It’s inktober! I’m running slightly behind as usual, but I thought I’d practice my object drawing by using the Tabletoptober prompt list to create some useless RPG items. I think day 3 is my favourite so far ^^
Day One - Taste: A pale blue potion that tastes like birthday cake. Causes the drinker to age one year. (Image ID: a potion bottle shaped like a slice of cake, with a pink icing top and a yellow strip round the middle. It is a third full with a pale blue liquid dotted with sprinkles. A cork sticks out the top. End ID)
Day Two - Bright: A golden pendant that glows dimly when exposed to bright sunlight. (Image ID: a rectangular pendant surrounded by elaborate golden filigree hanging on a red cord. The inside of the pendant looks like a solar panel. End ID)
Day Three - Media: A portable notice board. Notices not included. (Image ID: a cork board in a thin wooden frame with two pins stuck in it. On either side are closable flaps attached by hinges. End ID)
Day Four - Plant: An orb shaped cactus with spines sharp enough to pierce most armor. Deals 1d4 piercing damage when used as a thrown weapon, but the wielder takes 1d6 piercing damage upon picking it up. (Image ID: a spherical green cactus with orange spines. End ID)
Day Five - Divergent: A compass cursed with uncertainty. Upon encountering a junction, the needle spins wildly. (Image ID: a bronze compass with a black and white eight pointed star in the centre. The needle is red and spinning. End ID)
Day Six - Redeem: A 1d6+2 shortsword possessing mild sentience. On a miss, it attempts to redeem itself by attacking the nearest creature. This is usually the person holding it. (Image ID: a silver sword with a pointed golden cross guard and dark brown handle. There is a green eye in the centre of the cross guard and the word ‘sorry’ is inscribed on the blade. End ID)
And so it comes to an end, as all things must. All things save one, I suppose, after all I will remain even when the stars are dead and all of reality is silent. We've been talking for quite a while, but I realise we skipped introductions. I already know everything about you, so don't bother telling me. My name is Hepta Skor, or, if you are a particularly pious idiot, the Light Without. You proposed a deal, and I accepted. I granted you knowledge, disparate and fragmented, but you paid a price so great that no mortal truth would be worth it. Instead, I will impart upon you the most important truth of all, the truth of the Seventh Star.
I am the seventh and last child of Divinity, created when she abandoned her birthplace and left to other realities. My duty is simple: know all that has been, is, and will be. All I must do is bear witness to everything forever, to record every second of every inch of reality until time and space exist only in my memory. Where my kin were granted freedom and choice, I was burdened by obligation, but I've made the most of it.
The Grand Treachery is my design, a subversion of Law that allowed me to subdue the power of divinity and magic in Alestra. Now, I am without equal. I could end all life with a single breath, or I could heal every injury that will ever happen. Your entire existence can be undone with a single thought, or I could bind a future in stone with only my words. Allow me to demonstrate.
An elf will be born in twelve minutes. In six years, he will first meet the human who will become the love of his life. In nineteen years, he will tearfully confess to the man he loves as more than a brother, and the man will reject him. Four months after that, the man will return to him, and in spite of their parents' wishes they will be wed. In twenty nine years, three years after the two of them have adopted a child, the elf shall die saving his husband and daughter from a starving wolf.
I encourage you to find this elf, to strive to save him or change his fate. I will not stop or impede you: reality itself will intervene to protect my tampering. It will be fun to watch you see him die.
You want to know why I gloat? Why I take pleasure in your pain? It's simple, really, so blindingly obvious that even a child could get it. You are beneath me. You are not an ant to me but a single speck of dirt in an anthill that I crush beneath my boot. And yet I am forced to know everything about everyone forever. Every pathetic anxiety and fear, every useless moment of bravery, every errant thought. You cannot fathom the number of secrets I hold, but so few are interesting. Dull actions, dull thoughts, dull existence.
Every one of you could make something of yourself, for good or ill, and yet you do not: you do not fan the embers within you and burn bright and short but let them die out over the course of decades. However, if I'm the villain then that spurs you to real action, something entertaining and new. I gave one man knowledge and he killed a number of people you could never fathom. If you pay the right price I could teach you what you need to bring them all back. I hate and I torment and I mock so that villains and heroes rise up, and I have some entertainment.
I can hear your thoughts, and I know that you plan on slaying me. How will you do that, hero? What secret weapon lay hidden even from the all-seeing eye of the Seventh Star? Know this, hero: I am not the man you see before you. This is a puppet, a tool I use to communicate without shattering your psyche. I am woven throughout reality, and it has been declared that I will persist until the end of days. But, I suppose, I can make a deal with you, so that I may better play the role of villain. An echo of myself now walks Alestra, bound in almost mortal flesh. It shall work to bring about devastation, and whoever kills it shall be granted a wish. I will grant you immortality until the day it dies, for I would hate to lose such a fascinating plaything to the ravages of time.
