The Sanctuary of Fate
The breathtaking loveliness of a midnight shadowed garden embraces you. The
night sky is filled with stars... no, not stars, but strands of light which
shimmer at the edges of sight. The soft call of unseen birds provides sweet
melody to please the ear and the low hoot of an owl echoes out of the trees.
A thick tangle of web-shrouded briar roses marks the boundaries of the area
and every conceivable variety of flower blooms within, despite the darkness.
Here and there, care has been taken to create gathering places in the glade,
from an intimate nook of soft, thick moss beneath a veiling willow tree, to
a low, gentle dell where a large group could rest in comfort. Each cardinal
point is marked by its own unique archway. Ebon flames beckon within a trio
of them, and the fourth is sealed by an enormous spiderweb. At the heart of
the clearing is a large round seal of orichalcum.
(Cyan Aura) A small weaving loom is barely visible amidst the trees.
This small but intricately carved weaving loom appears to have been created through magical means using an ancient oak still rooted in the soil. Threads upon its warp and woof stream up into the heavens to mingle with the strands there. The Tapestry is somehow more than you can bear to look upon; almost like gazing upon the face of the universe itself. Glittering Threads call to you, shimmering and bright, almost recognizable. Faces, voices, places and the flicker of events whisper to you from within the Strands of the Tapestry. A narrow bench rests before the loom, an embroidered velvet cushion atop it.
The archway that guards the passage out of the garden is crafted of silvery gray yew which compliments the spider-webs that fill it. A pewter plaque of elven craftsmanship hangs just below the arch's keystone, gently swaying on gilt chains. It reads, "Codes of the Fated." Below it, within the web, tiny creatures scurry here and there, each laboring together to create a greater whole. One particularly large specimen pauses in her spinning and stares at you. Like a ghostly wind, you feel more than hear a voice in your mind:
<<I am Guardian, keeper of the Geasa. To gaze upon me is to learn more of this tradition of the Chosen.>>
Lilies of the darkest black dance gently in the soft breeze that caresses the garden. Their fragrance is intoxicating, like the fine incense burned in sacred temples. Beyond their nodding blooms a shallow dell can be seen that would be perfect for comfortable gatherings. At its centerpoint is a podium illuminated by a shimmering cloud of wings and light. A wee sprite hovers there, her plaintive song creating an odd harmony with the call of the unseen owls. The east archway is visible beyond the dell; an inviting yet strong trellis of bright silver over which grows a blanket of flowers. Within the argent gateway, flames of ebon hue burn brightly, consistently and purely. Like the forge fire that burns away any impurities to release the essence within, the Weaver's flame is a catalyst for the soul through adversity and trial. If touched by it, one is never the same again.
A kind voice speaks in your mind: *Life, Perseverance. The Weaver's Path.*
At the southernmost point of the clearing, a thorny tangle of inky black and bloody crimson briar roses surrounds an iron bench granting a bit of privacy and seclusion from the rest of the garden. An eerie arch, the rods barbed in effigy of the vines, frames the seating area. A heavy cauldron hangs by twin chains from the sides of the arch. An angry ebon flame writhes and struggles within, casting grotesque shadows over any who rest before it. Its dance is mesmerizing, as is the chaotic motion of the luminescent crystal globe being tossed about by the flames like a bit of driftwood on the ocean. Heat flows outward in waves, tongues of fire reaching out hungrily like a dragon on the hunt or a hero's pyre or passions unchecked.
You hear sly, sibilant whispers in your mind: *Chaos. Change. The Wyld's Way.*
A stand of massive oaks shelter a small campfire, its warm light reflected in a clear, clean, shallow pool of water and cast back to illuminate several odd swaths of webbing that drape from tree to tree. It takes close examination to identify them: Hammocks! The central hammock seems to have some extra special significance, as the webs of its weaving are touched with the same sarcastic- gray color as one of the Threads on the Loom. It is also much longer than the rest, as if to accommodate a unusually lanky soul. The western archway is not immediately visible. It is discovered only by close examination; the silvery- green of twin young aspen saplings create the pillars, their branches growing together create the arch. The natural portal is softly lit from within by the enclosed flames. The fire's glow warms the copse, crackling merrily, warm and welcoming like the first glowing promise of sunrise. Like the nest of a risen phoenix, these are the fires of creation and renewal. You hear a soft whisper in your mind: *Birth, Learning, the Wyrm's dominion.*
How can two utterly conflicting forces remain in such balanced opposition? The screaming emptiness of the Void roils above, surrounded by yet somehow enclosing, the searing beauty of the Pattern. Both have a siren call; dark oblivion and the peace of the grave whisper from the void, hypnotic in its emptiness, while the rapturous energy of the Tapestry's Pattern Web shines with an intoxicating radiance that makes you want to cry out at its power.
