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The Travelling Bard Tavern In the oldest parts of the city of Everwater, built even before the city walls surrounding today's Everwater, stands the tavern The Travelling Bard. Built in a time where there were no city walls yet, the tavern has thick and heavy doors and no large windows on ground level, which is entirely built out of stone and features arrow slits to defend the tavern. Just a few steps outside the main castle gates, but nowhere near today’s large town square at the centre of the city of Everwater, it has become a far less frequented address to the common traveller. But for those that know the reputation the tavern has, it is a must visit location in Everwater. The wooden outside-stage, which is accessible via a second door from the tavern, has seen many rising stars among the bards of Everwater and beyond. There is a simple saying among the older generations of bards of Everwater, that: “If the travelling bard has approved of you, you are ready to travel beyond the city walls.” Today is a special day, Cyrill Waterbend has returned to the tavern after completing his recent travels throughout the county of Everwater and other, neighboring counties. Once a year he travels beyond the city walls, but his true home is the city of Everwater. It is the place he grew up in. The son of an unknown sailor of one of the merchant ships that regularly lay at the piers of the port, he lived large parts of his youth with his mother in a small chamber in some shabby house down by the port. This all changed, when his mother met the owner of the Travelling Bard, the two became a couple and she also started to work in the tavern. From then on, Cyrill’s life was filled with music, stories and people from far away carrying news from everywhere through the heavy doors of the tavern. Naturally, Cryill picked up an instrument, the lute was his first choice and he started to write his very first songs. This was eight years ago and since, Cyrill has become a local celebrity among the bards of Everwater, not for his skills with the lute, but for the stories he brings home from his travels that he weaves into his songs. His mom and step-dad still own the tavern, allowing Cryill to freely use his time to travel around and gather news, someday he might take over as the owner of the Travelling Bard, but until then, he enjoys his freedom. The story he is telling today tells of the peace that has been built throughout Historica, how this peace brings freedom to grow and to develop. But his story also tells of the blood that was shed to build this peace and how it has to be protected, he tells of the fallen heroes and those that have endured and remain. His story now changes, starts centering more around Everwater, how the city had to endure difficult years, but he also tells of the hope their recently killed Lord Ellerion instilled in the people of Everwater. He mourns the dead soldiers from the skirmish within the castle and city walls and he closes his story with the news that the rightful heir to the county, Alric Ellerion has been seen crossing the border of Everwater together with Sam Weatherstone on their return to Everwater. Not only the people around the stage are happy about this news, Cyrill himself is a close friend of Alric and his friends. A certain person in the audience is also really happy about this message. Cyrill expected this shadow in a green coat already. We meet Cyrill late after his performance in the upper room of the tavern, where there are two beds available for travelling bards, stopping by. The shadow in the green cloak has revealed herself, it is Anna Ellerion, the sister of Alric Ellerion. Cyrill already expected her, they have been close friends since Cyrill made his first steps as an upcoming bard and Anna invited him to the Everwater castle to perform at a small reception they had for a guest. … A: “Is it true Cyrill, has my brother been seen at the border?” C: “Yes, Anna, he took one of the small paths through the hills and came by one of the southeastern watchtowers. I met a horse courier this afternoon at the city gates, the news should by now have reached the castle and you, had you not been at my performance”, he winked at her, “he will soon be here, and then this madness with your father and your uncle will hopefully find an end.” A: “I hope so yes, thank you for the news Cyrill, and for being the friend you are to me and my brother.” … They kept talking long into the night, of their friendship, of the turmoil the death of her father had brought to Everwater and how Historica on the contrary was starting to enter into an era of hopeful peace and growth. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - This is my entry for the Prelude Challenge Category A of Book IV and I had great fun building this. The build originally was planed to be a bit bigger and include a large audience and the possibility to also have a look into the ground floor, but as the build progressed and time got a bit short I had to replan, notheless I am very happy with the result. I even managed to get some glimpses of my main Everwater story into the Challange, which I am especially happy about. Below are some more pictures to the tavern and its features. The roof, as well as the walls of the upper floor (in segments), can be removed to have the upper floor accesible. -
Elf Delve Neddi was an elf who loved the sunlight and the soil. She tended to her garden with care and joy, using her knowledge of herbs and plants to create potions and remedies. But lately, her plants had been wilting and dying, afflicted by a mysterious blight. The only cure, she learned, was a rare ingredient: the luminaria fungus, a glowing organism that thrived in the darkest depths of the Nyx caves. Reluctantly, she agreed to venture into the underground realm, accompanied by her two acquaintances: Rhalyf, a curious wanderer from the south, and Folgaen, a clever and daring warrior. They made their way through the winding tunnels, facing dangers and wonders along the way. They reached a large cavern, where a small lake shimmered under the light of crystals. A water wheel turned slowly, powering a broken chain of gears. A wooden bridge spanned the lake, leading to a door on the other side. Folgaen was the first to cross the bridge, confident and curious. He stepped lightly on the planks, humming a tune. But halfway across, he heard a loud crack. He looked down and saw one of the boards break under his feet. As Folgaen falls towards the water, you hear him scream and see him grab the rope. You also see something else: a pair of yellow eyes emerging from the depths. Roll for initiative.
