WitchBearJoin Date: 2014-09-25
Post Count: 30 |
*You remove the leather-bound book from its library shelf*
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GORTHRO AND THE [see bottom of page] CRISIS BOOK ONE
WRITTEN BY: MOLORON THE WORDSMITH
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Camaraderie; what can such a virtue do to a person? The feelings that besiege the conscious of man when in company of trusted familiars are not to be disregarded, for they are of such vast array. Friendship can inspire trust, produce humor, and truly provide trustful connections between those who partake in the friendship. I have met many a friend in my day, but none so stand out as Gortho, the axe-wielding exile from Mindalur. To expect such a teacher and true friend out of this man would be uncanny at first, but I have been truly changed by this single, lone barbarian.
Combridge is where this tale of fellowship begins. The headmaster of the university there had sent for me by messenger; his inquiry was that of occupation, and he expressed the need for ae* course to be taught on the various poetical techniques available to authors. I, being the wondrous spirit I am, decided that taking off of writing for a few months may actually bid me well, so with an eager spirit, I packed my writing utensils, clothing, and various other necessities, and rode carriage-bound for C0mbridge.
Combridge was a fairly large port borough of the surrounding region, Yallia, but was nothing out of the ordinary. A cultural bastion of Thismonia, the city reflected the familiar themes present throughout the country: the plain, stone buildings with thatched roofs dotting the outermost parts of the city, a rich exchange of timber, gold, and other trade goods flowing in and out of the large reinforced gates, men working the fields, not in poverty, but not in luxury either; Combridge was as Thismonian ae* settlement can get. The populace was quite well off, actually, and the city people had both the time and the money to enjoy the luxuries of life, turning Combridge into ae* focal point of culture and art in Yallia. At the center of it all was Combridge university, ae* prestigious school, renowned for both its art programs as well as their literal programs, such as mathematics and law. The campus was quite the sight, with tall marble pillars gilding the study halls, winding gardens with various plant life, and sophisticated parks with monuments to the Gods, famous heroes, and financial backers of the school.
My time at the school was not as interesting as I’d hoped, but the few months I spent there, I met quite the number of new people. Being somewhat of ae* luminary in the field of the literal arts, mie* classes were large and I had little time to myself, but I was quite content with that. For the first time, I had the chance to pass on mie* knowledge and literary style onto hundreds of impressionable pupils, and I seized that chance; if people are without a t#ained intellect, than the people are no better than the animals that roam the land.
After my three months of passing my knowledge down to the pliant students, I was intent on returning to my statehome in Alvan to begin my writing again. In the works was a new tale, dubbed “Bellowood and the Ivory Sabres”, which, obviously, has not seen the light of day, yet, like the light of day, will spread to all the land. Before I left Combridge, however, I had realized that I hadn’t explored the city to its fullest, and that I ought to. Combridge is quite the diverse city, I soon found out, for it has all kinds of people that call Combridge home. As I walked around the wealthier district, which did not stray too far from the university, dignified men and women roamed the streets in various hues of dyed martican robes, lavish jewelry and exotic spice shops dotted the area, and regular guard patrols of high quality and quantity made their rounds throughout mie* walk. Moving on, I came across the poorer (not by much, evidence by the various dyed clothings of those returning to their homes) industrial district. You could smell the hard work; smiths pounding away at steel, stonemasons laying foundations of brick and rock, tailors nimbly crafting varying hues of fabric.
As I past the rather small church, staffed by only three men of esquire, seeming to be a friar and his young pupils, I found myself at the docks of Combridge. The docks were congested and abuzz; ship after ship, crew after crew was offloading and onloading. The smell of fresh fish and pungent sea dogs wafted throughout the docks, and you could hear the shouting from the tavern all the way across the harbor. As I ventured through the marina, taking in my surroundings, I came across a rather big man. He was by himself, a lone fisherman perhaps, standing dockside. As I walked closer, I could tell he was no fisherman. This man was a hulking beefcake, with totemic tattoos as to imply himself a tribesman. His unkempt long hair only confirmed that fact. As I passed by him, trying not to meddle in my affairs, I could not help but notice that this boor was holding a fishing rod upside down! After a qu#ck chuckle, I walked to the man and offered to help him.
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WRITTEN BY WITCHBEAR, REVISION BY MEGAPALADIN, HORT, AND EMPIRE8595
*spam filter will not let me type the word with the correct spelling
thanks to the filter, here's the [see at bottom of page] word
it spelled like 'cop', and then 'ula', and then 'option' subtracting the 'op'
thanks filter for ruining my immersion!!!
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