The softest grass provides an emerald carpet underfoot and it is free of any dew that might dampen the feet or hold a chill. At the center of the garden, a large circular monument of orichalcum has been set flush with the ground. Around its outermost edge is a heavy chain of mithril. A few inches in from the binding-chain are runes in ancient Thoras which detail those tasks that are required of those who would walk the Path of Fate. At the circle's core three sigla in balance glow with an unearthly, intense radiance.
Look runes thoras tasks orichalcum entry
The silvery runes read:
The Chosen of Fate are individuals of honor, courage and integrity. These virtues must be present in any applicant. The Path of Fate is not for everyone. Much is demanded of them, and so as fair warning, our Entry Quest is more challenging than any other in the Realm. The following tasks must be completed by any who wish to join:
1. Change your title to: 'walks the path of the Wyrm.'
2. Reach level 10, minimum.
3. Gain the sponsorship of a current member of the Chosen.
4. Write a character history. Your sponsor will tell you where to send it.
5. Present yourself for a one on one interview with Cordir.
6. Spend a `year and a day' of TFC time (two hours RL) assisting the young and new to the Realm with spells, eq, advice, and guidance.
7. Learn eight of the racial cities of your home continent. Be able to prove this knowledge by obtaining a unique item from each city.
8. Select three Geasa and discuss their suitability with your sponsor.
9. Find the Sigil Draktha in the Citadel of the North. Be able to reach it from your home city.
Once the quest is done, inform your Chosen sponsor.
Look pewter plaque elven codes
1. Service: aid those weaker, and those new to the Realm.
2. Honor: In all words and deeds. Your word is your bond and My law. Your actions reflect on the entire following and your Goddess in particular.
3. Learning: Admit your mistakes and learn from them. Share your growth with your fellow Chosen, that they may avoid the same pitfall.
4. Growth: Strive to become all you can, and do so with grace, integrity and honor, while observing your own personal Geasa.
5. Respect: To Immortals, your fellows, your foes, yourself. Show tolerance for the beliefs of others, even if they conflict with your own. Public mockery shames us all.
6. Courage: Dare to risk, to achieve, to find the nobility of spirit within.
( Look RULES and Look QUOTES for some further guidance )
Look quotes guidance
The sea is dangerous, and its storms terrible, but these obstacles have never been sufficient reason to remain ashore. Unlike the mediocre, intrepid spirits seek victory over those things that seem impossible. It is through strength of character that they embark on the most daring of all endeavors... to meet the shadowy future with courage, and thus conquer the unknown. - unknown
Those who preserve their integrity remain unshaken by the storms of daily life. They do not stir like leaves on a tree or follow the herd where it runs. In their mind remains the ideal attitude and conduct of living. This is not something given to them by others. It is their roots... it is a strength that exists deep within. - unknown.
Life is Pain. - Thaygar
Life is pain, and how we can overcome that pain, grow from it and move beyond it with the all grace and perseverance we can muster. - Cordir
- Keep character separation. If you have a character in a following that is 'in conflict' with Fate, you *must* maintain a minimum of one hour real-time separation between logins. Violation of this rule is punishable up to and including death, corpse eating, rejection. Sharing information gained on Ftell, our Boards, our Email list, or Forums is also unacceptable, and may result in similar punishment.
- In dealing with Anathema, less is more. Avoid speaking, trading, selling, etc. You are granted specific permission, however, to cast useful spells upon any Ally who is hunting an Anathema.
- Foul language on any channel other than Ftell (I know you need a place to vent - use Ftell if you need to, but don't go overboard) is unacceptable. I expect those in Fate to behave with grace and manners.
Look guardian spider keeper
The Guardian spider drops down from the web on a bit of silk and steps closer. Its eight eyes glowing, it speaks in your mind. *Geasa are an ancient tradition by which voluntary oaths are sworn by the individual. They are best chosen by you, for you. They are tests of will and self- control. A Geas is specific action that is either prohibited or denied. Each of the Chosen of Fate including the Lady Herself are required to take up three Geasa. Many involve one sacrifice, one responsibility, and one form of helping the young.* With that, she scurries back up her silk and vanishes amidst her fellows.
There are no reference points within Oblivion. A soul could be eternally lost in the endless, dark, pitiless calm of the Void. It extends blackly into forever. It is nothingness. The absence not simply of light, but of existence itself.
Look strand strands thread threads
Lives. Souls. Spirits. Name them what you will, but in the Great Pattern, this is their representation. The Tapestry is overwhelming in its profound intricacy and beauty. Each Thread is unique. Subtle runes call the eye to some of the Threads: pale-gray, dove-gray, sarcastic-gray, storm-gray, diamond-white, opaline, bright-white, silver, storm-blue, indigo, midnight-cyan, fuming-blue, fiery-red, ruby, scarlet, faded-violet, fuchsia, gold, tigers-eye, midnight, blackfire, and argentine.