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Batuhan Trading Post Located in the northwest of Kaliphlin, outside of Batuhan, is a bustling trading post. Positioned at the crossroads between Eastgate to the west, Barqa to the south, and Avalonia to the north, it is the ideal location for Kaliphlinians to acquire rare essential commodities, such as lumber. Today, the post is overrun with livestock, and the stable is full. Additional guards from Batuhan have been dispatched to ensure that all trade is legal and properly taxed. I created this trading post for the Guilds of Historica’s Challenge 11. It has been great developing the looks of this scrubland between Kaliphlin and Avalonia.
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The city of Barqa is one of the most significant trade hubs in Historica. It is located where the mighty Arkbri river meets the sea, after providing an artery of trade from the mountains of Mitgardia through much of central Historica. Barqa sits in the middle of the southwest coast, also making it a great place for seaborne trade between Avalonia, Varlyrio, and the southern parts of Historica. Sometimes, traders from the eastern side of the continent or the islands in the Great Southern Ocean also bring their goods here. All this trade passing through the city gives Barqa's authorities a chance to collect a small portion of the wealth. They do this at the city's grand toll houses, designed to impress travelers used to more modest towns. This building was recently rebuilt and extended, as much of the city of Barqa has been in this current era of peace out of the ruins and neglect from the Elemental and Civil Wars. Every morning, merchants queue up, anticipating the bell that signals the beginning of the day's trade at sunrise. Before long, the initial toll of the day will be gathered, and the coastal breeze will carry the distinctive sound of gold, silver, and copper coins—the quintessential commodities of Kaliphlin. Lines of merchants in front of the toll booths. To be bestowed with the duty of tolling the commerce bell is a noble distinction for a junior guardsman of the City Watch. They reassured him that the hearing loss is typically temporary, for most guardsmen. In the bustling crowd waiting for the toll booths to open, some merchants, instead of holding their place in line, are drawn to the street musician's melodies, perhaps seizing a moment for flirtation. Chancellor Gideon, chairman of the City Council, halts during his morning stroll to exchange greetings with the toll master. The toll master, on the balcony outside of the fiscal hall. One of Barqa's numerous alchemists, deeply engrossed in his arcane pursuits, goes about his own business. As crucial as the City Watch for order in the city, the renowned black cats of Barqa play a vital role in keeping the rodent population in check. More pictures:
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You can find a not-so-small trading post, not far from the village, known as Owhur. The residents visit the post almost every week once or twice, to sell, buy, or just browse the goods. You can find more pictures, in the Album.
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My plan for this challenge was a full-fledged elven merchant's guildhouse. Then life happened, and I realised I would never be able to finish it in time - even with the extended deadline. But I really wanted to participate; so here is an unassuming entry, just for the enjoyment of building and fleshing out Historica. PS. Of course, I couldn't help but write a short story. A story that would take place a few years before my main storyline in Embervale, but featuring the same main characters. Elmire's Couture House Meborin, Avalonia. The great merchant city of the High Elves. A place of awe and wonder, where only the finest was good enough. In the upper part of the city, Elmire’s couture house was the kind of confidential place where a few high-end, unique articles were offered to the admiration of selected guests. Trivial things such as prices were never, ever spoken. If gold ended up changing ownership, it was patronage of the Arts. A sign of recognition of Elmire’s talent – nothing to do with menial trade. When Lord Dresghar, Ambassador of the Dark Elves in Meborin, solicited an appointment, Elmire got a bad feeling. Yet the Ambassador himself was as fine as a Dark Elf could be: he had a charming smile, beautiful blue eyes and the refined manners expectable from a diplomat. Alas, he was also afflicted with a niece who had none of these things but needed a new ball gown. “What have you done to me? I can’t breathe anymore!” Alrune cried out, struggling to free herself from the garment that was crushing her ribs. “Get me out of here!” “You just need to stop panicking, honey, everything’s all right,” Dresghar placidly replied. “Really, that’s all you can come up with? I’ll stop panicking once I’ll be able to breathe again!” Ties. There were ties beneath Alrune’s fingers. If only she could loosen them up…She felt searing pain in her forefinger – but insisted. Hopefully those nasty strings would give up before her nails. “That dress of yours is an exquisite masterpiece, dear.” She heard Dresghar’s voice say in an insufferable worldly tone. “Youthful yet elegant, with just a hint of glamour. That’s how a proper elf maiden should look like.” What? To hell with elegance and glamour – she wanted to breathe! And now, from the corner of her tearful eye, she saw the dressmaker smile blissfully at her uncle. None of them seemed to intend to move even a little finger to save her. All right. Too bad for the dress – it did look good, she had to admit, but it was trying to kill her. Under the increasingly horrified gaze of the dressmaker, she created tiny, glowing darts of magical force from her bleeding fingertips. And then, unceremoniously, she sliced the back of the garment. -- Epilogue Smelling salts were needed to revive Elmire after the incident, and it took Dresghar an elaborate floral arrangement and two boxes of candied violets to obtain forgiveness for the affront to her creation. Alrune kept the dress. Even adjusted to a more sensible fit, it was still as mesmerizing as Elmire had imagined it. Two more pictures... -
My entry for Brickscalibur's "Enchanted Forest" category. And a glimpse of how winter can look like deep in the Enchanted Forest of Avalonia, where the elusive Tellurites live peacefully in their crystal caves... Close-up photos in the hidden section below. The cast!
