But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.
This man is Cortex, if you would know;
No sorcerous ways are driven by vain
This man, with maelstrom, troll, and bush of thorn,
Presenteth moonshine; for, if you will know,
By moonshine did these mages think no scorn
To meet at Drammen's tomb, there, there to woo
My fellow companion The Brewmaster and I set off to the Guild House which lies in the outskirts of a little hamlet by a smooth running river to the west. We traveled by coach, and on board he handed me two different bottles of his brew. In return I offered a deck of cards which told the story of giant Djinns and animated constructs; ravaging trough the landscape in a berserker's rage during a thunderstorm, laying waste to anything in their path. He smirked as he studied the cards and felt the potent magic that resided within. This was going to be his first Taleweaving harnessing such arcane magic. I gave him some pointers on how to control the forces before I produced the deck I was going to use for my tale. It was a tale of earthen maelstroms and dwellers of the underground coming forth to claim the torn and fire swept landscape. A tale which I learned in an exchange with the True Master, Elof the Mighty.
Firm handshakes and nods of acknowledgement were traded before we eyed the rest of crowd and exchanged pleasantries. The place oozed with magic, and I counted more than four fists of eager Taleweavers shuffling cards and sipping brew.
The host called me over the the counter, slid an item wrapped in cloth over its battered surface and said "I heard you were looking for this..." Unwrapping the piece of cloth I exposed a horned demonic figurine made of the blackest stone. The carvings were classical and the maker's runes were embossed on the base. "May I", I asked eagerly. "Yes, but If you spill any of that vile stuff on the food I'll have your head". Nossy drove his cleaver into to a slab of meat to make his point, then adding the pieces to the stew. I went to the far end of the counter, placed the figurine inside my Duster and put it on top of a pristine card. One drop of blood, archaic words and mystic gestures made the item dissolve, rendering it's appearance and potency onto the surface beneath. I slid the card into a spot in my binder completing a quad. Along with his brethren he made a row of perfect harmony despite the grave taint they bore.
his rendition can be found here.
Second seating, The Bard.
We started off with some light banter and cheers, but as the story evolved we needed to concentrate on the weaving. The Bard seemed a little puzzled when his world suddenly was consumed in torrents of fire and his monstrous constructs melted into the ground. He paused for a bit, and it all dawned on him when the earth dwellers poured out from the very same spots to seal the tale.
His prophecy was that all beings with a beating heart would be swallowed by a pitch black whirlpool of agony, and the only thing resembling life was the ever shifting swarm of metal overseers. His storytelling was of a strict and corrective manner, trying to twist and turn the ways I told my tale. I cannot blame him, as I made his lines tame and invalid to a point where he could only watch with fascination as my fire and lightning engulfed everything.
My friend voiced with defeatism that his story was not as good as mine. So true, I could easily make his best points hollow with the maelstroms and my ability to riposte his lines. He was telling a wild story about the Cultists of Tawnos at candlelit altars during the season of high mana, and their prayers for all consuming fires and rays of disintegration. I told a story with gruesome earth dwellers and rioting assembly workers taking over the world and slaughtering the cultists on the way.
A former power monger who lost his way and turned to ascetism sat across the table. Still needing to feel the mana surges he told of purity and the knowledge found in books and libraries. He blabbered on and on about angels of righteousness soaring high above the vistas. The description of these angels finally got to me and made my jaw drop. I could only applaud his story.
A storm was building outside when we sat down. The crowd huddled closer and The Bard started to tune his strings as corks popped and more beer foamed in the tankards. The Joker told a long tale of chivalry and purity. His angels and gargoyles were slowly but surely defiled by trolls and assembly workers.
For the last weaving The Doomsayer put together a brutal story of endless hoards of living metal raining from the skies, accompanied by the downpour hammering on the windows and The Bard riffing his lute like there was no tomorrow... It was a wild ambience and a great tale. Honors to the Doomsayer, Honors to The Innkeeper and to everyone who visited The Adventurers' Guild House.
People were ready for a jamboree, but I had to bid my farewells.
I entered the rain and faded into the darkness.