User:Whistler - Revision history

Whistler at 17:02, 22 January 2011

2011-01-22T17:02:38Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 17:02, 22 January 2011
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	Unfortunately, as I soon learned, the ways of wizardry are not open to all who would seek them. My father tried to explain it to me in his own fashion; he told me, “Them ferrin’ ways don’t work for us halflin’s boy, so jes’ quit yer lollygagin’ ‘n dreamin’ an’ get that cask o’ ale down to the Green Dragon.”		Unfortunately, as I soon learned, the ways of wizardry are not open to all who would seek them. My father tried to explain it to me in his own fashion; he told me, “Them ferrin’ ways don’t work for us halflin’s boy, so jes’ quit yer lollygagin’ ‘n dreamin’ an’ get that cask o’ ale down to the Green Dragon.”
	That simple line, delivered so offhandedly in my fathers no nonsense tone, devastated me, dashing my hopes of escape from my life of drudgery to one of excitement and adventure. So I returned to my task at hand, the drudgery of my day to day life, and tried ever so hard to let my dreams of magehood fade.
	I talked with others, both around the town and at the inns when making deliveries, and thereby discovered that my father’s claim seemed to be true. There simply had never been a Halfling mage. Similarly, such magics seemed elusive to others—Giant kin, Ogres, even to gnomes. My hopes refused to fade though, even in the face of my racial inadequacies.		That simple line, delivered so offhandedly in my fathers no nonsense tone, devastated me, dashing my hopes of escape from my life of drudgery to one of excitement and adventure. So I returned to my task at hand, the drudgery of my day to day life, and tried ever so hard to let my dreams of magehood fade.
	One secret hope I held was that there might be some magic item that could grant my wish of magehood. (Over the years, I’ve reflected on the foolishness of such childhood dreams, but think that therein lies the root of my continued fascination with the forging of magic items.)
	This fascination of Magical Items was further fed each time I would come across Nevyn, during my deliveries. When the great bard played, his lute would glow with a magical light. I thought it a great secret that I had uncovered, that since the bard was human, he must really be a mage, but hid this behind his music. On asking him where he found such a wondrous magic item, he informed me with a kindly chuckle that “All good bards forge their own instruments.”		I talked with others, both around the town and at the inns when making deliveries, and thereby discovered that my father’s claim seemed to be true. There simply had never been a Halfling mage. Similarly, such magics seemed elusive to others—Giant kin, Ogres, even to gnomes. My hopes refused to fade though, even in the face of my racial inadequacies.
	I loved his performances, his music. I loved to hear his songs and tales, and looked ever so forward to his next appearance in our town. When he would play a tune known to me, I’d whistle along in counterpoint, to his half-hidden amusement. It was he who first called me ‘Whistler,’ and the name simply stuck. Once he told me that I should take care what tunes I whistled, since I might whistle up a storm. I thought he teased me in this, as ‘the sorry Halfling who would be mage.’ I knew not what wisdom he had tried to impart.
	So embarrassed was I, that I avoided him for a time thereafter. Then one day I heard of another bard playing at The Ivy Bush. This one was no human, he was an Ogre! Curiosity overwhelmed me so much I had to see this for myself. Ogres I knew, could no more be mages than could Halflings, so why, I wondered, would one pretend that he wasn’t a mage by singing songs?		One secret hope I held was that there might be some magic item that could grant my wish of magehood. (Over the years, I’ve reflected on the foolishness of such childhood dreams, but think that therein lies the root of my continued fascination with the forging of magic items.)
	Oook’s voice filled the common room. (Actually, just the size of the Ogre more than half filled the room by simply being in it.) He stood hunched just below the rafters, and the deep tones of his voice penetrated the very stones. He held no glowing lute, he was neither human, nor elf—he could not possibly be a mage, but the aura of magic about him was as strong as any human mage I had seen. How could this be? I caught him as he took his leave to query him on this.
	The ogre laughed at my innocent ignorance. “Silly Boy,” he told me, “The Magic is in the Song, not the blood.” I stood stunned—embarrassed by my ignorance and awe struck by the implication. I had found the key to magic, and it had been staring me in the face for years. My greatest dreams could be realized, all I had to do was follow the path set before me.		This fascination of Magical Items was further fed each time I would come across Nevyn, during my deliveries. When the great bard played, his lute would glow with a magical light. I thought it a great secret that I had uncovered, that since the bard was human, he must really be a mage, but hid this behind his music. On asking him where he found such a wondrous magic item, he informed me with a kindly chuckle that “All good bards forge their own instruments.”

