Mistmoore

MistMoore

Paeter Tells You…

It was destined to be an interesting evening. I had met the Ogre, Logg, as he bade me to, at the entrance to the forest of Kithicor. My elders within the church had scarcely any cause to educate me in the complexities of Ogrish fashion, but I believe I can say that Logg’s clothing standards have improved of late. Either that, or some battleship along the coast of Antonica is sailing with a greatly reduced compliment of armour plating due to an unfortunate collision with a large humanoid.

No matter. Logg and I engaged in light discourse on the state of the world, and he brought to my attention matters I had been unaware of. My weeks in the relatively sheltered area of Rivervale had misled me to believe that, perhaps, my vigilence could be slackened somewhat. The challenges of Runnyeye and the Gorge of King Xorbb notwithstanding, the fear and dangers of this vicinity remained relatively light. Logg awakened my interest thus:

“There are dire evils afoot within the lands of Faydwer. I have seen with my own eyes hordes of Dark Elves, practicing all manner of evil magic, within an ancient castle…” *

(* translated from: “Logg see da bad inkies. Inna rok hut, neer Lfay” From this point, I will refrain from providing the original form of Logg’s words unless I feel they clarify a point)

The great Ogre proposed a venture. He could arrange my transport to the area of Castle Mistmoore, there to be joined with a goodly company of peers. There was no doubt in my mind: the threat of a dark elf incursion into the surface world demanded a response. My only hesitations were concerns regarding my friend, Bevarin the Ranger, and a certain amount of self doubt. Bolstered by a small prayer to My Lady, the Goddess Tunare, I agreed to Logg’s generous offer.

The travel to Faydwer, the home continent of my beloved Church and the city of my birth, was no less amazing for being my third such passage. Again, I was gifted with the chance to be in the presence of the Lady Larya. Her magic continues to astound me, and remind me of the wonders this world has yet to reveal to me.

Upon arrival on the continent, and after a period of travel by foot, Logg left me near the entrance to Mistmoore. Shortly, I was in the company of a huge gathering of friends.

Strange it is to say that, as many of these people were barely known to me: Beedle, Bramen, Lowki, Tanino, Lilya…I had met them once before on a brief but intriguing trip a dungeon known as Unrest. Others I had spent more time with: Greyok, the mighty-thewed barbarian, and Heinkle, the equally powerful but far more eye-pleasing and, arguably, personable paladin. None of them, however, were people I had spent any great time with. Yet, friends they were: immediate, without the usual awkwardness, and with an amazing degree of trust. I faced a new challenge: living up to the trust these folk so willingly placed in me.

And trust was an important ingredient in the night. Our challenges dealing with the evils of Mistmoore were many. Ghoulish, heavily armoured creations, gargoyles of hideous stone, dark elf spellcasters and warriors of numerous descriptions. We each relied upon the other, for mis-step by one brought misfortune upon all.

The graveyard was our trial. I fear it undid us, me most especially. We fought bravely through several evil creatures, and held our ground for quite some while. Then suddenly, without warning, we were beset by several horrendous foes at once. I barely had the time necessary to realize my predicament, and then I was dead. My last conscious act, the ill-timed healing of Beedle’s already cooling corpse, seemed to enrage our enemies and focus their anger upon me.

Lilya had also shucked off the mortal coil, and we two practictioners of the healing arts consoled each other after the Goddess brought us back to life. We waited to see how many of our companions had fallen. Amazingly, some had survived, and these stalwarts brought our corpses back to us so that we might rearm. After a brief bout of miscommunication resulted in Lilya’s second death, we altered our approach. From that point, the power of simple and friendly trust was made nearly invincible through application of more careful strategy.

Battle after battle, our enemies fell. The evil dark elves (the most common kind: I fear that, barring a few notable exceptions, our ancient brethren are deeply twisted and bitter creatures bent on untold distruction) fell again and again to our organized efforts. Yes, one or two of our company was killed, but never again that night did we suffer great defeat.

I can only wonder what the new dawn might bring…

*******

/ooc

Last night was a true revelation for me. Bringing together ten or twelve creative, independent, and crazy people on very short notice and working towards common goals…wow. I have felt at home within the Talons since I joined, but this was the first time I felt like “part of the team”: a contributor, instead of a side-line observer. Each and every one of the people I met, including the couple who were not guild mates, was a treat to interact with.

Throughout four or five hours, and despite the opportunities for conflict, whining, or other negativity, everyone was jovial and generous. This is, truly and forcefully, what a guild is all about… in my opinion, anyway. Not ranks or rules, not dictates or cliques, nor demands for attendance and perfect behavior. Just a group of similarly minded folks who, because of the culture and good spirits of the founding members, can be assured of a good time when they get together.

I apologize if I didn’t interact as much as I should have: I was often a bit overwhelmed by everything going on around me. And you guys all know each other so well: in-jokes, shape changing, old stories, and all. But, every time I did interject something, I felt a sense of being part of it all.

Paeter