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Found 7 results

  1. Date: Olarune the 6th, 998YK Location: Off the coast of Sharn Dawn broke over the bow of the good ship Springtime Belladonna, and Isstia knew this by the faint tingle of irritation that the sunlight gave her, even down in the cargo hold. She had completed her exercise and training for the moment and was resting, keeping her breathing quiet enough that nothing short of a hound would hear it – and the Springtime Belladonna kept a ship’s cat instead, to deal with rats. The cat never hissed at her, but it never stuck around long enough for Isstia to get to know it well either. It, and Soluzek, were the only two faces she’d seen on her journey. The secret knock at the wooden panels was given, and Soluzek herself made her way into the small stretch of the cargo hold that Isstia had carved out. The female elf wasn’t like her – Soluzek’s skin was pale and a little freckled, and her hair was red with black streaks. She had strange gods – something called the Undying Court – but she had recognized in Isstia a kindred spirit, and had kept her hidden and helped her on her quest. Soluzek sat crosslegged on the floor. She pulled out a small package of jerky. “Here. It’s your favorite. I was saving it for today; it’s the big day. We’re going to be docking at Sharn by the end of the day.” Isstia knew little of Sharn; she knew that it fed ships to and from Stormreach, the city of the pale strangers, and she knew that it was where her quarry had travelled. But what Soluzek had told her still seemed fantastical – buildings the size of small mountains, flying skiffs, people of all races pressed together. All roads led to Sharn, the saying went. Including the roads travelled by the killers of her tribe, and the thieves of the holy totem of Vulkoor.
  2. Date: Olarunne the 22nd, 998 YK Location: Fairhaven, Aundair Dawn broke, and Adaa knew it by the gentle change of psychic energy in the air, as mortal minds passed from the realm of Dal Quor to the waking world of Eberron. Back in Riedra, there would be prayers on the Path of Inspiration at the site of the nearest monolith, investing themselves in its tenets on a spiritual journey from the beasts to the il-atlas. For those not of common blood, there would be psionic exercises and study of the arts of leadership and administration, in preparation for the day that they were ready to accept the divine il-atlas into themselves. For her, there was none of that, because she'd touched the mind of the il-atlas and that was not their name – they had another name, the quori, and they had another purpose, full of hunger and seething rage and planning measured in centuries. And that was the last clear memory she had of her homeland. The rest was a blur of steerage ships and sleepless nights. Here, half a world away, there were no Inspired and no Riedra; there was only the flickering embers of a war a century in the making and unmaking. Every mind she touched nursed some pain – some grudge against some nation, or some grief over a lost loved one, or simple numbness at the notion of an entire nation simply gone. Adaa tried to shut such thoughts out, because today was the reopening of Fairhaven's fabled Distant Exchange. One of the most exclusive merchantile quares in all of Aundair, the one rule of the Distant Exchange is that nothing could be found locally. So traders brought wares from all over Eberron, and she hoped that somewhere in all those bits of pottery and copperpiece novels, that there would be some hint of something that would explain why what happened, did happen.
  3. Date: Olarune the 4th, 998 YK Location: Sharn Dawn broke over the City of Towers, and Faz found himself looking out his window to watch the sun rise. The sun sent shadows dancing through the spires and walkways of Sharn, the light all but flowing around its corners in a by-now familiar pattern. He wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to live in the upper levels, where one would find themselves looking down on the sun as it rose in the morning. His current quarters were nowhere near as fancy, but they were out of the undercity, at the least. Not as high as Lionel, not as low as Monochrome, Inc. Turpin was living on his own now, as was Thumper, and as was Hamish. Of the three of them, Faz say Turpin the most, and Thumper not nearly as much as he wanted to. Only Zarra was around frequently, and Faz was starting to realize he had no notion of what it meant to slowly grow away from other people. The thought if it was a little disturbing. People just choosing to not be friends any more? Why would they do that? The door opened, and Zarra – a changeling, pale skin never shifting, because that went against Zarra's philosophy of seeking truth in form as well as function – let herself in. She looked lost in thought. She bid hello to Faz, paused a long moment, then spoke. "Faz? We need to gather the crew. I can't tell you why just yet – but it's important."
