Post by Thrym on Dec 10, 2015 13:21:51 GMT -5
Her breath comes unsteadily as she makes her way up the cliffside. Her frail form simply wasn’t made for physically taxing tasks, and to call upon the archons to strengthen her for such a minor thing would be simply preposterous. Deep breaths. Keep going. One step at a time.
After what seems like an eternity, she arrives on top of the Burrow of the Nurturing Matron. Letting her gaze wander, she allows herself a moment of respite, leaning heavily onto her staff. Soon night would come, and the faithful would gather at the Mystan Grove. The bard settles down against a tree somewhat out of sight, mumbling a prayers to Saint Barachiel the Messenger as she waits for their ceremony to finish.
Hearing enhanced by her magic, she rises as the first faithful make their way out, the services concluded, and makes her way towards the edge. The Priestess raises her staff above her, a brief arcane tune on her lips empowering its radiance to draw attention to her. She can feel the soft tingling of bardic magic flowing through her lungs as she speaks, her voice carried far across the grove. A gentle smile spreads across her face as she begins.
“Magic …
Is more than power.
It is art.
It is dreams.
It is the Lady’s gift to us mortals.
Is to be cherished, taught, shared.”
Her smile fades as she lowers her staff again, gazing down upon what faithful of the gods of magic stop to listen.
“As a wandering preacher, I’ve been to many lands. Not in all, our art is looked upon as kindly as it is here in Cormyr. There’s lands where people live in fear of wizards. Deem sorcerers abominations to be destroyed. Where even a bard finds themselves unwelcome once folk realize they’re more than mere minstrels.”
For a moment, she turns her head up to gaze at the moon.
“Why? How did people come to fear the infinity beauty of the weave that surrounds us? Was it always this way?”
She lowers her head again, a sad smile gracing her features as her words spread softly across the glade.
“Maybe. Potential is scary to some.
But there’s another reason, one we know all too well.
There have always been those who seek the Lady’s gift only to step upon others.
Those who show young men and women not the beauty of our craft, but a visage of terror and hatred bringing only suffering.”
Fervor fills her voice as she slowly raises her staff once more, the gemstone topping it shimmering more and more brightly with inner light.
“Unless /we/ are there.
When darkness rises, abusing the gift of our Lady of Mysteries to spread fear across the lands, we cannot leave it to Warriors and Clergy to stop the tides.
Not if we want magic to be cherished.
Not if we want a new generation to dream the dream that lead us down our paths.
If we want magic to be seen for what it is, a force of wonder and awe, of inspiration and hope, it is us arcanists who must stand against those who defile our art.”
Her staff slams down onto the ground next to her.
“I have walked with the Fellowship of the Key in Eveningstar, where the servants of the Black Hand amass, their arcanists chanting dark magic in Cormyte crypts, abusing the weave to defile the fathers of a new generation.
I have walked with them up north, to the Lands of Stone, where the Black Network’s wizards amass along their soldiers, war-mages ready to rain fire and death to subjugate the people of Cormyr. Where they have worked their spells to make their mere soldiers stand invincible against the blades of common men.”
The staff is thrust up once more, the bards voice rising with it.
“I call upon you, mages of Cormyr:
Let not fear of the art grow in the heart of men.
Let your dweomers be their shield,
and your spells the light that wipes away the shadows.
March with us, for the Cormyr we know, for the Weave we love.
Courage… is the Key.”
//related to The Fellowship of the Key (Linky!). PC and NPC reactions as always welcome.
After what seems like an eternity, she arrives on top of the Burrow of the Nurturing Matron. Letting her gaze wander, she allows herself a moment of respite, leaning heavily onto her staff. Soon night would come, and the faithful would gather at the Mystan Grove. The bard settles down against a tree somewhat out of sight, mumbling a prayers to Saint Barachiel the Messenger as she waits for their ceremony to finish.
Hearing enhanced by her magic, she rises as the first faithful make their way out, the services concluded, and makes her way towards the edge. The Priestess raises her staff above her, a brief arcane tune on her lips empowering its radiance to draw attention to her. She can feel the soft tingling of bardic magic flowing through her lungs as she speaks, her voice carried far across the grove. A gentle smile spreads across her face as she begins.
“Magic …
Is more than power.
It is art.
It is dreams.
It is the Lady’s gift to us mortals.
Is to be cherished, taught, shared.”
Her smile fades as she lowers her staff again, gazing down upon what faithful of the gods of magic stop to listen.
“As a wandering preacher, I’ve been to many lands. Not in all, our art is looked upon as kindly as it is here in Cormyr. There’s lands where people live in fear of wizards. Deem sorcerers abominations to be destroyed. Where even a bard finds themselves unwelcome once folk realize they’re more than mere minstrels.”
For a moment, she turns her head up to gaze at the moon.
“Why? How did people come to fear the infinity beauty of the weave that surrounds us? Was it always this way?”
She lowers her head again, a sad smile gracing her features as her words spread softly across the glade.
“Maybe. Potential is scary to some.
But there’s another reason, one we know all too well.
There have always been those who seek the Lady’s gift only to step upon others.
Those who show young men and women not the beauty of our craft, but a visage of terror and hatred bringing only suffering.”
Fervor fills her voice as she slowly raises her staff once more, the gemstone topping it shimmering more and more brightly with inner light.
“Unless /we/ are there.
When darkness rises, abusing the gift of our Lady of Mysteries to spread fear across the lands, we cannot leave it to Warriors and Clergy to stop the tides.
Not if we want magic to be cherished.
Not if we want a new generation to dream the dream that lead us down our paths.
If we want magic to be seen for what it is, a force of wonder and awe, of inspiration and hope, it is us arcanists who must stand against those who defile our art.”
Her staff slams down onto the ground next to her.
“I have walked with the Fellowship of the Key in Eveningstar, where the servants of the Black Hand amass, their arcanists chanting dark magic in Cormyte crypts, abusing the weave to defile the fathers of a new generation.
I have walked with them up north, to the Lands of Stone, where the Black Network’s wizards amass along their soldiers, war-mages ready to rain fire and death to subjugate the people of Cormyr. Where they have worked their spells to make their mere soldiers stand invincible against the blades of common men.”
The staff is thrust up once more, the bards voice rising with it.
“I call upon you, mages of Cormyr:
Let not fear of the art grow in the heart of men.
Let your dweomers be their shield,
and your spells the light that wipes away the shadows.
March with us, for the Cormyr we know, for the Weave we love.
Courage… is the Key.”
//related to The Fellowship of the Key (Linky!). PC and NPC reactions as always welcome.