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My entry to the 12x12 vignette category of this years Summer Joust 2024. (My very first MOC) "Tax money is collected, stored and protected. But how about it being stolen. A scene how it could happen in any city of Avalonia"
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My entry, as a team with @Sympatik Brick, for the collaborative category of Brickscalibur. Check his build here! And, also, a new episode in my main storyline the Chronicles of Embervale... THE BUILD My very first vehicle, and very first attempt at creating other Dark Elves than my main characters Alrune and Dresghar. I'm now very tempted to make a full-fleshed faction, Warhammer-miniatures-style, but I digresss. Here is a high-end but cumbersome carriage of the Dark Elves, traveling through the rugged mountains around Embervale and getting to know the local population... More details of the decor, minifigs and carriage in the spoiler section below. THE STORY Previously in the Chronicles of Embervale: a flashback brought us back when Embervale was ruled by a certain Governor Voronthir. Alrune had never set foot there, and Evrart was a sergeant for a neighbouring baron of the human Realms. As said baron was visiting Embervale to solve a minor conflict with the Governor, all of a sudden, the bell of the village made its ring heard… As the bell started to ring in Embervale, the quiet village became a hive of activity. Such a backwater corner of the Elven Empire hardly ever got visits from officials – even the local governor set foot outside of the castle only if he was really forced to do so. Imperial elves mingled as little as possible with the human populace of their most remote borders. But the bell was announcing imperials and rumours and contradictory information were spreading like wildfire. Who? Why? Good news, or bad omens for the villagers? The visiting baron was not the last to want to know more. Upon interrogation, the town crier explained him he had rung the bell because the miller’s son said there were imperial troops approaching. The boy had been warned by an adventurer. Who had heard it from one of the foresters. Who said a little bird had told him. At which point the baron’s sergeant had the greatest difficulty to prevent his liege from punching someone in the face. As the rest of the day passed on without any imperial elf showing up, most of the visitors from the Adventurers’ Guild left the village for places with more action and less damp squids. The baron, meanwhile, decided to stay. Partly because he had no intention to give up on talking to the Governor despite the hermetically closed gates of the castle, and partly because the local beer was excellent. And as he and his men were about to order their third round, a small black bird came to land on their table... “What the…? A crow?” One of the soldiers exclaimed with a large yet imprecise hand gesture intended to expel the intruder. “I’m not a crow,” the bird stated, scowling at the man. “Not everything that’s black and flies is a crow, you ignorant grunt. I’m an alpine chough!” An awkward silence was the only answer – during which the baron glanced at his beer with much suspicion. Yellow bill and red feet, you see,” the bird went on, unimpressed. “That’s an easy way to distinguish an alpine chough from a crow, which is all black. Anyways. If you get me a portion of this excellent roasted ham they serve here, I’ll tell you all you want to know about the elves who are approaching. Who were approaching – actually.” Perhaps it was the beer, perhaps it was curiosity, the fact remains that the baron ordered a portion of ham for this unusual informant. And, between two pecks at its lunch, the little bird told them about travellers it had seen in the mountains above Embervale. A big carriage and a handful of riders. They were what humans called dark elves, most probably, because they were clad in black and there were pointy bits on the (black) coach. The chough had spent some time perched on the carriage, and one of the elves had given it half of an excellent goat cheese. Then it had left them to tend to some important bird business, and the next time it had seen them, they were as good as dead. “What happened?” The baron snapped when the bird chose this precise moment to take the time to preen its feathers. "They were ambushed!” The chough answered with such a sudden wing gesture that the closest soldier spilled his beer. “Scary creatures! Cats and wargs! Claws and fangs – and weapons! They took the carriage!” "Any elf left alive?” The sergeant enquired. “Maybe. At least, I haven’t found the body of the nice one who gave me cheese.” “I would have expected the survivors to show up in Embervale cryin’ to their governor like little kids to their mama!” The baron sneered. “You dare to explain why you tell us rather than some pointy-eared rascal?” “You’re not even able to differentiate a chough from a crow! Don’t expect me to care for the differences between you primates,” the bird replied in the same tone. This time, the sergeant was not quick enough to prevent his liege from throwing a punch. But don’t you worry for the little chough! It dodged, and spent the rest of the evening enjoying roasted ham - while watching one of those classic tavern brawls that is bound to happen in any self-respecting fantasy story when someone loses their temper in a bar.