			I loved his performances, his music. I loved to hear his songs and tales, and looked ever so forward to his next appearance in our town. When he would play a tune known to me, I’d whistle along in counterpoint, to his half-hidden amusement. It was he who first called me ‘Whistler,’ and the name simply stuck. Once he told me that I should take care what tunes I whistled, since I might whistle up a storm. I thought he teased me in this, as ‘the sorry Halfling who would be mage.’ I knew not what wisdom he had tried to impart.

			So embarrassed was I, that I avoided him for a time thereafter. Then one day I heard of another bard playing at The Ivy Bush. This one was no human, he was an Ogre! Curiosity overwhelmed me so much I had to see this for myself. Ogres I knew, could no more be mages than could Halflings, so why, I wondered, would one pretend that he wasn’t a mage by singing songs?

			Oook’s voice filled the common room. (Actually, just the size of the Ogre more than half filled the room by simply being in it.) He stood hunched just below the rafters, and the deep tones of his voice penetrated the very stones. He held no glowing lute, he was neither human, nor elf—he could not possibly be a mage, but the aura of magic about him was as strong as any human mage I had seen. How could this be? I caught him as he took his leave to query him on this.

			The ogre laughed at my innocent ignorance. “Silly Boy,” he told me, “The Magic is in the Song, not the blood.” I stood stunned—embarrassed by my ignorance and awe struck by the implication. I had found the key to magic, and it had been staring me in the face for years. My greatest dreams could be realized, all I had to do was follow the path set before me.

Whistler at 17:01, 22 January 2011

2011-01-22T17:01:17Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 17:01, 22 January 2011
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	The town of Hovelton is known for a number of things. It is a major thoroughfare through the vortex, it has an ever vigilant town security force, and boasts two excellent inns. It is also the town in which I grew up.		The town of Hovelton is known for a number of things. It is a major thoroughfare through the vortex, it has an ever vigilant town security force, and boasts two excellent inns. It is also the town in which I grew up.
	My father was the town brewer, hence my christened name, “Willam Brewer.”
			My father was the town brewer, hence my christened name, “Willam Brewer.”
	As a youth, my familial responsibilities included assisting the family business by making deliveries to the local inns. People would come to the inns from the farthest places in the realms, places distant and mysterious to a young Halfling. Rogues and Warriors of every race would come and tell their tales, as would the most intriguing and mysterious to me, the mages. I decided that some day, I would run away and become a great mage myself.		As a youth, my familial responsibilities included assisting the family business by making deliveries to the local inns. People would come to the inns from the farthest places in the realms, places distant and mysterious to a young Halfling. Rogues and Warriors of every race would come and tell their tales, as would the most intriguing and mysterious to me, the mages. I decided that some day, I would run away and become a great mage myself.
	Unfortunately, as I soon learned, the ways of wizardry are not open to all who would seek them. My father tried to explain it to me in his own fashion; he told me, “Them ferrin’ ways don’t work for us halflin’s boy, so jes’ quit yer lollygagin’ ‘n dreamin’ an’ get that cask o’ ale down to the Green Dragon.”
			Unfortunately, as I soon learned, the ways of wizardry are not open to all who would seek them. My father tried to explain it to me in his own fashion; he told me, “Them ferrin’ ways don’t work for us halflin’s boy, so jes’ quit yer lollygagin’ ‘n dreamin’ an’ get that cask o’ ale down to the Green Dragon.”
	That simple line, delivered so offhandedly in my fathers no nonsense tone, devastated me, dashing my hopes of escape from my life of drudgery to one of excitement and adventure. So I returned to my task at hand, the drudgery of my day to day life, and tried ever so hard to let my dreams of magehood fade.		That simple line, delivered so offhandedly in my fathers no nonsense tone, devastated me, dashing my hopes of escape from my life of drudgery to one of excitement and adventure. So I returned to my task at hand, the drudgery of my day to day life, and tried ever so hard to let my dreams of magehood fade.
	I talked with others, both around the town and at the inns when making deliveries, and thereby discovered that my father’s claim seemed to be true. There simply had never been a Halfling mage. Similarly, such magics seemed elusive to others—Giant kin, Ogres, even to gnomes. My hopes refused to fade though, even in the face of my racial inadequacies.		I talked with others, both around the town and at the inns when making deliveries, and thereby discovered that my father’s claim seemed to be true. There simply had never been a Halfling mage. Similarly, such magics seemed elusive to others—Giant kin, Ogres, even to gnomes. My hopes refused to fade though, even in the face of my racial inadequacies.

