Styrmenvanterix's page

Runes twist and dance, flowing like water, flickering like flame. They swirl and shift like the winds, and then stablise to hold for a moment, solid as rock, in a pattern like a map... a map to a gate from the physical world to a kingdom of spirits. A place of deadness, where the spirit world and physical world touch.
But the runes also warn of dangers.
I'm assuming this gate/planar rift may be somewhere on the RPG thread. Greek/roman poets such as Homer and Virgil tell stories of heroes who descend into the realms of the dead, if you're looking for inspiration from the classics.

Slash, parry, block, thrust. Combat of a spiritual nature with endlessly flowing runes as teacher and tools.

From somewhere strange words echo after the departing Ch'ack.
So long ago.... Once I think I trained you in spirit combat, but the time for that is long past. All you can do now is pray to the gods that you remember. That you remember everything and in time... The shadows of the serpents walk still.
With the dissipating sigh of lost and forgotten lore, the words break apart into fading susserations.

Restless night here. Posting before trying to sleep again.
I see you clearer traveller. Once I trained you, teaching you that the weapons that slay legends are seldom things mundane, and that to fight a myth with a weapon of mere metal or stone is a road to certain sorrow. And yet you are not the traveller that came then, but the traveller of another age. Perhaps that is why you do not remember. The dance goes round in circles, generation after generation - different players taking the same ages old roles.

Posting about a recurring destiny/series of events thing here, if you want to run with that, with different people in different generations going through the same sort of story/chain of events. Tragic (?) events if you want to get melodramatic...

The wyrm Styrmenvanterix, scales white with age, is coiled around a tree, turning the beaten bronze pages of a book of the Ch'acks. The language the dragon uses to address the wanderer is almost as old as thought, and felt in the pounding of the heart and the burning in and out of breath rather than heard.
Greetings, traveller. Did once one of us kill the other, many turns of the planes ago? You seem vaguely familiar, but if so you are late in coming. The portals of horn and ivory are shut, and it is too late to ask for the aid you needed. The daughters of the morning keep their own counsel and will not aid you of their own, and you cannot force the gates yourself. All that you can do is pray that they are amused to stop the things themselves. You cannot take the doubled star.