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On the day of unveiling, Lord Balric refused to honor his agreement, knowing the guild’s debt would ruin them. Devastated and enraged, John, Martin and other guild members shattered their masterpiece in defiance.
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Serenity I woke to the constant slapping of the waves against my face. My head sunken in the black sand, bursting with the biting cold. To one side, the unstopping streams of an unknown river. To the other, trees I had never seen. A world I had never been to. Each breath was a frosty cloud dancing before my eyes. I rubbed my hands together, but warmth was nothing but a distant memory. Up in the North, winter is brutal, and I felt its cruelty in my soul. I stumbled through an untouched trail amongst twisting naked branches. The hissing wind whispered words of fear and doubt. Compelling and unquestionable, I dared to give up. It could have been weeks, months. I cannot say. For time is irrelevant when life slips away on every breath. But in the distance, amidst distorted and twisted trunks, the glimmer of a star caught my eye. And with it, the faint warmth of hope. Every step was a challenge, and every challenge, a new reason to move on. I stopped, not for being exhausted, nor for being drained. But for being amazed. For such beauty, such indescribable exquisiteness, was not from this world. Stillhettre, the tree of hope. Serenity. Louis of Nutwood
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Hvitdreki, the white dragon I remember the first time I saw him. It was a crisp morning, the kind that makes your breath fog in front of you. I had wandered beyond the familiar woods, drawn by an unexplainable urge, a chanting of the gods. I crested a hill and there was a clearing. Shimmering in the sunlight, blending with the snow and the ice. Its scales glistened, each one catching the light in a dazzling display. A misinterpreted beast. How could such a beautiful creature cause such caos and distress? My heart raced with a mix of fear and awe. I was gazing upon a legend, a living embodiment of the myths our elders spoke of by the fire. Hvitdreki, the white dragon. Silently, I left, hiding in the shadows, to remember this day for all days to come. What I didn’t know was that we would meet again. But that is a tale for another night. ______________ Louis of Nutwood Hope you like it. Let me know what you think.
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Salt is the chief export of the Westersands. A critical ingredient for preserving food across Historica makes the work in the heat of the desert a worthwhile venture. Camels carry it out of the desert into the towns and cities of Kaliphlin and beyond.
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The woods of Avalonia were home to many critters, familiar and rare, wild and civilised, magical and mundane. One that was rarely sighted was the shy talzoin. Sometimes called “cave-bears”, the talzoin lived underground in the Wizard’s Spine mountains. The bipedal creatures were covered in thick grey fur and sported four eyes, which granted clear sight in the dark caverns and tunnels they carved in their subterranean domain. On odd occasions, talzoin would emerge into the surface forests for a spot of moonlight.
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Under the blood tree The carnivorous blood tree of Nocturnus was rare - thankfully - and deadly. As it digested its victims, the soil around its roots would stain red. This faded over time and only the collection of bones within the twisted roots hinted at its terminal hunger. Build notes This is my entry for the gradient category of Summer Joust 2022. The minifigure harkens back to my CMF entry last year and the two Nocturnus troublemakers.
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My entry to the "Gradient" category of the 2022 Summer Joust. And also an Historican urban legend... Noone really knows if Galder survived the encounter, to which Guild he belonged, or even if he actually existed. But anyways. This, kids, is why you shall not forget to deactivate your planar portal once you're done with today's experiment.
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My entry to the "Farmstead Figures" category of this year's edition of Brickscalibur - and a handful of hard-working citizens for Avalonia! --- Hademar Half-Dwarf had lost two fingers and half a leg to war. Yet he deemed himself fortunate, for when peace had come the Baron had granted him several acres of fertile land and a few heads of cattle. This enabled him to marry his long-time sweetheart. They were blessed with five healthy and hard-working daughters. And for years their little farm kept thriving nicely. Until one day an old friend of his, a former brother in arms, showed up at the gates with a frightened young girl. An orphan, he said. A poor little thing he had rescued from brigands. They talked about the old times, they talked about their fallen fellows and about the ones who lived, and his comrade soon talked Hademar into welcoming the girl in his household. And while he welcomed her with warm words and open arms, Hademar felt deep in his heart that this meant trouble for his farm and his family. From left to right: Hersent, Heloïse, Hildegard with baby Hemma, Heilwig, Hademar Half-Dwarf, his old comrade Renart, the orphan girl, and Hermine with her horse Hero.
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Made some AI-generated concept art for Mitgardia too. You are welcome to use any of these pictures however you want! I would also happily accept ideas for improvements and especially ideas for other environments to try to generate Sometimes things don't go as expected, asked for a ranger hunting moose...but it turned out to be more of a fusion between the two But I thought they looked a bit cool so I'll put them here.