Whistler at 16:56, 22 January 2011

2011-01-22T16:56:35Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 16:56, 22 January 2011
Line 1:		Line 1:
	The town of Hovelton is known for a number of things. It is a major thoroughfare through the vortex, it has an ever vigilant town security force, and boasts two excellent inns. It is also the town in which I grew up.		The town of Hovelton is known for a number of things. It is a major thoroughfare through the vortex, it has an ever vigilant town security force, and boasts two excellent inns. It is also the town in which I grew up.
	My father was the town brewer, hence my christened name, “Willam Brewer.”		My father was the town brewer, hence my christened name, “Willam Brewer.”
	As a youth, my familial responsibilities included assisting the family business by making deliveries to the local inns. People would come to the inns from the farthest places in the realms, places distant and mysterious to a young Halfling. Rogues and Warriors of every race would come and tell their tales, as would the most intriguing and mysterious to me, the mages. I decided that some day, I would run away and become a great mage myself.		As a youth, my familial responsibilities included assisting the family business by making deliveries to the local inns. People would come to the inns from the farthest places in the realms, places distant and mysterious to a young Halfling. Rogues and Warriors of every race would come and tell their tales, as would the most intriguing and mysterious to me, the mages. I decided that some day, I would run away and become a great mage myself.

Whistler at 16:55, 22 January 2011

2011-01-22T16:55:14Z

Whistler: Created page with " The town of Hovelton is known for a number of things. It is a major thoroughfare through the vortex, it has an ever vigilant town security force, and boasts two excellent inn..."

2011-01-22T16:52:59Z

Created page with " The town of Hovelton is known for a number of things. It is a major thoroughfare through the vortex, it has an ever vigilant town security force, and boasts two excellent inn..."

New page

The town of Hovelton is known for a number of things. It is a major thoroughfare through the vortex, it has an ever vigilant town security force, and boasts two excellent inns. It is also the town in which I grew up.

My father was the town brewer, hence my christened name, “Willam Brewer.”
As a youth, my familial responsibilities included assisting the family business by making deliveries to the local inns. People would come to the inns from the farthest places in the realms, places distant and mysterious to a young Halfling. Rogues and Warriors of every race would come and tell their tales, as would the most intriguing and mysterious to me, the mages. I decided that some day, I would run away and become a great mage myself.

Unfortunately, as I soon learned, the ways of wizardry are not open to all who would seek them. My father tried to explain it to me in his own fashion; he told me, “Them ferrin’ ways don’t work for us halflin’s boy, so jes’ quit yer lollygagin’ ‘n dreamin’ an’ get that cask o’ ale down to the Green Dragon.”

That simple line, delivered so offhandedly in my fathers no nonsense tone, devastated me, dashing my hopes of escape from my life of drudgery to one of excitement and adventure. So I returned to my task at hand, the drudgery of my day to day life, and tried ever so hard to let my dreams of magehood fade.

I talked with others, both around the town and at the inns when making deliveries, and thereby discovered that my father’s claim seemed to be true. There simply had never been a Halfling mage. Similarly, such magics seemed elusive to others—Giant kin, Ogres, even to gnomes. My hopes refused to fade though, even in the face of my racial inadequacies.

One secret hope I held was that there might be some magic item that could grant my wish of magehood. (Over the years, I’ve reflected on the foolishness of such childhood dreams, but think that therein lies the root of my continued fascination with the forging of magic items.)

This fascination of Magical Items was further fed each time I would come across Nevyn, during my deliveries. When the great bard played, his lute would glow with a magical light. I thought it a great secret that I had uncovered, that since the bard was human, he must really be a mage, but hid this behind his music. On asking him where he found such a wondrous magic item, he informed me with a kindly chuckle that “All good bards forge their own instruments.”

I loved his performances, his music. I loved to hear his songs and tales, and looked ever so forward to his next appearance in our town. When he would play a tune known to me, I’d whistle along in counterpoint, to his half-hidden amusement. It was he who first called me ‘Whistler,’ and the name simply stuck. Once he told me that I should take care what tunes I whistled, since I might whistle up a storm. I thought he teased me in this, as ‘the sorry Halfling who would be mage.’ I knew not what wisdom he had tried to impart.

