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Knife throwing is way more classy than archery for a rogue to be honest. I don't think they even make that good of archers in EFU compared to other classes.

[As all things must come to an end however]

The Servant's Tale-

[tface=callig]A[/tface] pirate life for me...

Part one:

I am no Wizard so I cannot give you full account of what occurred that day but I can do my best with what has been gifted to me in both curse and birth. Off of the coast of the Waterdhavian territory there rests a filthy moss covered rock in which those suspected of "High Piracy" in dishonor of the Masked Lord's seas are housed. A short stay before a lengthy drop to the bottoms of the depth, I was a tenant of this find isle.

Born in the streets of Waterdeep I never amounted to much, and was reminded of such daily after my birth led to my mother's death and drove my father to the Drink. While I officially parted ways with my little family left at twelve, years before that I had fallen in with the usual crowd of neglected children turning to cut-throats, thugs, dockworkers, and others for a bit of coin for a good time. Rather runtish and scraping by for my survival I found myself eventually ensnared in a pirate's game of chance: An escape, freedom, and the high seas where a man can live or die on his own terms.

Sadly those terms happened to be living in a rat-infested barge with a handful of foul smelling murderers, rapists, and brigands who allowed me a small bunk in return for serving them meals and cleaning their vessel. Any work that was not wished for the "Earners" I was offered or beaten, threatened with death, or worse desertion upon a foreign island. The good times were good, perhaps even great compared to my upbringing- Fresh air, food when I could manage, but the greatest feeling of all was that freedom. Aside from a handful of men who could die at any moment from rivals I was free. When my work done I could relax, swim, float, or what ever it was I desired.

The bad times however were equally bad. At times our vessel stopped in port and I was thrust back onto land and suffered. Other times our vessel boarded as I cowered for my life in the slightly flooded cargo, praying to Tymora, Umberlee, Beshaba, Valkur, or any who could hear me. As all things must come to an end however... I was captured, beaten, interrogated, and stowed away upon the Isle of Inernment. Upon seeing I could not raise a sword, let alone kill a man or steal his cargo, I was deemed "Suspicious" but non-criminal. I was given a life in an old unused cell (For hangings were common), served as a cook to the inmates and guards, and occasional rat hunter.

Part Two:

Late one evening in my second year, during a particularly bad storm season, our fishing supplies dwindled and our food stocks began to spoil in the damp heat. A desperate man does many curious things, and after four days of picking mold from bread to nibble I found myself hunting rats. A far from glamorous task perhaps but survival is as such.

I had originally thought it mania, a hallucination perhaps brought in in my weary state. Started and fearful after a handful of rats poured across me there was a spark. No, a literal spark. A blue jolt of something I could not fathom. My first thought was madness. My second though was Magic. My third was stop thinking as to skin, peel, and feast upon that meal. As I lay there cooking the rat I awaited and attempted, focused and thought, seeking to recreate that moment. Little did I know however that two months later my life would be forever changed...

Late in the night it came for me. A horrific flash of light the likes of which I had never seen. No chance to pray, no chance to think, I was merely present one moment and the next I ceased to exist. The world was black and my thoughts silence.

Part Three:

I died.

It was not glamorous, it was not happy, it was not pleasant. It was everything I had expected from my life of meager survival and piracy. Many tales of glory were wasted on that moment. There was no Valkuran vessel waiting to take me to high adventure, there was no Avatar of the Bitch awaiting to drag me to her depths. There was only silence...and then... nothing.  Time ceased to matter. The world as I knew it was gone and I knew not where I was or how I arrived. It started, distant at first, but grew into cacophony so immense it could be heard deep in my very soul. A horrid screech, an agonizing pain, and a fire lit within my brain.

It began in my feet. They arrived without me upon the Isle of Ymph as it took time for me to be rebuilt. Slowly up my legs before reaching my torso, my arms, and ultimately my head. The eyes were the last to come as I gaze out in horror of the world in red. To this day I cannot put into words the pain I felt. A thousand knives within my bones. Fire within my blood. Lightning within my brain. My muscles all at one screaming out in pain, begging for a death that would never come.

I would later learn to call this my "Awakening", yet at the time I knew only pain...But as quick as it had come it had left. Within me was a placid sense of apathy and contentment. I felt strangely at home upon this isle the Tribal called "YMPH". While I still ached all over it slowly was replacing with a soothing grasp.