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Breaking out the discussion on AI generated concept art from the main Kaliphlin thread. Reserving first post for highlights. Feedback and requests for other renders are very welcome! I'd be happy also to work on some other guilds's if someone wants some copyright-free concept art for those environments too
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My entry to the "Old but Gold" category of the final contest of the Guilds' Anniversary: an updated version of one of my very first GoH builds. Two years and a half have past since I posted the original, and time has flown by. I feel like my style and taste has evolved, both as a builder and a storyteller. Recreating a build designed for the Mitgardian wilderness in the more organised, refined surroundings of an elvish castle in Avalonia, and trying to translate its characteristics features, has been a lot of fun! ________ “Have you noticed, honey," Dresghar asked his niece as his eagle pinned the lure to the ground, "how the airspace above Embervale seems to be a very popular flight route among homing pigeons, lately? Well, my bird and I are only one training session away from finding out what’s it’s all about...” ________ Original version: ________ More photos of the new version: ________ And, of course, the recreation would not be complete a bit of information about the birds...
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For this challenge, I decided to build Amalia and her favorite little brother, my main character Ásgeir Di Cioto, at a scale which we rarely see attempted in LEGO. It was a daunting endeavor, and one not to be entered upon lightly! I hope you like it, although I know it's flawed, and I welcome any advice or criticism :) . Ásgeir and Amalia Ásgeir Venerio Di Cioto The youngest child of a poor gentleman from the wasteland city of Ilesole, Ásgeir is a wild, impetuous boy, thoughtful and keen at times, but far too guided by his own rash impulses and his friends’ bad ways. Afraid of his father, fond of his sister, and condescending at best to his ailing brother, he is used to defying his father’s laws and bearing the consequences if he must, staying away from the house in spite of all his father has threatened and not daring to come back until is far into the night, hoping to sneak upstairs unnoticed although the darker it grows the angrier his father becomes. Ásgeir tries to “be good” as his sister entreats of him, but he cannot bear the poor and wretched hovel they live in and often slips unnoticed out from the upper floors where his father rarely comes. When he stumbles into a secret he never wanted to know, he pushes on with daring curiosity… never dreaming how far he would go for it in the end. Amalia Di Cioto Ásgeir’s only sister and the oldest child of the family, Amalia is a charming and strong-willed daughter and the only one who can stop her father in his wrath. She has always cared for Ásgeir since their mother died and loves him dearly, striving to bring him up in good ways, and willing to do anything in the world for him. Because her father dares not call a doctor, who would make them pay the last of all they have, she is left to tend her sick brother Horus almost night and day, while she waits and hopes that Ásgeir will come home safely. When she loses all of what she holds dearest she is driven to desperation and distrust, and perhaps in the end her own cleverness will be all that can save her heart’s treasure: and her own heart also. You can follow the Saga from its beginning here.
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Nestled in the busy streets of the city of Albion in Avalonia is a cozy bookstore. Although small in size, it is packed from floor to ceiling with books of all shapes and sizes, and is renown for being one of the best places in Historica to find knowledge. From ancient tomes to magical spellbooks, Nocturnus cookbooks full of questionable recipies to Varlyarian romances, any type of book can be found here, for the right price... Notes: Hi guys! This is a 8x32 Modular Bookstore I built for my LUGs build challenge . Of course, I decided to build mine medieval themed and set in Avalonia. I posted this a bit ago on Flickr, but hadn't gotten around to posting it here until now. Hope you enjoy
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Fleshing out Embervale Castle...and taking part in this year's Summer Joust, in the "Subterranean" category. --- Guard Captain's log, arcane date-time 140630B SUM 1322 Intruders broke into the basement. Two killed, two captured. One vanished. No own casualty. Minor material damage. Prisoners interrogated: they’re from the Adventurers' Guild, tasked to retrieve some magic gizmo (see attached drawing). Contracting party unknown. They had a map marking the hidden room in Lord Dresghar's cheese cellar. I'm off to the city to have a word with the representative of said Adventurers' Guild. Side note: the trap in the goblins’ crypt was triggered. No need to feed the plant-thing below before next week. --- Level 0: from the scullery, access to the well and to the storage room below (with a handy goods elevator - carrying barrels while using a ladder is quite a delicate task). Level -1: just a regular storage room, with food and jumble. Level -2: the goblin guards' crypt. The idol's pedestal is held together only due to the friction of its side plates. Messing with it - e.g. removing the idol - triggers a trapdoor that leads direcly to the lower level. Concealed behind a sturdy, regular stone wall without any secret door, this level also includes a treasure room shielded by a shadowguard... Level -3: let me introduce you to Eriaxis Monstrosa, a subterranean carnivorous plant from the Kolgari realm, that definitely appreciates the snacks the trapdoor above keeps sending it! Level -4: the cheese cellar and the well. And a secret door hidden in the wall, that leads to a (rather disappointing) secret room...