The movement of the three fires cast shadows that seem almost alive. It is easy to imagine shapes or meanings from their outlines. That one there looks like a serpent devouring its own tail, and another, surely, is a mace, moving with the swiftness of combat, and there, a deft figure is slipping from darkness to darkness, illuminated by a midnight spark. By the trellis, the shadows dance like an ancient elf, caught up in rapturous communion. To the east they gather thickly, as dark as a Vampyric cloak.
Look hammock hammocks swath drape
The spider webs to the west have been pulled and manipulated into an entirely unnatural form. Entire sections of webbing have been formed into several odd vaguely sling-like shapes, suitable for reclining in. Some form tiers, one above another, and others seem unusually wide, as if to accommodate two. A large strand of webbing lays limply against one of the oaks - apparently someone broke a hammock by hiding too many oranges in it, for the brightly colored fruit lies scattered upon the ground. Strangely, it seems that someone has used the broken web-sling to conceal something - a large lump can be seen bulging out the bottom of the curtain of web.
Look lump bulge keg
The broken hammock drapes down to curtain and conceal some large object. Lifting it aside reveals a heavy keg of Mirth Beer, left here by a dear friend of the Lady and those She leads.
The dell descends in gentle tiers to a central point where a podium lovingly crafted of burnished rosewood awaits. Cushions of soft, thick moss pad the natural benches, making this a casual, comfortable gathering spot.
Some terribly romantic individual caused this place to be crafted. The draping branches of the willow are further shrouded by a light veil of Spanish moss, providing complete privacy to any who would tarry here. A climbing vine of honeysuckle twined about a thornless rose bush fills the bower with a delicate perfume, and whisper-soft emerald moss covers the ground thickly. Fireflies dance here and there, providing a gentle illumination, and a soft, cooling breeze flows beneath the tree, yet somehow does not stir the curtain that blocks the eyes of others. The space is just big enough for two to recline in comfort with a picnic basket or other diversion. A single shining strand of silvery hair lies tangled amidst the mossy pillow, perhaps left behind by the last person to enjoy this nook.
Look sigla sigil center
Three glowing sigils of great power have been crafted here, aglow with power and presence: the Sapphire Glyph Argedo, ward of the Weaver, the gateway to serenity; the Ebon Sigil Odegra, pact of the Wyld, the path to oblivion; the Crimson Sigil Draktha, seal of the Wyrm, bridge between lifetimes.
The willow tree's numerous boughs sway as if stirred by the light magical breeze, causing a wind chime of silvery bells and soft gray feathers to chime and dance. The veil of branches parts momentarily and the lovely face of a woman appears in the bark. She gazes down at marks carved into her trunk, then up at initials carved in the same deliberate manner. The bark parts, revealing a smile that could easily dazzle the eyes of any mortal. The face then turns, flowing up the trunk into the branches above. Surely a creature of beauty and magic guards this tree.
Fourteen marks of the same size and detail mar the smooth bark that covers the tree trunk, yet the dryad seems pleased by them. Perhaps they were placed with her permission by one who performed a labor of heartfelt devotion.
Carved with care, highlighted by the lighter color of the exposed under-bark, these letters almost shimmer.
C + A A + T
N + T C + R
Someone has also carved in a rather reckless fashion:
L + K
Look elaeshavarn lae laesha dryad
She stands so perfectly still, it is hard to discern woman from tree, although no willow ever had curves so sweet as these. Her eyes outshine the brightest sunlight to cascade down over dappled green leaves. The hair that flows down to waist level has the softness and the rich hue of forest moss, making one's hand tremble in longing to touch. Her soft, pale brown lips are open as if she has just blown a kiss, or perhaps was inviting one. Her face is at once merry and wicked, being as she is the essence of the earth itself - inviting, mysterious, and fruitful. Garbed in only the barest wisps of rose petals and ivy, she stands here as both guard and decoration for this intimate spot. She smiles and fades back into the tree, disappearing from view and granting full privacy to any wishing to enjoy her bower-home.
Look pool water
Carefully positioned to cast back and magnify the dancing brightness of the western flame, yet not be in the way of anyone entering or exiting a hammock, this pool seems to shimmer with reflections, but not of anyone with you in the garden. As you stare, entranced, at the dream-like liquid visions, the image of a stunningly lovely drow woman appears. She winks audaciously, and then the picture fades and the pool is simply water once more. Oddly, there are paw prints from some extremely large feline at the pool's edge.
Set into the polished surface of the rosewood lectern at the center of the dell is an white jade plaque. Engraved in the stone are words in old-common script:
Bring before us your concerns, that you not carry them alone.
Bring before us your sorrow, that its burden might be shared.
Bring before us your joy, that we may partake of it with you.