So embarrassed was I, that I avoided him for a time thereafter. Then one day I heard of another bard playing at The Ivy Bush. This one was no human, he was an Ogre! Curiosity overwhelmed me so much I had to see this for myself. Ogres I knew, could no more be mages than could Halflings, so why, I wondered, would one pretend that he wasn’t a mage by singing songs?

Oook’s voice filled the common room. (Actually, just the size of the Ogre more than half filled the room by simply being in it.) He stood hunched just below the rafters, and the deep tones of his voice penetrated the very stones. He held no glowing lute, he was neither human, nor elf—he could not possibly be a mage, but the aura of magic about him was as strong as any human mage I had seen. How could this be? I caught him as he took his leave to query him on this.

The ogre laughed at my innocent ignorance. “Silly Boy,” he told me, “The Magic is in the Song, not the blood.” I stood stunned—embarrassed by my ignorance and awe struck by the implication. I had found the key to magic, and it had been staring me in the face for years. My greatest dreams could be realized, all I had to do was follow the path set before me.

General Info:

Whistler is a Single Male Halfling ISO love, music, and magical items.
His hobbies include singing and songwriting, and avoiding Pkers.
(He’s a lover, not a fighter.)
His greatest strength is indomitable persistence, even in the face of certain failure.
His greatest weakness is indomitable persistence, even in the face of certain failure.
He currently struggles to overcome his addictions to magical potions and pills while attempting to forge magical items of Artifact Strength.
He has written and performed many songs which can be found at:
http://forums.tfcmud.com/blog.php/622?blogcategoryid=9
He continues to write songs for individuals on a contract basis.

← Older revision		Revision as of 16:55, 22 January 2011
Line 1:		Line 1:
	The town of Hovelton is known for a number of things. It is a major thoroughfare through the vortex, it has an ever vigilant town security force, and boasts two excellent inns. It is also the town in which I grew up.		The town of Hovelton is known for a number of things. It is a major thoroughfare through the vortex, it has an ever vigilant town security force, and boasts two excellent inns. It is also the town in which I grew up.
			My father was the town brewer, hence my christened name, “Willam Brewer.”
	My father was the town brewer, hence my christened name, “Willam Brewer.”
	As a youth, my familial responsibilities included assisting the family business by making deliveries to the local inns. People would come to the inns from the farthest places in the realms, places distant and mysterious to a young Halfling. Rogues and Warriors of every race would come and tell their tales, as would the most intriguing and mysterious to me, the mages. I decided that some day, I would run away and become a great mage myself.		As a youth, my familial responsibilities included assisting the family business by making deliveries to the local inns. People would come to the inns from the farthest places in the realms, places distant and mysterious to a young Halfling. Rogues and Warriors of every race would come and tell their tales, as would the most intriguing and mysterious to me, the mages. I decided that some day, I would run away and become a great mage myself.

	Unfortunately, as I soon learned, the ways of wizardry are not open to all who would seek them. My father tried to explain it to me in his own fashion; he told me, “Them ferrin’ ways don’t work for us halflin’s boy, so jes’ quit yer lollygagin’ ‘n dreamin’ an’ get that cask o’ ale down to the Green Dragon.”		Unfortunately, as I soon learned, the ways of wizardry are not open to all who would seek them. My father tried to explain it to me in his own fashion; he told me, “Them ferrin’ ways don’t work for us halflin’s boy, so jes’ quit yer lollygagin’ ‘n dreamin’ an’ get that cask o’ ale down to the Green Dragon.”

	That simple line, delivered so offhandedly in my fathers no nonsense tone, devastated me, dashing my hopes of escape from my life of drudgery to one of excitement and adventure. So I returned to my task at hand, the drudgery of my day to day life, and tried ever so hard to let my dreams of magehood fade.		That simple line, delivered so offhandedly in my fathers no nonsense tone, devastated me, dashing my hopes of escape from my life of drudgery to one of excitement and adventure. So I returned to my task at hand, the drudgery of my day to day life, and tried ever so hard to let my dreams of magehood fade.

