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Ishbaad's Journal's page
11 posts. Alias of Papasteve08.
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Pt. 4
The majestic chambers are hidden from sight
A harsh winter blizzard rend’s everything white
Your downfall is nigh! The oread provokes
Your judgement at hand, his challenge invokes
An evil laugh echoes, an invisible foe
Followed by breath of Ice and of Snow
Invaders weather the deadly onslaught
Spring quickly to action in viscous assault
Summoning help from planes far beyond
The Kitsune dispels, the blizzard is gone
Giant and small fry press in at the sides
Trade blows with the tyrant, fight for their lives
The press from the front seems doomed to soon fail
The priest grabs the judge, through dimensions they sail
Appearing behind the white beast they press
Weapons of legend mar his pearlescent chest
Beset on all sides, the great beast doth flail
The judge is the target of teeth and of tail
Some blows turned aside, the heaviest land
Stone body is rent, life hangs by a strand
Death almost surely is moments away
But Apsu’s great servant has not had his say
Calling the power of healing divine
Torn body made whole, as well as his mind
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Pt. 3
An audience chamber as grand as can be
Fit for a tyrant, majestic to see
More golems to guard from unwelcome guests
Of glass and of stone, destroyed like the rest
Illusory walls made for hidden ingress
The Howling Storm Lord to impress all his guests
They press to beyond, small antechamber
Covered in ice, a frozen king’s lair.
Large iron doors are all that is left
‘Tween raiders unwelcome and ruler recessed
The hammer of doom raps once, twice and thrice
The portal swings open, rent clean from its ice
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Pt. 2
Trespassers delve further with violent intent
Companions are lured by a sensuous scent
An aspiring chef who longs affirmation
Bound to the tyrant with forced obligation
Her spicy dish proves pleasing to palette
A shawl she desires, her freedom to get
She tells of the one who might let them pass
The lord’s hidden chamber to face him at last
A pit made for fighting, blood sport for kings
Pristine and well-tended, no battle cry rings
Forgotten, discarded, no longer viewed
A queen hones her art in quiet solitude
Lust for perfection of body and mind
A youthful indifference for what’s left behind
Now age and neglect hide soft desperation
A challenge she craves for self-validation
Her challenge steps forth from amid the contenders
Valorous and brave, deceivingly tender
A child of nine winters, should she be here?
Nine lifetimes of pain, this child without fear
Two warriors square off, begin trading blows
The child closes in, a windpipe to close
Absorbing the onslaught, she squeezes a hip
The monk blinks away, escaping her grip
Spinning around, the child changes course
Fight fire with fire, she punches with force
Gauntlets of legend meet royal resistance
The queen is laid low at the child’s insistence
Two warriors step back, respect in their hearts
This vict’ry is won by the pint-sized stalwart
True to her word, their fates tied together
The queen stands aside, the way now unfettered
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Pt. 1
Audience with a Tyrant
Great forces march forth with songs on their lips
A lord’s attention they seek with scores of spear tips
Malcinder is dead, now the siege will be turned
Lord Yirrax the Tyrant, his gates to be burned
Wild storms rage and bitter winds blow
Blood blankets the ground as thick as the snow
Ivoryglass tower looms o’er a crevasse
Baba Yaga’s new champions look to trespass
Winter-born keep the Howling Storm’s door
Friend or Foe they inquire, from inside the moor
‘Parlay!’ he doth hail, the kitsune’s appeal
Instead we parlayed with arcane and steel
Draconic guardians amid lush gardens
Twisted and cruel, still listen to bargains
‘An audience!’ We cry, the beast acquiesces
His own fate is sealed, still cut to pieces
Golems of fossil patrolling the ground
They endlessly march, old bones circle round
Unthinking wielders of carnage and death
Returned to the dust, no life in their breath
Thrice now I have stared into the soul of a White Dragon. The first time was marked by arrogance and death. My arrogance, and Logrivich’s death. The second time I was introduced to Cindrix, and saw one of many things that give evidence that this is an alien world. I saw hatred and pain in there, and a longing for acceptance. A longing so strong, she was willing to throw away her natural evil, feral tendencies.