Look chain mithril
A thick chain of mithril with names inscribed upon each link surrounds the orichalcum circle in the center of the sanctuary. As you turn in place, eyes cast downward to examine each link in the chain, you see one name after another, some worn, some newly inscribed. Is it not strange how those that stand out to you, happen to be the names of those that you knew... or know... well? Like a chain, the Chosen of Fate are links in something greater, each an integral part of the whole. One single link is larger than the rest, and reads: The Chosen, before The Fall.
Nyx (Shadow of Fate, First Chosen, Triat Master, Ordained, Taoiseach), Talmud the Theologian, Deamhan An'Shalach, Amblin Dirado, Durin, Marvadoc, Amblin Dirado, Gregar T'Sarran, Ananasi Aleitros, Kennet D'Augustine (Weaver's Champion), Gernoul, Cerberus, Palin D'henoke (Weaver's Apprentice), Natalie D'Augustine, Allyena, Mireya An'Shalach (daughter of Cordir & Deamhan), Helati de-Orilig, Allyena, Teine, Adso (Promoted to Immortality), Cirth the Pale (Scribe of Fate), Lataal, Boromir (Counselor of Fate), Tyrall, Storivad,Irgaak, Elaina, Bastian, Trakker Longbow (Emissary of Fate, Taoiseach), Fuzzy, Kalee, Tranquility Rose (Weaver's Handmaiden, Taoiseach), Angeline, Garvax, Khorlan Farseer, Azmoth, Cistercian, Elladan - Attendant, Saran Cerementi, Gillfen (Quartermaster), Trevor, Dalmiera, Flutter, Dazzle, Ringo, Sarabos, Noctus (Triat Master, Ordained, Blade, Taoiseach), Dwarvenheld, Harmony, Clue, Tirayel Vairhyn (Taoiseach), Cleon Venabili, Celia, Tien Shihan (Taoiseach), Alex, Plato - Attendant, Dracos (Master of the Hands of Fate), Aslan, Bancor, Virgil, Lanfear (Dreamdancer & Taoiseach), Aphrodite, Morgaine, Kethran, Solaron Al'Veeran (Acoloyte of the Triat, Blade of Fate), Kaldred, Rigel,Ambrose (Navigator of Fate), Ordeith (Apprentice to Noctus), Aerith, Kettri, Katrana (Triat Acolyte, Shamaness Adept, Blade of Fate, Wyld Handmaiden), Torchbearer - Attendant, Ebonie, Taibh, Anduin, Shylok, Myre. * REBIRTH *
Look crystal globe
Like the gazing crystal of a seer, this globe is filled with images, faces and visions of many who have borne the Covenant, or touched their lives. It stands as a memorial to all those that time, Fate, or chance have taken from our midst. Our prayers go with them, but we keep them alive in our memories.
Look monkey monkeygirl
A chattering monkey hangs from a tree, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Flinging oranges at the center-most hammock, she appears to be attempting to booby-trap it, anticipating the arrival of a Sneak she enjoys tormenting.
This nearly colorless thread is hard to discern amidst the other more vivid Strands on the Loom. It is tightly woven with many other strands, and it has a long history back into the Tapestry, touching many others. Often, though, it separates from the weave, and runs a long and lonely path. The strangest element of it, however, is that near to the Loom, it appears to have been cut and then tied together again.
Suddenly all darkens, and before you stands a tall and slender figure shrouded in a dark hooded cloak. He holds a large book in his hands, and the hood leaves most of his pale face in shadow. He slowly raises his head, and weary gray eyes meet yours... No ... His hands are empty and the hood rests upon his shoulders, and as he turns to face you, piercing clear blue eyes lock your gaze. He smiles slightly and reveals his fangs...
The vision fades.
The dove-gray Strand shimmers beneath your regard. Many other tones are reflected along its length, an indication of how closely woven it is with so many others. It appears integral to the stability and strength of large sections of the Pattern. You hear a soft, familiar woman's voice in your mind: *My Handmaiden, of whom I am well proud.* For a moment, an image flashes in your mind of an Aara maiden upon Vision Quest, amidst the sands of the desert. The scene shifts to reveal the maid released from her Geas to stand within the circle of the arms of her love, the Lady's Blade, then reforms a third time to show the same swan curtseying low as she accepts the weighty mantle of Ordainment. * The past, the present, the future... all entwined, all dependent, all truly one. She grows, daily, and only she can shape what she will become. *
Look sarcastic-gray sneak
The busy swirl of late-day traffic through the West Gate of Midgaard appears as you touch upon the sarcastic gray Thread within the Pattern. You note the Mayor bustling about, Slue standing watch, fidos sniffing through piles of garbage the janitors have missed, guards, citizens, and all manner of folk going about their business... but no one remarkable, no one of heroic stature or flashing armor and weaponry. Only that nondescript fellow slouching in the shadow of the archway between the Guild and Poor Alley, observing passers-by. But what could be of interest to the Weaver there? No defining aura swirls about him, and his garb, while of good enough quality, shows evidence of hard use. Suddenly, as if sensing your notice somehow, the figure looks up. You'd swear he winks audaciously. As you blink in surprise, he fades into the crowd, hidden in plain view.
It takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness as you lightly brush your fingertips against the storm-gray Thread. You gaze into a stunning cathedral. Stained glass windows, abstract in pattern, seem to glow even in the dim light. A still figure stands studying a large tome inscribed with the symbol of the Triat Wyrm upon its heavy cover. His lips move in a quiet prayer.. or chant? Although aware of your presence from the first, he finally looks up, seemingly searching the stained glass patterns in the ceiling. You sense he smiles at you, although his face is hidden within the cowl of his robe. Closing the tome, he makes an arcane gesture, and suddenly, by the magic of the Pattern, you stand before him. Shrouded from head to foot in a strange gray cloak, he bows, and again... the sense that he smiles at you. With an abrupt movement, he bows his head and lowers the cowl. As the cloth slides back, dozens of tiny black braids pour forth. He lifts his gaze to meet yours and your heart skips a beat. Where there should be nose, mouth, ears, and the contours of bone and muscle, there is only a pale, smooth expanse of skin and eyes of crimson hue. Again, the odd sense of expression, yet the flesh before you does not change. This time, you feel a sad, wry smirk, and a nod of acknowledgement at your expected horror. With that, he makes a deft gesture with both hands, and this vision ends.
Look diamond-white counselor
One fingertip brushes the diamond-white strand within the Pattern. At once, you hear a soft chuckle in your mind, followed by a male voice accented in an old dialect of Northern elvish. "You realize, Lady, I'm going to keep up the horrid puns until I see you smile today? Lord Foolkiller charged me with the task of not letting you get too somber." The voice softens, and takes on a more serious tone. "And to be your friend, as I was - and am - His. Though that duty is more pleasure than obligation." You feel a touch upon your arm, as if providing support. "Milady, I will always be here. Your jester, your Taoiseach, your Counselor of War, but most of all, your friend until the bitter end. Never doubt that." The voice and this vision slowly fades.
A shimmering opaline thread overwhelms you. You cannot comprehend it - only stand in utter awe of its utter and complete Perfection. A shadow passes between you and the Thread, and a gentle voice whispers, *Nash. Mortals cannot truly perceive Him. There has been much blood shed in His name. I, Outcast, Heretic, Excommunicate, and those who follow where I lead are the focus of their wrath. It takes a brave soul to seek Him outside the bounds of pain and death. I can no longer speak His truth - a truth forever drowned out by the shouting of the Lich's servants - and have those words heard for what they are. I will speak of it no more.* You sense the speaker's lasting sorrow as the thread fades from your perception.
A brilliant flash of light blinds you. As your vision slowly returns, the only thing you can see is a figure against a shining background, like sun on snow. His frost-pale hair blends with his icy skin, and he is robed in purest white. In one strong hand he holds a glowing staff, and as your eyes rise to meet his... There is another flash. As if revealed by lightning you see the same man, now a figure of gray against the darkness, younger, searching. Dark eyes gaze at you, and in them echoes pain and mystery and longing. The image slowly fades, leaving you once more at the Loom, touching the bright-white Thread.
Lightly touching a finger to the silver strand within the Pattern, you somehow sense that it reveals a moment trapped in time from some years in the distant past. You see a moonlit elven garden, curtained off from the rest of the Realm by a delicate wall of spider-webs. As you scan the area a second time, a preternaturally still figure gradually becomes visible: a vampire, standing gracefully tall, looking up at the night sky. He turns, and a slow, sensual smile lights up his face. "Love? I hadn't expected you this ear-- You're not her." The smile disappears instantly, to be replaced by chilling menace. "Who are you? What are you doing looking among my Lady's private things? You are _not_ welcome here." He makes an abrupt, angry gesture with one pale hand. There is a sudden flash of darkness, and your eyes sting; this vision of the past fades from sight.
The power and fury of a spring storm rages within the storm-blue Thread. The commanding figure of a thrice-born warrior appears, the dark copper of his hair like the final shades of sunset. His piercing hazel gaze scans the environs unceasingly, ever vigilant. As he travels swiftly through the rain-lashed forest, he moves with both confidence and stealth, quite unusual in one so tall and powerfully built. Heralded by a deafening peal of thunder and blinding lightning flare, a Pattern of shimmering light appears in his path, but his hands do not seek his weapons. Instead, they grasp the waist of the curvaceous, silver-haired woman who steps through the portal and he effortlessly lifts her off the ground. Raising her to his passionate kiss, his arms mold her body to fit his. She returns the embrace with matching hunger and joy. This vision fades, giving the two lovers their privacy.