	I talked with others, both around the town and at the inns when making deliveries, and thereby discovered that my father’s claim seemed to be true. There simply had never been a Halfling mage. Similarly, such magics seemed elusive to others—Giant kin, Ogres, even to gnomes. My hopes refused to fade though, even in the face of my racial inadequacies.		I talked with others, both around the town and at the inns when making deliveries, and thereby discovered that my father’s claim seemed to be true. There simply had never been a Halfling mage. Similarly, such magics seemed elusive to others—Giant kin, Ogres, even to gnomes. My hopes refused to fade though, even in the face of my racial inadequacies.

	One secret hope I held was that there might be some magic item that could grant my wish of magehood. (Over the years, I’ve reflected on the foolishness of such childhood dreams, but think that therein lies the root of my continued fascination with the forging of magic items.)		One secret hope I held was that there might be some magic item that could grant my wish of magehood. (Over the years, I’ve reflected on the foolishness of such childhood dreams, but think that therein lies the root of my continued fascination with the forging of magic items.)

	This fascination of Magical Items was further fed each time I would come across Nevyn, during my deliveries. When the great bard played, his lute would glow with a magical light. I thought it a great secret that I had uncovered, that since the bard was human, he must really be a mage, but hid this behind his music. On asking him where he found such a wondrous magic item, he informed me with a kindly chuckle that “All good bards forge their own instruments.”		This fascination of Magical Items was further fed each time I would come across Nevyn, during my deliveries. When the great bard played, his lute would glow with a magical light. I thought it a great secret that I had uncovered, that since the bard was human, he must really be a mage, but hid this behind his music. On asking him where he found such a wondrous magic item, he informed me with a kindly chuckle that “All good bards forge their own instruments.”

	I loved his performances, his music. I loved to hear his songs and tales, and looked ever so forward to his next appearance in our town. When he would play a tune known to me, I’d whistle along in counterpoint, to his half-hidden amusement. It was he who first called me ‘Whistler,’ and the name simply stuck. Once he told me that I should take care what tunes I whistled, since I might whistle up a storm. I thought he teased me in this, as ‘the sorry Halfling who would be mage.’ I knew not what wisdom he had tried to impart.		I loved his performances, his music. I loved to hear his songs and tales, and looked ever so forward to his next appearance in our town. When he would play a tune known to me, I’d whistle along in counterpoint, to his half-hidden amusement. It was he who first called me ‘Whistler,’ and the name simply stuck. Once he told me that I should take care what tunes I whistled, since I might whistle up a storm. I thought he teased me in this, as ‘the sorry Halfling who would be mage.’ I knew not what wisdom he had tried to impart.

	So embarrassed was I, that I avoided him for a time thereafter. Then one day I heard of another bard playing at The Ivy Bush. This one was no human, he was an Ogre! Curiosity overwhelmed me so much I had to see this for myself. Ogres I knew, could no more be mages than could Halflings, so why, I wondered, would one pretend that he wasn’t a mage by singing songs?		So embarrassed was I, that I avoided him for a time thereafter. Then one day I heard of another bard playing at The Ivy Bush. This one was no human, he was an Ogre! Curiosity overwhelmed me so much I had to see this for myself. Ogres I knew, could no more be mages than could Halflings, so why, I wondered, would one pretend that he wasn’t a mage by singing songs?

	Oook’s voice filled the common room. (Actually, just the size of the Ogre more than half filled the room by simply being in it.) He stood hunched just below the rafters, and the deep tones of his voice penetrated the very stones. He held no glowing lute, he was neither human, nor elf—he could not possibly be a mage, but the aura of magic about him was as strong as any human mage I had seen. How could this be? I caught him as he took his leave to query him on this.		Oook’s voice filled the common room. (Actually, just the size of the Ogre more than half filled the room by simply being in it.) He stood hunched just below the rafters, and the deep tones of his voice penetrated the very stones. He held no glowing lute, he was neither human, nor elf—he could not possibly be a mage, but the aura of magic about him was as strong as any human mage I had seen. How could this be? I caught him as he took his leave to query him on this.

	The ogre laughed at my innocent ignorance. “Silly Boy,” he told me, “The Magic is in the Song, not the blood.” I stood stunned—embarrassed by my ignorance and awe struck by the implication. I had found the key to magic, and it had been staring me in the face for years. My greatest dreams could be realized, all I had to do was follow the path set before me.		The ogre laughed at my innocent ignorance. “Silly Boy,” he told me, “The Magic is in the Song, not the blood.” I stood stunned—embarrassed by my ignorance and awe struck by the implication. I had found the key to magic, and it had been staring me in the face for years. My greatest dreams could be realized, all I had to do was follow the path set before me.