Post by McGuffin on Feb 10, 2015 15:41:13 GMT -5
*Posted anonymously by player request.*
The following notes can be found tacked onto trees outside villages, near main roads, and sometimes folded up and tossed on the floors of caravan wagons.
The Curse returns, the heroes far flung. Three are silent, one is unsung.
Things thought unreal are sometimes still true. Things surely known are sometimes askew.
The curse of Redmist was never held in clenched fists. The curse is a page in the book of the pit. The curse came before and the curse will come after, the curse is the living caress of disaster.
The fox blends in shadows, the fox blends in shades. The fox never cowers or scampers away. The fox is not white nor as black as a grave, the fox wears a mask and a cloak furred and grey. The fox has an eye that shines through the dark, the fox might not bite, but the fox will oft bark.
The fox is three thunders that long have been silent. The fox is a scroll that awaits lore for writing. The fox is a handsome canine indeed and he sees three alters from the place where he kneels. Swords are for swinging and slicing through bonds, shields are for guarding the most vital spots. The dagger of truth is on the belt of nothing and the song has returned like a cold howling wind.
The Fox prowls by night and sleeps near the morning, he trusts in his luck and he tithes it in fortunes. He might prick his paw sewing by candlelight, he may have a sword that does laughter invite. The fox may paint pictures in caves for old clans, but the fox has no master to be found among man.
The note is signed with the drawing of a grey fox's head, with a third eye placed in the center of it's forehead.
The following notes can be found tacked onto trees outside villages, near main roads, and sometimes folded up and tossed on the floors of caravan wagons.
The Curse returns, the heroes far flung. Three are silent, one is unsung.
Things thought unreal are sometimes still true. Things surely known are sometimes askew.
The curse of Redmist was never held in clenched fists. The curse is a page in the book of the pit. The curse came before and the curse will come after, the curse is the living caress of disaster.
The fox blends in shadows, the fox blends in shades. The fox never cowers or scampers away. The fox is not white nor as black as a grave, the fox wears a mask and a cloak furred and grey. The fox has an eye that shines through the dark, the fox might not bite, but the fox will oft bark.
The fox is three thunders that long have been silent. The fox is a scroll that awaits lore for writing. The fox is a handsome canine indeed and he sees three alters from the place where he kneels. Swords are for swinging and slicing through bonds, shields are for guarding the most vital spots. The dagger of truth is on the belt of nothing and the song has returned like a cold howling wind.
The Fox prowls by night and sleeps near the morning, he trusts in his luck and he tithes it in fortunes. He might prick his paw sewing by candlelight, he may have a sword that does laughter invite. The fox may paint pictures in caves for old clans, but the fox has no master to be found among man.
The note is signed with the drawing of a grey fox's head, with a third eye placed in the center of it's forehead.