As you touch the Indigo Strand, images crash over your mind: *Hair used as a cloth, a bard scours clean the black glass panels of an ancient temple, now lost. * A bride is torn from her pledged husband by the Lich* A witch is freed by the Justicar and given new sight and purpose within a Fellowship * A girl- child is born, soul called from the Pattern itself, and Named before the Three.* Tynian rips the mortal form of the devout petitioner, summoning her to a higher service. * The first Prophet of the Three binds Incarna and Vampire with bonds of spirit, flesh, and blood. * A Shadow kneels within Black N'Kai, pledging his service to the Weaver. * A widowed goddess stands alone in Her garden, mourning his loss. * A mighty warrior-priest kneels before the Lady and lovingly kisses her hand.* The Lady teaches three others of the Laws of Immortality.* Cast down for a wrong act with kind intent, the penitent Weaver struggles to regain what was lost. Wandering through the Darkness for a time, the faith of her folk and the love of her Champion are her only guiding lights until the moment of renewal and rebirth* With a shudder, you return to the body you had nearly forgotten, and release the Thread of the Weaver Herself.
As with many threads within the Tapestry, the midnight-cyan thread reveals only darkness at first. As your eyes strain to discern detail, you slowly recognize the outlines of the hideous subterranean caves sealed below the Sigil Draktha. By the still waters of Lake Hali, a powerfully built gnome kneels in communion with the One who Sleeps below. Sacred ritual garments shroud the worn mail that glints beneath, and around his throat dangles a delicate dove-gray feather bound in a drop of crystal. Above him, warding his safety, a lovely Aara swan glides in circles upon the powerful winds of the Hurricane's Eye. As if summoned by the cherished priest's devotion, the Dhole appears, rising up out of its home. To your shock and surprise, the hideous creature does not instantly devour the priest. Instead it dips in a formal acknowledgement of Lady Fate's Ordained Blade and Taoiseach, then continues to flow out of its home. Coil after sinuous coil emerges, blocking your view of the gnome.
Touching upon the fuming blue thread, the scene of a mystic shuffling a deck of brightly painted cards with her slender hands fills your mind. She turns over the first card, revealing a woman resting beneath a tree, a lion sprawled with it's head in her lap. Both seem to look up at you from the card with a serene, trusting expression in their eyes. The mystic whispers with affection in her voice, "Strength - the Arcana I believe Aslan T'Sarran embodies" The image of Aslan smiles gently down at the fierce creature. Her golden-red hair is lit by the sun, creating a halo around her face. Her large, dark blue-green eyes are tender as they gaze at the beast, the light dusting of freckles upon her pert nose giving her an air of innocence. The mystic's voice catches your attention from the scene on the card as she continues, "Of all the souls I watch, hers is perhaps the most gentle and openly caring of others. She's always one to be the peacemaker, the one to hear the other side of an argument, my friend Jyslin's adopted daughter is as much unlike her mother in many ways as they are twins in their passionate natures. I have watched as she long sought a worthy mate, and along with many others, I pray Talyn will prove himself worthy." Aslan, the Lion, the card and the mystic fades from your mind leaving you holding the fuming blue thread in your hand.
Look fiery-red apprentice
A mage, his hair bleached pure white from centuries of manipulating energies, studies ancient manuscripts and new maps in a tall tower overlooking a wave- tossed shore. Around his throat hangs a powerful talisman that is shrouded by dancing, crimson flames that do not scorch or burn his rune-inscribed robes. The sorcerer's brow arches slightly, as if aware of your gaze, and he utters the word, "Darkness". This vision fades from view.
A shimmering drop of blood is pooled here along the edge of the ruby Thread. In it, you see reflected the Ascended Vampire Lord, Khore, looking back at you, quite aware of your gaze. There is a sharp flash of pain in your heart, soul and throat... and the image vanishes.
This thread is charred and blackened, only the distant memory of its original color and weaving intact. A shudder flows over you, and a violent bout of nausea grips your innards at the fury, sorrow, and betrayal that caused this thread's destruction.
As you reach for the scarlet thread, a silver lock of hair falls across your shoulder. Turning to see who stands so close to you, your eyes meet violet irises gazing intently at you, set in a face of incomparable elven beauty. The drow woman's eyes narrow and you feel her within your mind, poking about, prodding into secrets, provoking hidden desires. With a smile she dances a step back, only to draw her eyes slowly up and down your form before smiling seductively. Her intentions clear, you begin to speak, even if only to ask her name... But your vision suddenly goes white as a melodious voice fills your mind. "Naughty naughty... no touching... just watching... even with my thread. I might drop by in your dream... to fulfill one of those unfulfilled desires..." Slowly, her image fades, and you realize she was but another vision of the Threads... or was she? Troubled, you wonder what your next dream will be like..
As your senses flow over the purple thread within the Great Tapestry, they are singed by the intensity that only an Immortal's Thread can contain. The image of a proud, tall Minotaur warrior burns into your mind, like the fiery breath of the dragons he so enjoyed sparring in his mortal days. Kneeling so as not to tower over the youngling he seeks to teach, the first Ascended of the Chosen continues to guide and instruct and set an example for others. He turns and looks at you, somehow seeing you through the Tapestry. Your eyes lock, and he gives you a toothy grin. As his image fades away, you would have sworn he winked at you...