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Previously... The Architect's Ascension: Part IV Arama sprinted through the windy passages, narrow alleys, and cobbled streets of vast Illaryian. Then she jumped onto a roof and caught sight of Ristoro hurrying through the thoroughfare far ahead. She rushed on across the roofs, leaping the gaps, landing with only a soft thud, her cloak floating out behind her. Arama rushed on across the roofs, leaping the gaps, landing with only a soft thud, her cloak floating out behind her. Suddenly Ristoro heard something above him. He looked up and he saw a shadow watching him coolly from the roofs far above. Now he was even more afraid of the ragazza who had followed him so quickly and found him without erring far in the depths of the greatest city in the realm. He looked up and he saw a shadow watching him coolly from the roofs far above. He couldn’t outrun her, and he knew he didn’t stand a chance in a fight—he didn’t want to kill her anyway! What could he do? There was a bridge. At least Ristoro knew how to swim! He threw off his sword and sprung over the side, landing in the canal below with a splash. Arama knew the canals like the back of her hand. With one deep breath she plunged off the rooftop, tucking her dagger in her sleeve. The canal here was deep and narrow. Arama landed on the other side of the bridge, pitching far below the depths of the water. She spread out her arms to slow her fall. In another second Arama had Ristoro’s doublet in her hand. She lifted him up against the wall on the side of the canal, but she had to let him go to get a breath of air. Ristoro scrambled up onto the cobblestones, but now he was in a cortile with only one entrance, where Arama De Cioto now stood. Ristoro Moccenigo shook in an almost unreasonable fear. Now he was in a cortile with only one entrance, where Arama De Cioto now stood. “Cieli! Just get it over with!” he screamed, petrified. "Just get it over with!" Ristoro screamed. “Stolto, does it look like I have a blade in my hand?” Arama answered with affected dryness, showing her outstretched and empty palms to him. “Così,” Ristoro started nervously. “You aren’t here to seppellire a blade in me?” “No,” she said sweetly. “I just want you to talk. Why didn’t you answer the question Luca asked you?” “You want to kill my fratello and not me?” Ristoro asked, unable to swallow his saliva. For reply, Arama’s eyes glittered. “It’s no use, there’s no point! Ilazio already told the De Fioris that–” “I know,” Arama said, a perturbed glimmer passing across her face. She hadn’t really known that. So it really was too late. She grit her teeth. They just had to ride it out. It sounded like a very dangerous storm. It was time to be brash and reckless. “Vedo, you probably know what Ilazio wants to do,” Ristoro said in a very low voice. “He’ll kill you and il nostro caro Rego!” he warned. “Let him do it,” Arama replied brazenly. “If he kills me it wouldn't matter. But he can’t prove anything he says.” “You, like Signore di Carlo, underestimate mio brother. I’ve seen his plans and correspondences, De Cioto!” “It doesn’t matter what he knows,” Arama smiled thoughtfully, “it matters what he can show, what he can get people to believe. It's not the first time he’s spread false rumors. He would never live another day if he assassinated the Rego.” Arama looked defiantly at the waters of the canal behind her. “Then, I believe,” Ristoro answered, “he will kill you.” A sharp hiss echoed throughout il cortile. Both Ristoro and Arama were caught off guard. They both paused, without further discussion, each searching the dim backstreet courtyard for signs of any intruder. Arama let her knife slip down into her palm again. Then all of a sudden, a shadowy figure, contrasted by a drawn sword with golden hilt engravings, leapt from a window in the stone building behind them, landing beside Ristoro who immediately began to back away. A shadowy figure, contrasted by a drawn sword with golden hilt engravings, leapt from a window in the stone building behind them. The shadowy figure pushed back his hood. Ilazio Moccenigo had heard every last word. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. “Buona serata,” I greeted gruffly, my sword pointed at the two traitors. One had succeeded before in obstructing my plans, but questa notte, I would ensure that they both failed. I began moving towards them, then stopped as I saw a flash of metal. Arama drew a hidden dagger from within her clothes. “Certo, buona serata!” Arama had drawn a hidden dagger from within her clothes, but she didn’t stand a chance against my long, sharp blade. Then, when Ristoro tossed her his sword from the bridge where he had left it, although she caught it deftly in the air with her other hand, I could tell that she was more accustomed to fighting come una assassina rather than a proper duelist. Ristoro tossed her his sword from the bridge where he had left it. Her arms seemed to be shaking slightly, and her footwork was like a tigress ready to pounce upon her foe from behind, not from ahead. But she was light and agile, and playing right into her strengths, Arama ran for it, quickly scaling the walls of il cortile until she reached the roof above. In return, I gave chase. She was light and agile. I could hear Arama’s breath from above me as she silenziosamente prepared to leap across to the nearest roof. She would never make it. “Don’t!” I yelled from the roof below her feet which I was quickly pulling myself up onto. “What do you care if I do?” Arama murmured in reply, but before she got a chance to, I grabbed one of her moving feet, rolling onto the roof beside her. Arama was about