A pull from the land itself into my heart, pumping slowly into my blood, taking away all the pain, the hunger, the anguish and in its place a slow apathy washed over me. A calming sensation and an almost bliss like state as if from a fine bottle of wine, a good woman's touch, or the sea breeze again upon my face.

My eyes went fuzzy. My nose began to bleed. I collapsed once more into the darkness. Not...fearing it any longer, not feeling the pain. The finest sleep of my life washed upon me for what felt like years.

For the first time in so long, I was at peace...

Racism doesn't exist, it's just called common sense. Evil is very black and white in D&D, though mostly greyish in EFU. Half Orcs, Goblins, Kobolds, etc. Even the Cannibal Stargazers! I mean people would probably push to outlaw evil deity worship just like half-orcs but there's another level of shit on angering gods/churches/madmen.

[steadfast]

There has been a particular ruckus of late that I believe is appropriately served by the Great Poet. Old Stones has a storied past of men and women from the outside of our fair home coming in for malicious purposes as previously spoken of. However at the same time there are considerations which much be made.

While many groups have sought to bring harm upon our peoples, use us for their own ends, and more. However there is a small facet in Ymph that has for some time avoided or ignored our businesses and lives as we requested.

The Wyrm Watchers.

The Wyrm Watchers of the Forgotten Forest have gotten particular notice because of two somewhat haphazard actions. First, the so called "Godson Rebellion". The Mayoral candidate of Mistlocke and steadfast associate of the Numinous Order found himself bested, angered, and frustrated with the way matters of Mistlocke had begun to shift. To these ends he raised notice, spread word, and began hiring on men and women in pursuit of bringing revolution to Mistlocke.

It was with our blood he wished to spread this change. With our home he wished to find sanctum offering his political allies haven from the Muster and others who would persecute him in here. He felt he could use what he saw as our weaknesses to his strength. To these ends though the Poet presents the following:

""Who watches the watchers of the watchers?

Or their watchers?"

--HAEGLIA THE POET

The simple answer is- We do. The Old Stones, as always, have watched not only the world below our fine tower but those who did business around us, those who worked near us, and those who infringed upon our lands. Godson's efforts would have brought conflict, bloodshed, and more. Instead it was the Wyrm Watchers who entered, captured, and removed him without conflict so that he could be disposed of without a single drop of our blood shed.

The Garagosian who sought to take refuge within our walls, hoping he could hide while we dealt with the Muster, was soon equally dragged out. The only folly committed by the Watchers was first to storm into Grosse's restaurant of all places for this fight to take place. Second that it was within the Old Stones they sought to "Aid" us by removing this potential to be nuisance.  

In return for these transgressions a bounty of 2,000 coin was raised upon the Watcher in question, but the works that they have done are true to the spirit of our stones. If they could learn to pursue these threats when they left their home it would be ideal, yet they have not raised voice, caused conflict, or otherwise that the bounty was raised upon them.

They leave us alone. We leave them alone. We cross paths now and then...Yet in the hazardous lands of Ymph we may call them tentative allies.

For it is we of Old Stones who watch the watchers of the watchers, and their watchers.

While the world watches us.

[Rat]

A founding tenant of the Old Stones is the nature of privacy that comes with those who seek survival. Men do not often like to be disturbed in their works and many who seek survival are wise to consider such. Many outsiders seek to use the Stones own people against it, as per the above poem, but many fail to realize the detriment that this can have on a peoples. When everyone is a potential spy those who are seen as infringing upon privacy or bringing too many snooping eyes into others business are often contronted, beaten, or worse.

Yet it is the most gruesome fate in the life of old stones that are reserved for those who are found to follow this forsaken path- To turn upon brother, to bend one's wills for coins. Within the Stones there is a series of unwritten and simple laws as so eloquently put by the greatest poet of Ymph:

"RATS NEED POEMS TOO.

With cheese
Comes a sneeze
With a sneeze
Comes a breeze
With a breeze
Comes a wheeze...

...As death falls upon the noisy rat"

--HAEGLIA THE POET

As Gold is the desire of many a rats, and the sickness that plagues Old Stones is betrayal, a sneeze creates an echoing breeze within the old cursed stones. Yet over time a breeze grows thin and turns to a wheeze, and thus death comes for the noisy rat. It is not hard to see when men and women are subject to these "Sneezing fits". Gold appearing from nowhere lends many skeptical eyes if it does not come with the reputation of high adventure, highwayman, or high stakes gambling.