As you look at this thread, the world around you begins to shift as another reality takes over. A soft melody captivates you, and you strain to hear it better. Sitting beneath a tree near a rushing waterfall, a woman plays upon a silver lute. As she gazes up to the sky for inspiration, the flash of her mismatched blue and green eyes is intriguing. Her short dark hair is slicked back, but an ill-mannered wisp falls forward into her eyes. Instead of appearing boyish, her short locks draw your attention upwards to the almost innocent expression behind her knowing, two-toned eyes. What a dichotomy! Innocence in her expression, sensuality in her full lips, blushing cheeks and blooming figure and knowledge in her gaze. This one's future lies unset... but what potential she must hold... only she or the Weaver truly knows. As this thread-vision fades from sight, you catch a stanza of the song she sings:
Oh, what a dream beyond the realm of why
Pretty little beings beneath the yawning sky
Speaking of God as if they could define
Music to the deaf, and color to the blind.
As your eyes flow over the fuchsia thread, the image of a graceful and lovely elven woman comes to your mind's eye. Strong and fiery, yet friendly and womanly, she is both priestess and warrior with a ready smile and a healing touch. You marvel at the interconnectedness and length of this strand: truly, this is a life that has touched many others. Wound about it is a glittering thread of silvery-green, which departs the fuchsia thread mid-weaving, and fades into eternity, only to rejoin it some time later with a brilliance that is joyful to behold, reunited in love and faithful service.
As your finger brushes the golden Thread, you see trees, and a woman clad in comfortable, worn leathers leaning casually against one of the largest. She smiles at you, and as she lifts a hand in greeting, you see a glowing golden rune on the back of it. Her dark skin and darker eyes speak of a life on the road, and her mace and rapier look well-used. Oddly, there are raven and owl feathers tied to the hilts of both weapons, to the harp slung across her back, and braided into her hair. She brushes her fingertips across one of the dark raven feathers, unfocusing her eyes to stare briefly through you, then says, If you are here, then you must be friend to my heart-sister, and so friend to me as well. Walk well in the world and call on me should you need help. A falcon's cry sounds somewhere in the distance, and she glances towards the direction of the sound. I must go. My mate is nearby looking for me. She grins, hands you the gloves you thought you'd had on your hands a second before, winks, and melts into the forest.
Look tiger-eye tigers-eye ally
Touching the tiger-eye thread, you see the strong visage of the Immortal leader of the White Tigers as He sits within His Den, surrounded by His folk. His is a kind and wise face, one that inspires respect and trust. Arching one brow, the Weaver's Ally glances in your direction and meets your gaze. His blue eyes look directly into your innermost being, and you feel yourself assessed. As some unseen creature at His heel growls, you get the impression of something very large, with disturbingly sharp teeth. You step back alarmed, and contact with this thread is broken.
This thread is charred and blackened, only the distant memory of its original color and weaving intact. A shudder flows over you, and a violent bout of nausea grips your innards at the fury, sorrow, and betrayal that caused this thread's destruction.
As your gaze brushes the midnight strand, you catch a glimpse of a city silhouetted by night. Frowning, you look closer, for there must be more... Straining your eyes, you finally see what the Weaver has taken note of already: Standing on a wire stretched taut above a shadowed alley is a dark, lean figure, his outline barely visible in the pale starlight. His arms are held out to the night sky and his head is tipped back, as if watching the infinity above. A feeling of calmness radiates from him, and despite the powerful chilling wind he seems unrushed, undisturbed. He is waiting, but for what? Suddenly a cat dashes across the rooftops, catching your eye, and when you look back, the figure is gone...
As you touch gently upon the argentine strand within the Pattern, you see nothing but darkness that somehow gives the impression of movement, and hear only that soft voice.
I know, Mother. I have been gone long. But the Three have work yet for me to do, here. Fear not. I'll return... someday.
Look flames flame fire fires
The flames dance, and the universe at its inception appears, the work of the High Ones: the Maker, the Enchanter and the Destroyer. Then, lesser deities manifest, each with their own purview. One of the many forces of Nature takes on an Aspect - that of servants to the High Ones. A vital part of creation, they tend the sphere granted them: the Tapestry of Fate, creating a Pattern that helps push back the void that surrounds the Realm.
<<Birth. Life. Death. Maiden. Mother. Crone. Weaver. Wyrm. Wyld>>
The newly made immortals bicker among themselves, and an Adversary grows in power, unnoticed. At the High One's order, the Handmaidens search for a soul to be the keystone of their plan. But all goes awry, and the Fates and a Codex are swept into the void along with the Adversary. The universe is recreated, yet still tainted. The Fates send dreams and visions to a solitary Giant destined to Ascend to Immortality. The prison around the Fates, the Adversary, and the Codex weakens with each act done in their names. Another plan is crafted, and the Three seek renewal through mortal rebirth. With each Awakening, strength is gained.