The third time, well, I am still unsure how to describe it. I have heard many a bard spin a tale, and so I shall try to do the same, in hopes that I can unravel these emotions that threaten to spoil my calm façade.
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Ishbaad's Journal wrote: In our travels we have met a native to this world, an werewolf Adlet shaman, Foolish Oread. For as unlucky as I was that she read my words over my shoulder, I am equally lucky she is kind and forgiving for the insult I unintentionally hoisted upon her. Adlet is a much more fitting name for Baknarla and her kind. Graceful and natural, as opposed to the twisted forms of the werewolves of Golarion. I shall endeavor to both take better notes, and do a better job of referencing them as we make ready to breach this fortress.
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It’s been some time since I have penned in this journal. Our journey has been a solid march of inevitability. I often think back to the moment we met the dragonkin rider, oh what was her name? Curse my memory for forgetting. We could have very easily mistaken her for a threat because of the dragonkin that bore her. We might have just as easily made the same mistake with Cindrix, had circumstances pitted her against us in the wilds of this world. What a pity that would have been.
Though now we march towards Ivoryglass, the stronghold of the Drakelanders, with violent intentions. What if we had gone the other way? What if we had allied with the Drakelanders, unwittingly helping the other side? Would their tyrannical ways have made us pause and question our decision as we laid siege to the citadel at General Malsinder’s side?
That last bit made me chuckle out loud and woke up Cindrix, to her annoyance. I’m mostly sure she was being playful when she made her annoyance known, though I’m glad she ate the spare journal that still has blank pages. Or did she eat that one on purpose?
I laughed because I rest easy on my moral high ground. Defend the righteous against the tyrannical! Set right the wrongs and the good guys can prevail and rule this world! Don’t mind us though as we continue to gather the keys we need in order to release Baba Yaga, the queen of tyranny. Oh Jewel, times like these I am glad you have been spared the cruelty of this existence. I don’t want to deal with what you might think of me now.
We rest now. We have defended the Citadel against the invaders. We have obliterated their General and have scattered their army to the four winds. We have traveled far at the head of an army, set to lay siege to the Ivoryglass tower. In our travels we have met a native to this world, a werewolf shaman, searching for a hero of her people. She is leading us into a crevasse that will both take her to her destination, and take us to the door of ours. The strings of fate dance in the master puppeteer’s hands. Soon we will face one tyrant in hopes of freeing another. Perhaps fate will allow at least one more entry into this journal. If I am lucky, I will continue to keep it from the gullet of my dragon as well.
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It was not the first time we had attempted the maneuver, which is so aptly named ‘Death from Above’. We had practiced before with Norman and a wagon full of hay, but I wasn’t able to walk without pain away from any of those attempts. It worried me to try in the heat of combat, but there was definitely something different with Cindrix this time, perhaps a spark of anger in her heart, for she pulled it off brilliantly. We arced down from the sky, and my heart leapt into my throat. My stomach felt like it was turning over inside my body for the few, interminable seconds of the dive. Then suddenly every internal organ of mine was in my feet as our combined weight crashed down on the body of the unsuspecting drakelander barbarian. As if that wasn’t enough to add insult to injury, she quickly reached down and yanked the poor soul from the ground, flinging him into the air. I’ll have to tell her about the look she flashed me when I cut him in half with my sword.
Sometimes she seems like there is an understanding, intelligent mind behind those eyes, and other times I swear she couldn’t be more clueless about anything around us. They beat her for being simple, but simple is as far from the truth as it could possibly be. There was a sinister and satisfied grin on her face when the last Barbarian flung himself off the wall to his certain death rather than face our strike force after the sorcerer was cut down by Kheycear’s bullets and Eoferwick’s hammer. It was as if she was placated, watching his choice in death with the knowledge that there was no logical alternative for him.