Many in the stones take offense, take notice, and take shrewd eyes upon those who appear one day to be selling shoddy merchandise, to the next selling the finest of Mistlocke's wares without any word or outroar of a merchant being mugged-

This typically means it was given, this typically means betrayal, and that usually means Rat. Entire men have made careers out of catching rats, both literal and figuratively. Mastro had them, the Spellguard had them, the Conclavist necromancers had them. Many a man has made his businses collecting rat-tails, and slitting throats stuffed with cheese...

Yet at the end of the day the largest conflict in and around Old Stones is the way in which both Mistlocke and Ymph as a whole view its denizens. Mistlocke by its simplest governmental moves have turned it into a festering nest of conflict and chaos. Men and women withered, criminals exiled, and more all are forced by law into it's accursed halls. Those however who are stricken with poverty, disease, or madness are also forced into these cobbles in pursuit of a semblance of existence no matter how short or cruel it may be.

This creates an endless ebb and flow of criminals, outlaws, cultists, and more who are always ready to prey upon those who are in dire need of assistance and aid. In need of food, clothing, treatments, and most importantly it seems...Gold. A waukeenite would say commerce is welcomed, an Ilmateri would say it should be given free of charge, but the harsh truth of the matter is many outsiders view the Old Stones as a simple recruiting ground for footsoldiers, spies, followers, and more.

Using gold and offers of aid, either true or false, the Mayor's Muster, the Clans of Aberdenn and Caermyn, many religious organizations, Murdertown, the Transcendent Conclave, the Numinous Order, and more have all had doccumented accounts of preying upon the Old Stones.

The Conclave ran drugs and necromancers through these halls.
The Caermyn have recruited both spy and assassin.
The Aberdenn have rallied rebels and more to join One Eye
The Numinous Order once offered coin, bunk, and shelter to march in their war.
The Faiths offer salvation.
The Muster offers coin to betray others where they cannot tread.

It is as the great poet says-

"The Rich
Exist-
To satisfy my itch
For their gold"

--HAGELIA THE POET

As any man addicted, those in need of much will do near anything they can to feed their addiction. The skin itches. The belly aches. The body cries out for sweet satisfaction of that one dire and needed substance that can bring them bliss, happiness, and an escape from their sordid fate.

No, not Narcotics. Not snuff, Phaladrine, or Thanatol. It is not these things we trade our mothers, children, and lives for.

It is Gold.

Mistlocke and its politics, its people, and its factions are more than willing to be peddlers, pushers, handlers, and dealers of that sweet golden lady to those in need. Mistlocke, in classic Asmodean fashion, offers us that which we want more than anything in the world.

So many cruel and wicked of Mistlocke offers us of Old Stones Gold,

...And the only price is our soul.

To break laws so they need not. To beat, steal, slay, and more. In return we are given gold. In ones and twos and tens and hundreds. Piles upon piles of that which we need to feed our addiction. It is we they execute, it is we they jail, it is we they abuse and use to their own twisted ends.

A Mistlocke Poltiician will never be executed for a crime,
He need only empty his pockets.

We of Old Stones,
We proud kings.

Addicted for their satisfaction. The rich exist, to satisfy our itch...

Yet as kings we find ourselves held as slave to expectations. Decorum and demeanor are anything and everything for all who claim noble birth. When court is held or enemies crash the gates it is we who are expected to lead the charge and handle matters of any affair. Without the luxury of many texts, we of the Old Stones find ourselves as many do in poverty- A life of hardship, survival, and toughness. Ymph's Greatest poet sums this up in quaint prose.

"If by school
You mean duel
Then by treasure
I shall take your measure"

--HAEGLIA THE POET

For it is the lot of those of noble birth to be judged not only by their strength of blades but the quality and finery they are able to obtain. Not only holding it up for all to see upon their heads but fending away those who would seek to take it from them. Pauper-Princes each it is not uncommon for those in old stones to present their finest armors, in hopes that some would dare challenge their right to hold such.