  4. Date: Olarune the 2nd, 998YK Location: Sharn Dawn broke over the City of Towers, and Lysa ir'Macht barely noticed, lost in study in her lab. It was situated down in the lower depths of the city, since official personhood to warforged only got them so far – beyond legal status there were all the small exceptions and biases of life. Every time someone out there looked at her now, there was that stiffening of the muscles and a quickening of their pace – at the best of times. Still, it wasn't too long ago that people who looked like her and Ratchet were only seen with swords and crossbows in hand, sent in to do the bloodiest missions. Ratchet said, with that sad inflection to his older-generation vocal systems, that it cannot be helped, and that he was used to it. She was wondering if she ever would be. Since she didn't need to sleep any more, she was reviewing what scraps of schematics that she'd managed to recover from the lab, trying to reason her way closer to where her father had been when he designed the construct body, and the machine that would put a mortal mind inside of it. It occupied an increasing amount of her time, so much that her few friends were starting to get worried. At the desk of her study, a private sending stone pulse with a soft light and a faint buzzing sound. She knew which one it was, and by extension, who owned the linked mate. It would be the reporter, Ezarion – maybe with a lead on what had happened to her, or maybe just to chat.
  5. Date: Olarune the 8th, 998 YK Location: Wroat, Capital of Breland Dawn broke in the capital city of Breland, not that Matteus knew right away. He slept with the bandage held firmly in place, with the special dragonshards over each eye, just in case reflex caused his eyes to open in a fit of restless nightmares – and he had many of those, of late. So he did not see the sunrise, but instead heard the deep chime of the distant clocktower, measuring out six notes. He fumbled around on his dresser for the goggles, found them, and carefully fitted them into place over carefully shut eyes. Once they were secure, he opened his eyes, seeing the world as he always saw it now – filtered through red dragonshards, slightly distorted. Gersi had promised him a better pair to be made shortly – ones that were, in the half-orc's words, more "ergo-gnomic." He was assured that the word did not mean "therefore, gnomes." He then dressed himself, and shortly after fitting his collar into place, there was a knock at the door – and Matteus knew from the softness of the knock that it was his sister, Mila. Doubtlessly here to help him out with the day's duties – the functions to attend, and the reports to review. "Keeping up appearances," as she said. Telling everyone that everything was normal, even though it would never be again.
  6. Date: Olarune the 16th, 998 YK Location: Flamekeep Dawn broke over the Heart of the Silver Flame, resting upon the shore of Scions Sound. Off in the distance, Thronehold glistened, the waters surrounding the city glittering in sunlight, like cast diamonds against light blue velvet. Tobias felt calm on the shore, the seat of power in shattered Galifar before him, and the rest of Flamekeep at his back. Not far from shore, fishers caught the day's food, and around him, the city stirred to life. Tobias rose, and made his way into the city, because today was a sacred day. As he walked, he noticed that there were more refugees again – some elves and halflings from displaced hamlets along the border to Cyre, making themselves at home in an increasingly diverse Flamekeep; some warforged, many just pacing the streets heedless of food or rest because they didn't know what else to do with themselves. Tobias had seen more shifters this past year than in all the years previous, and it was whispered that shifters must be desperate indeed to find themselves in Flamekeep. As always, Tobias was helpful, directing the lost to the hostels and temples, and then he went on his way, because today was a sacred day. In front of the Cathedral of the Silver Flame, for the first time since the treaty of Thronehold, Jaela Daran – Most Exalted High Priestess, Keeper of the Silver Flame, She Who Walks in Darkness – Jaela Daran would make a public proclamation about the future of the Church's works. Speculation ran rampant about what it meant, and everyone who was anyone would be there. Tobias didn't feel he was really anyone – but he'd be in that public square, listening to that magically boosted voice, if he could help it in any way.
  7. Date: Rhann the 21st, 898 YK Location: Metrol, Cyre Dawn broke, and Kelwyn Wryn was already awake, on his morning run through the streets of Metrol. It had been a long few years in basic training, learning the ins and outs of swordplay, bowmanship, tactics, and just building up his strength and stamina. There was a time a morning run would have been anathema to Kelwyn. But a war had a funny way of galvanizing the spirit. He waved at a few passerby as he took his usual route, towards the training barracks along Starmantle Bay. He passed many walls adorned with many posters exhorting him, and his fellow citizens, to do their part – to donate spare clothing and household items to the war effort, because even something as innocuous as spare wood from a hearth would be used to store and ship provisions. He passed fearsome artwork of the dread mobile fortresses of Breland; "It CAN Happen Here!!" was emblazoned on it in neat typeset font. Panting slightly, he passed the outdoor forges of many a magewright, working in the open air rather than be subject to the potential intoxicating fumes of alchemical ingredients. He passed the more mundane bowers and swordsmiths. He passed two girls and a boy playing with wooden swords, and he felt ill at ease counting the number of years before they'd be eligible to join the armed forces in earnest. As he arrived, and took in the sights of men and women on morning drills, he was waved aside by one of his drill instructors, an elven man named Tharthanis who was one of the elf mercenaries from Aerenal, helping to shore up Cyre's military. On instinct, Kelwyn saluted; after a moment, Tharthanis nodded. "At ease. Private Wryn, you have an interesting day ahead of you."
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