to jump to the other side of the street. Arama threw herself down beside me and I spun out of the way just in time. I felt her knife sound against the terracotta altana as it dug deep into the spot where my chest had been a moment before. Her dagger was stuck there now. Arama swept her feet at me as I leapt up and took a better stance upon the roof, but she was too far away. She had to hold up her sword to me. I had the advantage now, but I was still waiting for something unexpected. So far, only I have delivered soprese. Arama stood on the defensive, frustration written on her visage. But I wouldn’t commit. “You want me dead,” I smiled at her eagerly, “not the other way around.” “I wanted to get out of here,” Arama whispered sulkily, pulling her mask below her mouth to breathe, “you wouldn’t let me get away. So if you don’t want me dead, climb down, or let me jump.” “Letting you make that jump? Not if I don’t want you dead. But maybe I do, so go ahead.” Arama made a gesture. “But I’m not putting away my sword. Do you think I am some stolto like my brother, to just let you kill me?” Arama laughed. “Tell me again why you’re mad at me?” she asked. “You killed my father,” I hissed, “and your Rego will pay, just like you, stupida girl. You think life is nothing? You take your own and others pretty carelessly.” “Don’t become careless with yours,” the girl replied, sweeping at me at last with the edge of her sword. Our blades met with my parry and swift counterstrike. Before Arama could recover, I struck out again, the force behind my blade driving her back along the steep roofline. We drove quietly back and forth at each other, our swords ringing through the otherwise silent night. With efficiency, I contrived to drive her back with each of our moves, using forces similar to those which balanced a crane in my father’s constructions to turn everything to my advantage. Arama’s strikes became more wild and her defense mere seconds from la morte. She was still smiling though. Infine! There was a gap, a risky manovra with ricche ricompense. I lunged, hoping my feet would not slip on a loose tile, my glittering sword striking true. Time seemed to slow. A shuddered breath escaped the lips of mia avversaria. I did not wait to see my vittoria. Quickly, I retracted my blade and swung, using shear impact to dislodge the sword from her clammy hands. Then I mercilessly shoved her off the narrow roofline while she looked down at the ever growing blood stains on her fancy clothes. My sword had gone through the chainmail that she wore beneath her dress. Only one image clouded my thoughts, the image of her shocked, and forse scared, expression followed with ragged breaths and dripping blood, an image branded into me. Ristoro backed away from the crumpled, limp form that ended on the cobblestones below. “Ilazio?” he said, his voice filled with discomfort and uncertainty. He shuddered again as I dropped to the cobbled streets below, this time with my gold-inlaid sword sheathed. Mio fratello looked confused, his eyes going back and forth between my demented visage and the bleeding corpse that was Arama di Athena De Cioto. Finally making up his mind, he darted for l’ingresso del cortile. I simply turned and watched as he scurried away. My attention then shifted back to the velvet liquid running freely through the cracks in the cobbles. More blood would flow, abbastanza presto. I unsheathed my sword slowly, letting its ring echo, while I walked over to the shuddering figure, covered in her own blood. No, not quite a corpse yet. The fall had only been about a story, and she knew how to land, although she must have been very bruised. My sword had only pierced her side, not her heart. Not yet. “I'm not afraid of you,” Arama whispered, looking up at me kindly, her breath increasing in pace and raggedness as I descended upon her like a ravenous Mitgardian wolf. I stood over her, the tip of my blade less than a millimeter above her beating heart. The girl still struggled like wounded prey, trying to back away. Maybe she did have another dagger, but she couldn’t use it now. She was dizzy and sick. Arama could barely lift her head, she was so weak. My sword followed, forcing her to concede. Arama let herself drop onto the stones, looking around, to make sure that I was the only one with her. She saw through a black haze, my sword hanging above her. Her last knife dropped from her hand. “Tell Luca I love him,” she said, whispering, wincing and hiding her face behind her arm. I craved that! I was overjoyed to hear it, my entire case proven by its denier! In my mind her guilt was sealed now. But… still. My heart rate increased, breaths ragged as the maledetta below me. Soon, every rag of the vendetta I wanted would be mine! I roughly grasped Arama and bent my sword down to her throat, prepared to strike home. Suddenly her unusually neat hair, wandering in wisps below her half drawn hood, was the same hue as Aurelia’s. I shook my head, scowling fiercely—this was not the time for doubts. Did my padre look this way before di incontrare la morte? I must, I must kill her! As I looked down at her, the image flashed again, then images of mio papà coursed through me. “Go ahead, I guess it was always coming to this,” Arama shrugged, tears falling down upon her stomach and mixing with sangue. I lifted my sword arm up once again, this time to kill! I made a bloodthirsty roar—but then I immediately dropped my blade to the blood-stained pavement. “Bene! I can’t,” I said at last through ragged breath. I staggered away from Arama. “This isn’t what I wanted.” “Che cosa?” she asked meekly. Her arm lowered from her face, and she looked at me with a tired, scared and