A proverbial mountain to climb is it from pauper to prince, with a trail of bloody noses, broken bones, and the occasional body strewn along the way. Politics of the Stones are simple but infinitely more challenging to those who lack the finery of a true Pauper-Prince.

Be it gangs banding together, cults gathering strength, Conclavists raising necromantic cabals, or merely men and women seeking to survive it is done together and always with a king upon the throne. Mastro did not happen his way to popularity nor did he fall backwards into his successes. His works in and around the stones, conquering all who presented as challenge, named him king.

He who is named king is gifted many burdens but many benefits in and around the stones. It is his task to secure it with blood and horde to ensure the muster kept at bay, that fights do not occur between factions within the stones, and that a tentative peace is kept in all conditions.

Yet in return for this he is gifted fortune, legions of men, his pick of spoils, often times a title reflecting his noble endeavor, and reign to see his will raised upon the stones. His flag hanging high upon it's roof
After all-

To the victor the spoils,

...At least until it is his turn to hang from his flag-pole by a noose.

-Rastin

Later in the text...

Of course if you are feeling particularly adventurous there are a series of "Mother Sauces" that can be developed though a variety of soupy mixtures.

- Waterdavian sauce with a strong lemon, made with some egg yolk and batters can lead to a zesty treat for any meat.
- Sauce Velote presents a fine use for left over soup, workable with any dish be it dear, boar, or rat.

Creativity is key when entering the kitchen. Nothing is unusable if you are patient and try new things. As you work more and more with a topic it opens itself in full to a variety of successful ventures.

Further along in the book...

Of course if you are feeling particularly savvy you can proceed to make a variety of fine dishes in simple manner using just about anything you can find if you've some creativity.

-Meats while cooked in Grease provide a sizzle and pop opening it for wider welcoming of fine and varied spices.
- Sugars blended at the right temperature with the right flavoring agents can create pleasant and sweet treat for anyone and everyone.
- Contrary to many thoughts, you don't need the highest quality foods to make a delicious meal. Try things you don't like mixed with things you do like.
- When in doubt, spices, spices, spices. If you're hungry enough even a boot can go down if you've got spices.

Stop by H'bala's Hash House for your next meal. Simple, cheap, perfect for fighting famine in these hard times.

["Avert-the-End"]

"...You can do such good"

...said the Politician

"...You can walk both paths"

...said the Mage.

"...We can fight"

...said the Lion.

"...I am like you"

...said the Guardswoman.

"... We can change our Fate"

...Said the Old Stonesman

"...Will I become another Leged?"

...Said the Priest.


You may know me as Rastin Yepenen.

I was a pirate. Not even a very good one at that. I arrived upon the isle of Ymph in the year 159. After two years of serving in a prison naval colony on suspicions of piracy (As I was the cook), I was ripped from my cell by ancient magics known as the Mythallar. Upon my arrival to Mistlocke I was awakened in both spirit and soul by the magics deep within my blood.

I am a Sorceror, A Witch, A Warlock. Yet upon this isle there is a Curse. And in a weakened state my magic was corrupted by the Lich who spawned the curse. I was a Necromancer. Suicide was my first thought, as all things often were to a man as cowardly as I once was.

Yet as the darkness within my blood began to grow I began to learn of this land. I began to learn of its people. I began to hope.

...and I began to fight.

To the Wyrm Watchers in search of their King I am a cure or a curse. A potential hope or a potential doom that will see them all destroyed.

To the Numinous Order of the Three and One I am known as "Avert-the-End", and in me they place their hope for salvation from the Apocalypse. That I may claim this gift within my blood and use it to avert the Witch.

To the Stargazers I am a curiosity but a "Shaman" as many of theirs are.

To Mistlocke I am a Witch-Hunter.

Yet my story begins as all tales do:

A young boy, a bottle, and a tragic mistake that shall forever haunt me...

[Tface=Callig]T[/tface]he Lion, [tface=callig]T[/tface]he Witch, and [tface=callig]T[/tface]he Servant.

[tface=georgia]

[tface=fraktur]T[/tface]he [tface=fraktur]C[/tface]rimson [tface=fraktur]G[/tface]uild[/color][/size][/tface]

Ghostbusters pun courtesy of Caster

With membership from the Numinous Order, the Wyrm Watchers, the Muster, Old Stones, and beyond Mistlocke The Crimson Guild sits as an organized collective of Ymphian Witch-Hunters with the desire to "Shed the red" and lay their lives upon the line in face of The Withered Curse and all that spawns from it.