One thing we all must learn in this group is this: If you want your blade to have a say in the fight, you had better make use of it quickly. The brutal efficiency with which we cut down the Hydras was a sight to be seen, never mind my ineffectual harvesting of the creature’s heads. Even in that moment, however, we began to harmonize wonderfully as a team with Marco searing the wounds closed with fire, preventing more heads from growing back. Not a word was spoken in advance, it was as if we just knew our jobs. I am glad for it, yet as I write this it makes me wonder back to what I missed, or how I messed up when we encountered Vsevolod in the Crone aspect. Maybe Jorvik would still be here had I done my job better.
I mustn’t keep dwelling on the past. I cannot change it now. Of course we hardly could dwell on the victory then before Commander Pharamol informed us of another infiltration attempt. Barbarians were attempting to break into his quarters, located at the highest point of the tower. We raced back into Spurhorn to deal with this new threat. We could immediately tell that one of the barbarians was a spellcaster of some sort. Unless we dealt with him first, it was going to get tricky.
Thank Sarenrae for Kheycear. I chuckle writing that, knowing that neither of us worship her. His healing bursts might have been the only reason I am still alive after flying so close to the barbarian riders. Cindrix was amazing and eager, but I nearly got cut in half as we charged back and forth.
Charged back and forth, through the air. Something I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d experience. What a fantastic and freeing sensation to soar on the back of this creature. The two of us are like Yin and Yang on the outside, but with more similarities on the inside than perhaps I might care to admit. An unlikely harmony. I think I used that Tien term correctly. Jewel would be proud that I even remember what it means.
I must say how impressed I was with Eoferwic and Talsune. They are kindred spirits in every aspect. Back on Golarion I might say that Talsune was Eoferwic’s spirit animal. I’m pretty sure on this planet it might be the other way around. I still can’t shake that nagging connection with Eoferwic, and his rambling about being the same but different makes even less sense.
It makes me miss my friend.
Around Eoferwic I feel comfortable, as if Jorvik were still here, yet he feels as much a stranger to me as Kheycear and Marco. Perhaps that is what he is getting at when he rambles. I still don’t think I understand, and perhaps I never truly will.
With the resounding success at the walls behind us, we soon learned that it had been merely a diversion. Two gigantic Hydras were pulling a massive siege engine towards the gates. Such a structure didn’t look like a building that should ever move no matter the means of power to pull it, yet here these behemoths were, 14 heads in all, pulling with all of their considerable might. It was only a matter of time before this contraption would lay waste to the gates. Spurhorn would be overwhelmed in minutes by all of the forces incapable of flight.
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I spent so much time breaking Cindrix in these last few days that I haven’t had much of a chance to get to know the new guys. I think the whole group took the news of not being ready to work efficiently with the larger combat force pretty well, and I’m glad they didn’t make a big scene and feel insulted. Granted, Commander Pharamol delivered the news with practiced diplomatic ease. It also helped that he was right. Still, you never know how a warrior might react when someone tells him he isn’t good enough to do something, especially a warrior you don't really know the way I knew Jorvik, and know Aoife.
In hindsight, I would say that Commander Pharamol’s decision to turn us into a strike force turned out to be a tactically brilliant move. As always in any military operation, genius levels are relative to the success or failure of the decision, regardless of whether or not it was the best decision at the time. This one certainly fell in his, and our favor.
Our first task was holding the south wall against a group of barbarians scaling it. A few of the enemy had breached the edge, but not so much to overwhelm the Legion soldiers in the area. The problem was with a group of Frost drakes being ridden by drake-lander barbarians. They harried the wall defense enough that once the main force of Triaxians scaling the wall made it up high enough, there would be no stopping the wave of invaders. The Spurhorn defense forces in other areas would find themselves hard pressed to hold back the main assault if they had to divert more resources to a south wall breech.
This would be Cindrix and I’s first real combat together. She has come a long way in the week or so leading up to the assault, no thanks to Norman’s indecipherable accent. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t apprehensive, but there was certainly no way I would let anyone see that in my face.
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