The flames roar, until all that can be seen is hellish blackfire, and a woman's soft voice whispers in your mind: First to know Her aspect shall be the Weaver and Seer. She is Life and tends the Patterning of the Tapestry. Her presence is essential for the testing and Ascension of the Wyld, the One-Who-Cuts-The-Threads. It will be the Incarna of Change and Death who awakens the Wyrm, the Spinner of the Threads, who holds dominion over Birth. Only then comes the war against the Adversary. The Chosen are the first Children of the Three, soldiers in a battle to come, a conflict of flesh and blood, mind and spirit. Gird yourselves. Be ready, for the time comes soon.
This lectern was crafted by hand, and is an example of master craftsmanship. There is a spot to place notes, but the main surface of the podium is taken up by a white jade plaque. A small space within the pillar of the podium holds a few slender books and an ancient looking ebon scroll.
| Home Sweet Home! |
Look ebon scroll triat
Realm: A world. A plane of existence. This Realm refers to TFC.
Outworld: The Other Realm. Real Life. That which the Spirits flee.
Spirit: A denizen of Outworld. A player. The controller.
Adventurer : A denizen of this Realm.
Incarnation: A different Adventurer controlled by the same spirit.
Ascension: Raising a level. A Level itself (You have 23 Ascensions.)
Last Ascension: The 30th Ascension within any given class, or rising to Immortality.
Follow: To be servile to a particular Demi-or Lesser god(dess)
Worship: To devote oneself to a particular mythos ('I worship Aralene')
Triat: Trio of cosmic forces/incarna. Represented as three Avatars.
Wyld: Azat, Shan-Regoth, the Seeker of Filth, the Reaver of the Land. The force of Chaotic Creation / Destruction.
Wyrm: Urat, Dar-Golmeth, the Sender of Eight, the Render of the Veil. The force of Exploratory Learning / Construction
Weaver: Lolth, Alak-Nacha, the Sealer of Souls, the Raiser of the Dead. The force of Static Knowledge / Preservation
Thaygar: The First Prophet of the Triat Faith. Lord of the Ebon Hand. Bearer of the Ebon Flame. Lord of the Servants of Death. Father of Thayren, Husband to Lady Siren.
A second scroll beneath the first continues your learning - Look Scroll2
Look scroll2 time
These time units are used by certain devotees of the Triat. Triat years are equal to Realm years, and Triat ticks to Realm ticks. Beyond those, the other units of time are derived based on Oracular Revelation.
1 Tick = 15-45 Outworld seconds
1 Moon = 20 ticks
1 Season = 3.25 Moons
1 Year = 4 Seasons = 13 Moons
1 Turn = 13 Years
1 Cycle = 7 Turns
1 Triune = 4 Cycles = 13 Pnakotic Precessions
1 Epoch = 13 Triunes
1 Age = 7 Epochs
A third scroll beneath the second continues your learning. Look Scroll3.
Look scroll3 slang
- Acolyte: Formal title - one formally dedicated to the Triat faith.
- Adept: Formal title - one who has completed a Class Mastery Quest
- Anathema: Someone who attacked Chosen 3 times or killed a Chosen.
- Apprentice: An individual being formally taught by another.
- Birdiegirl: Tranquility :-)
- Blade: A Chosen authorized to utilize FJust. Lead by Noctus.
- CLC or TLC: Cordir Level Creepy or Triat Level Creepy
- Danger Twins: Noctus and Kaldred. Previously Gregar and Adso.
- Destined: A non-Chosen who is accorded all respects and fellowship of a fellow follower, who is heeded and assisted. In the past, this included: Typhon, Ivarr, Jahiliya, Vecna and Abender.
- EBG: Evil Bitch Goddess - an affectionate term for Cordir.
- Fateful Hour: Weekly RP that never lasts an hour - usually several.
- Hand: A thief of the Chosen permitted to steal. (Lead by Dracos)
- Handmaiden: A female Chosen in specific service to the Lady and the Triat.
- Mentor: Someone who has taken on an Apprentice.
- Pattern: The interweaving of all life, time, existance. AKA Tapestry.
- Petitioner: Someone working on the entry quest of the Following.
- Rabhadh: Someone who attacked Chosen 1 or 2 times. Not yet Anathema.
- Shadow (The): Nyx
- Supergnome: Noctus. :-)
- Triat Initiate: Level 30 (minimum) Chosen undertaking a Triat Mastery Quest.
- Triat Master: Someone who has successfully completed a grueling series of tests and trials for the Triat known as a Triat Mastery Quest or a Trial of Triat Mastery.
- Thread/Strand: A spirit's representation within the Great Pattern.
See also: Threads of the Tapestry