Breaking traditional views that H'bala is an external problem, the Guild exists to combat the withered within the shroud, pursue those who badly wither, investigate reports of withered cult activities, and ultimately well- Run a Witch Hunt in and around Mistlocke.

The overall hope is Non-traditional conflict against the Witch and her peoples. A faction shaped and pursued by purely IC events with high intrigue and potential for massive political conflict from many sides coming together seeking to work together each with their own goals.

Class; Any
Race: Any
Alignment: Any.

Left next to "Fighting Famine with Rastin" is a nicer, well kept journal purchased recently. A second copy is left on the table near Grosse's mirror for any and all of Old Stones to read.

Poetry is said to be the finely cooked art of wit and snark and upon Ymph there is but one that has captured the entire spirit of a peoples. In this series a number of ideas and more raised around the simple but brilliant workings of Ymph's greatest poet. Beyond the pomp and fanfare of the Adventurer caste, away from the wealth and prestige of the clans sits a people often without voice. Without purpose until someone from beyond, outsiders, come forward into their homes with simple offers in search of greatly beneficial pursuits.

Those who want much but know they can pay little to the most desperate to see those needs met. It is in this spirit that the young are beaten into the ground and used, thrown away. And it is this spirit that Ymph's greatest poet has captured in simple written verse.

When life turns expendable to a village the lengths that are taken for survival grow even more desperate. Those who are weak and helpless, in need of the most aid, are plagued by those who wish to exploit them but as Ymph's Greatest poet knows...

"Oh...Old Stones
You...Young bones
Kings...upon Thrones

--HAEGLIA THE POET"

...It is upon our backs Mistlocke's economics, politics, faiths, and more are built. It is we who make things happen while others seek our strength. They bring ups small sums of coin believing we are weak and need such, hoping we will beat, stab, kill, and break laws so they need not. It is we they seek when they want to impress their gods my sheparding the desperate masses. It is they who think we need protection, and that only they can provide it, so long as they can protect their children from us.

It is we they hate, yet even they know they cannot live without us.

Long live Old Stones.
Long live the Kings of Mistlocke.

-Rastin

There's a small cooking establishment causing quite a ruckus IC.

The hope was to see how a constantly drunk Old Stone beggar PC's life would develop based on the actions of other PCs. In a great show of EFU's awesome by numerous PCs a variety of avenues and opportunities lead to the creation of H'bala's Hash House, and a day later to expand that pursuit into charitable medicinal work in the Old Stones.

PC's of any sort or creative endeavor are welcomed though it should be warned at present there's more than a few PCs and NPCs wishing to raise charges of treason, offer free beatings, muggings, and general mayhem of many sorts. However if you're willing to risk that the hope is to present a more "Commoner" approach in the setting of heavy armored, high magic adventurers, heroes, and villains.

Part private enterprise and part charitable work the Hash House and Healing Hands have been developed heavily on other PC initiative. Anyone interested in an open sandbox style endeavor are welcomed to seek me out ICly or OOCly through PMs.

It may end up a success, it may end up a failure, or it may end up everywhere in between as PC interaction guides it's direction.

Alignment: Any
Race: Any
Class: Any

A ratty and torn up book in very poor condition, left in the shelves...

Hard times aren't new for some folks and with all this talk of order famine and food stores stolen by murdertown thought I'd share some of the common wisdom of the good folks of Old Stones: Rats are messy, dirty, everywhere, and if you drink enough to clear your mind of the image of slurping down a tail quite filling.

If you skin it and just have the meat you can fool yourself with a bit of ale into thinking it's a tiny bit of oxen.

-Set it in the sun after curing it with some salt for jerky.
- Drop it in a stew for some porridge.
- Burn the hell out of it for some chunks.
- Put it in some bread to mask the flavor
- Drop it in some ale to kill the germs
- Use it to catch something bigger
-  If you can scrounge up some small bottles of cure minor wounds you can cook them into a fine syrupy glaze for mixing over some rat-meat.
- At the right heat some ale, junksnuff, and camp oil makes some fine spices.

Famine's a state of mind. Folks laugh and spit on me, call me names, rip at my clothes, beat me, and take my things. But damn if I can't fill my stomach at least.