T-T-T
New Member
"Vay"
Posts: 17
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Post by T-T-T on Dec 14, 2014 11:15:22 GMT -5
At the Five Fish in Immersea
A man can price o' thing he bear, O' Steel, Shir, and't Shew, Bu' fer a man te walk wi' ye, Yer cost cannae be few. Se ken tha' cost o' friend't te ye, An' fash ney te be spent, Fer silver, gold't and't precious stone, Small thin' next te life in the hand'ts o' them.
---- // A translation of dialect would present: // A man can price the things he bears, // Of steel, shirt, and shoe, // But for a man to walk with you, // Your costs cannot be few. // So know the cost of a friend to you, // And be bothered not to spend, // For silver, gold and precious stones, // Small things next to life in the hands of them.
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T-T-T
New Member
"Vay"
Posts: 17
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Post by T-T-T on Dec 30, 2014 5:17:56 GMT -5
At the Regal Griffon in Greatgaunt
For ye ask't o' me wha' monster could't be, Se I show't ye the face o' meself. An' off ye run like summer breeze Te flee o' Frostmaid'ts cold touch.
Se where ye be, golden't bird, Lass tha' sung te me, Ye' tel't me tha' ye'd hear o' me, Te' vanish a'fore we coul't speak.
---- // A translation of dialect would present: // For you asked of me what a monster could be, // So I showed you my own face // And off you ran like a summer breeze // To flee the Frostmaiden's cold touch
// So where are you, golden bird // Lass that sung to me, // You told me that you'd hear of me, // To vanished before we could speak.
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T-T-T
New Member
"Vay"
Posts: 17
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Post by T-T-T on Sept 16, 2015 9:36:08 GMT -5
On the bench outside the Regal Griffon, Greatgaunt
Se there ye ar', wee little bee, Buzzin' like ye de, Always go' a thin' te say, 'Er question te put te use.
Ye cannae ken the werld't jes' yet, Seekin' though ye de, What de ye think, wee little bee, I go' te teach te ye?
Ney a thing, wee little bee, Fer though' a thorn't go' wish, He cannae fer tha' a flower be, An' ney fer ye good't company.
--- // Translation would present // So there you are, wee little bee, // Buzzing like you do, // Always with something to say, // Or questions to put to use.
// You cannot know the world just yet, // Seeking though you do, // What do you think, wee little bee, // I have to teach to you?
// Not a thing, we little bee, // For though a thorn could wish, // He cannot for that a flower be, // And for you is poor company.
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T-T-T
New Member
"Vay"
Posts: 17
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Post by T-T-T on Sept 21, 2015 11:44:46 GMT -5
On a table by the fire in the Regal Griffon
Weep on should'ters far, Tha' go' te comfer' ye, An' wha could't I go' hope te de, A mons'ser throu' an throu'?
Ney o' sof' an' gen'nel thin', Nor sense o' wha' te say, I woul't bu' hit an' figh' and bea, Te' chase tha' darkness away from ye.
Dinnae cry, wee bonny lass, Ye go' good't company, Fer wha' I migh' wish tha' I could't de, It ne'er te be me.
--- // Translation presents // Weep on shoulders far, // That have to comfort you, // And what could I have hope to do, // A monster through and through? // // Ney of soft and gentle things, // Nor a sense of what to say, // I would but hit and fight and beat, // To chase that darkness away from you. // // Do not cry, pretty lass, // You've got good company, // For what I might wish that I could be, // It never will be me.
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T-T-T
New Member
"Vay"
Posts: 17
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Post by T-T-T on Sept 28, 2015 23:04:16 GMT -5
Left on the floor of the "blue room" of the tipsy imp, along side a dagger, and a fair deal of messy bloodstaines. - This poem was recovered ic by characters and is no longer available to be found.
O lily tha' ye are, Gent'e, bonny thin', Ye fill't me wi' the scen' o' ye, An' let me taste ye te.
I tol't ye te ge' away, I tol't ye ye coul't ney stay, I tol't ye tha' I go' jes' pain, I tol't ye ih coul't ney be.
O lily tha' ye are, Gent'e, bonny thin', Ye fill't me wi' the desire o' ye, An' ye reach' ou' te me te.
Ye tol't me ye ain' go ken, Ye tol't me ye ney ready' te, Ye tol't me ta' it ney righ' fer ye, Ye tol't me tha' ye were'n fer me.
O lily tha' ye are, Gent'e, bonny thin', Se why did't ye cleav' te me, When I tri't te se' ye free? I tol't ye I a mons'ser, Ye tol't me it cannae be, I tol't ye I will hur' ye, Ye tol't me ye go' te heal me.
O lily tha' ye are, Gent'e, bonny thin', Ye bi' an' claw't an' scrap't an' scream, An' now we both de bleed't.
O lily tha' ye are, Gent'e, bonny thin', I ne'er wan't te hurt ye, Bu' ye did't er'rythi' ye coul't te mak' me.
O mon'ser tha' I am, Wick't, evil thin', I saw it lik' a future dream An' let it come te be.
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T-T-T
New Member
"Vay"
Posts: 17
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Post by T-T-T on Oct 1, 2015 15:11:51 GMT -5
By the bench just outside of the west Suzail gate. This poem is left tucked under the shield edge of the left statue, a small stone holding the parchment along with a lily in place.
Boy tha' go' his fath'rs eyes, An' his fath'rs hands forbye, Sin' tha' pass down 'atween, Cannae e'er be pas't by.
Mot'er tell 'em ney te look, An' smack thos' hands forbye, Fer wha' few righ' tha he can de, Wron' ne'er far behind't.
Faht'r tha' were ne'er there, Ney wan'ned roun' forbye, Wha mem'ry tha' he lef' behin't Curs' o' wha' 'er son te be.
--- // Translation would present // Boy that has his fathers eyes, // And his fathers hands besides, // Sins that pass down between, // Cannot ever be passed by. // // Mother tells him not to look, // And smacks those hands besides, // For what few rights that he can do, // Wrongs are never far behind. // // Father that was never there, // Not wanted around besides, // What memory that he left behind, // Curse of what her son will be.
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