confused question in her eyes. “I saw him, mio padre in my mind. Revenge won’t bring him back from la morte. It’s only a path of destruction… per tutti!” I said, facing away from the girl who had almost become a corpse. My breath was still coming rapidly, my heartbeats deafening every other sound. I was on the verge of spinning round, of doing it, and of taking my own destruction too if I had to! But I forced myself to speak, and mio voce came from a different person, a body, not a mind. “Arama, I just realized… what you did was horrible, but if I killed you now, just for vengeance, to satisfy myself… that would be horrible too!” I cried. I faced Arama De Cioto again and walked over to her, leaning in close to her teary face, where she had placed her palm and left a stain of blood. Then I whispered into her ear, pleading with her even though she was completely in my power, “Just take my forgiveness and go!” “I’ll love you for this,” Arama replied with a sudden merry feeling waving over her body. She pushed me away from her with her arm and closed her eyes, taking in a rasping breath. That confused me. She loved Luca di Carli! Would she betray him this easily? Is that what she meant? Maybe she just used the word carelessly… or maybe Luca was just like Prince Råiden to her. Would she betray him because I let her live even though it was my deepest desire to slit her very throat, simply because I couldn’t, I really couldn’t, kill her? She pushed herself off the stonework, one hand stopping her blood from flowing too freely, supporting herself on the wall with her other hand. I could tell her whole body was jarred by her fall. Maybe she had some broken bones. She still might die—was it crueler to leave her here than to run my sword through her side again? “No, wait, Arama,” something inside of me twisted, “I… I can’t let you go like this. Non c’è modo…” She looked at me with confusion in her eyes. “Why not?” she asked doubtfully. “You might die before you found help. That would just be more cruelty,” I said, looking boldly at her, as frankly as I could, although something rebelled in my stomach. “I never wanted to be cruel or evil! I can’t bear death, Arama. I don’t really want to return murder for murder.” I hung my head, my fists clenching and unclenching convulsively. Arama looked at me blankly. “Che bene,” she murmured. “I thought you wanted to kill me.” “I did.” .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. Arama’s head throbbed profusely. She reached underneath the uncomfortable blankets placed on top of her and winced as she located the wound. So it had happened in verità, it wasn’t a dream. She hurt all over anyway, so it wasn’t like a surprise. Arama growled at the pain. He had told her, “You might die before you get help. That would just be but more cruelty,” before helping her to a farmacista. “You’re really thinking this through,” she had almost retorted. But she couldn’t understand what he was thinking. How could anyone change at such a moment? Maybe after you killed someone, then you might repent. But this was really weird. Although Ilazio had saved her life, and been very emotional about it too, now he seemed rather cold to her. She had made a few attempts at light conversazione to distract herself from her pain, pain that the brooding man sitting on the stool opposite her bed had caused and didn’t seem to care that she was suffering, and he had all but ignored her. How could he care for her all of the sudden? To help save her life, to give her food and water, and even do his best to make her comfortable. Arama tried to see through the man. She had met one or two pacifisti before, tame people, but she had never heard their stories. Was this how it happened? She didn't understand. These thoughts only made the throbbing worse. Arama’s head sagged back against the soft pillow, darkness enclosing her as her tired eyelids fluttered and then shut. Her breath came normally now. “Grazie,” she muttered in her sleep. “Molto grazie.” .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
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I'm reposting my entry for Brickscalibur here, the Monarchic Minifigures category - photo, text and reading! The build: The story: Were-beast hierarchies were notoriously fickle; leaders changed with the moon phase: wax, wane or sickle. The Wulf-Tang Clan was one such curious case; led by Matriarch Wulf, firm grip on the royal mace. Rip, Fang and Wrinkle, her loyal sons three; keeping them in line? Certainly not free: Pay for the damage when Rip fought in bars; Pay off the victims whose tongues Fang kept in jars; Pay for the tools as Wrinkle read the moon and stars. A change in the guard, though, when the harvest moon come: as Runt took over as leader of the pack, with his running mate Ocker watching his back. Sweet Lily, too, had ambition for the peak; Trice already she’d eliminated the weak. A lick of charm, males ate from her mitten; Runt, especially, reduced to a kitten. What she couldn’t obtain with just feminine wiles, Lily removed with a drop from her poisoned vials. Regardless of whoever was leader day-by-day, everybeast knew don’t cross were-coon Fay. As den-mother, her power was wide; Get on her wrong side? Your tail was fried! But one thing was true across all the moon’s phases, the bottom of the heap was reserved for tree grazers; Were-beaver serfs – they might not be free, but leaders beware … they could still fell the family tree. The poet's reading: If you like to hear the bard's own reading of this story, there is a sound file available on the Brickscalibur Discord server here. I don't think I can upload to here directly (or to Flickr). Build notes:
