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+--- Thread: *Physical Description* - Land, Sea, and Caves - Sept 21st, 2017 (/showthread.php?tid=4313)
*Physical Description* - Land, Sea, and Caves - Sept 21st, 2017 - Ivanna - 09-21-2017
Ralinwood enjoys, at last, a quieter time….
The Fox Spirits…
No longer trouble the people of Ralinwood. They have disappeared, permanently. The last ritual circle destroyed, their souls rushed by the thousands out of the bodies and places they haunted. Their screaming path to oblivion is heard only by those attuned to the workings of deadlands. After that, not a trace of them can be found. Where the circles once were, remains nothing. The objects taken from the circles remain – they appear normal, oh so plain and regular. They retain no memory of the lives they lived previously. They are themselves again, mundane, mortal, dead objects.
The Fae…
Happily flit in and out of the mortal plane with enthusiasm. Though they keep their distance, you hear giggles where once there were screams and moans of terror and pain.
The Citadel and the Blood Red Rose…
Have brokered a sort of peace, an uneasy truce.
The Citadel remains inside their walls, for the most past. Walls built over several months become stronger, taller, grow watchtowers. They are established, but remain aloof from the people. They keep their own counsel, doing their own work, and do not interfere with the town’s order, do not traverse the docks but to seek grain or cloth, do not enter into inns or alehouses but to look over the crowd, once, twice, then take their leave.
Outside their walls, the Citadel hunts for remnants of the spirits, for the witches who cast these spells, but find few, and farther between each time. They capture a few wilders, question them, release them. They search in vain for Witherwing, but find neither hide nor hair of them. They go out among the small folk and truly attempt to heal them, give them food and comfort the remaining families. Even in this, however, they are ever watchful for the slip ups that evil produces, zeal and fury shining in many of their eyes.
The local peoples remain wary, but gratefully accept what aid they can get. Although the autumn remains warm and plants continue to produce, the cold nights remind everyone that winter approaches, its cold, dead fingers grasping at the nights already.
The Rose, out in the fields as ever, keeps peace, but now face corporeal beasts and the usual dangers all mortals must face. The local folk are grateful and receptive to see the well used, well cared-for swords in scabbards, thrice-patched and repaired tabards, boots worn down from leagues of walking, the trappings of a Knight of the Rose, coming for a chat and a check in, rather than the pristine white and silver heralding a more… pointed and careful conversation to come.
The water...
Burbles with activities. Green, black, blueish sludge occasionally washes up. Fish are pulled from the waters with bites half taken from them. Shadows lurk under ships. Murkers overwhelm the waters, but oddly, do not surface. They appear... sick.
The Docks…
Fill with the noise and bustle of ships making berth for the winter storms. They teem with sailors, coming in from ships crossing the foggy horizon, finally able to make port after all this time at sea, waiting for dangers to abate. Cargo long awaited is unloaded. The sailors finally aground make for the Oarhouse and Inns and Tavern, seeking maids and men and mead and make merry all the more ecstatic to be off the boats and safely in their own minds.
Every night a party can be found, more intense and insane than the last. Purveyors of pleasure, bodies totally encased in cloth, anonymity shrouding their wares and shadowing their faces, offer drinks, intoxicants, hallucinoids, and beckon at pleasures to be found elsewhere. People follow eagerly, all but hypnotized by their offers.
The revelry unabated after so long at sea, they drink all day and night, losing track of companions as they take up accommodations for the winter. Some head back on the last few ships out, heading home for the Capitol or smaller towns, to winter with families. So distributed do the people become, Captains become frustrated that they cannot find their crews, cannot sail out of the harbour, are losing time, may lose the weather, cargo grows old and stale, itch to finish the rounds… but growl so into their cups, less eager to be off than normal. They are happy, too, to at last be aground, or at least, are willing to indulge for longer than they would have months earlier. They too, feared losing their minds and did not dock for weeks, waiting for safety at last. The reprieves will be short-lived they insist. But they watch the horizon, and every day the sun rises shrouded in thicker fog, taking longer each day to dissipate.
And underground…
The firbolg clan maintain their vigil. They stay below the surface, in their quiet domain, stalking the caverns and shadows, watchful. They have heard the rumblings from above, have seen the noise and the wide open shouting of the sky-watching people, and they do not share the abandon with which the people celebrate.
They keep their quiet watch, the people underground silent and wise as the tomb. Their ornate gates tremble slightly.