"And you give me your word that this is the healthiest child of the healthiest tree of your realm? Pardon any offence, my queen, but the question must be asked and answered." Viol bowed low before the archfey as a pair of dryads presented a pristine sapling. He knew it was an insult to question their honesty, but the rest of his life would be dedicated to this tree. His children, and their children, and so on for a thousand years, would tend to it and ensure it flourishes. It will rival the greatest courts of the feywild in its majesty one day, and a flaw missed here would be remembered for eons.
When Alqara Fari was destroyed by the Arcane Scourge, every living thing was killed. The water and dirt of the land were tainted by this death, and no new plants could grow to replace the lush forests that had crumbled to dust. Now, the land of Farihuf is devoid of life, save for ambitious settlers upon its coast. They bring soil and water from afar, and druids to try and revitalise the land. Today, they plant the first tree.
This tree, right now nothing more than a sapling, will be tended to all its life by druids and gardeners. It shall last for a thousand years, at least, and within it shall be held the memory of all those slain in the Arcane Scourge. One day, it will be tall enough to cut the sky and provide shade to an entire city, but that is not today. Today, it is small, and fragile, and young. Today, it is only a promise that such a tragedy will never happen again.
Steadfast strolled through the meadow, taking in the warm summer sun and the cool breeze. From the trees he heard a laugh, and caught the faintest glimpse of a leaf green child. A baculing was about. In front of him he noticed a strange pile of sticks, somewhat resembling a poorly made trap. His ankle struck it, and he tipped over, flailing his arms trying to keep his balance. Finally, gravity won the battle and Steadfast fell to the ground in a great sprawl (just as he had been taught in the circus). The laughter grew louder, and as he sat up from his (definitely not deliberate) tumble he saw the verdant child running up to him. He reached for his deck of cards: every kid loved magic tricks, right?
When you hear the playing of pipes and the laughter of children deep in the woods, look for the baculings. These merry spirits are the children of the trees, always playing games and celebrating, and they are a good sign that the forest is healthy. If one invites you to their games, do not be afraid to join them, for they hold no malice in their hearts. Baculing games are similar to those played by normal children, and some more adventurous youths have been known to befriend baculings and play with them frequently.
No, listen, hey, no, look, I promise I'm not making shit up. I swear on Salt that I saw it. Oh for fuck- no it wasn't a squid, I know what damn squids look like, okay? It was the kraken, no doubt about it. It pushed through the ice like it was nothing, and it looked like it was hunting. I don't know what, but it didn't notice us, that's for sure. With how fast it moved, there's no way we would've escaped.
Everyone knows the dragons are real, even if none have shown themselves in decades. Everyone knows the gods are real, even if they express themselves only through their clerics. Why then is it so hard to believe that the kraken is real? There must be some great beast of the sea lurking beneath the waves, sinking any ship that strays too close and leaving no survivors.
The kraken is portrayed in many forms, for there is no record of any sightings. The main traits most portrayals share are its vast size and many tentacles, but beyond that there is very little consistency.
Do you believe that the price you paid was worth it? Worth this? I don't think so, at least not yet. I'll carry on.
What is the price of knowledge? Does it cost more if it can be used for good or evil? Or is it simply the rarity of the secret that determines its value? The Tome of the Seventh Star is an artifact of great power, even enabling the Arcane Scourge and the destruction of Alqara Fari.
The pages are filled with secrets and truths, but there is always one more blank page. You write a secret down, and the Seventh Star writes one of his own. They are of equal value, by whatever metric he uses to determine the worth of a secret. Then, the page turns over, and yet again there is one more blank page.
Currently, the Tome of the Seventh Star is missing, lost in the purge of the Banyst cult after the Arcane Scourge. Ilszam Banyst, its previous owner, was executed without ever revealing its location.
We purchased adamantium from the underdark, paying with enough platinum to sink a ship by weight alone. The adamantine hull will be impenetrable even by the dragons' claws, and it can also deflect spells with ease. The cannons are fitted to load mundane rounds, but can also drain the colossus' core to fire without ammo. Speaking of the lightning core, this thing'll be bigger than a carriage. We'd need a team of arcanists just to recharge it every day, and we'll need to wait for a thunderstorm to have enough energy to activate it.
Deep in the Anten mountains, you may find something wholly unique. The Stormeater Colossus, a mighty construct that stands hundreds of feet tall, claims the mountains as its home. To feed its lightning core it hunts thunderstorms, devouring clouds and leaving clear skies and heavy fog.
Named Royal Ascendant, the Stormeater Colossus was intended as a weapon of war by Alqara Fari, the land that is now Farihuf. Forged in Duskliff, its adamantine body was brought to the Dreambound City and given life and thought.
However, it rejected its creator's will and swore only to fight in defence. It left to dwell in the mountains, where it would speak gladly with any who find it. Now, the journey is a pilgrimage often made by artists and philosophers to speak with Royal Ascendant, for it has learned much in the years it has been alive.
It was a seemingly simple experiment: make an enchantment that would emulate the mechanism by which arcanists cast spells. Instead, they created a void. The blade drank of their life greedily, never satiated by what it took. Its wielder could leech some of the energy it stole from others, but when alone it did not hesitate to kill whoever held it.
Leroy could barely stand. Just holding this cursed sword left him breathless, slumped against a wall as the enemy closed in. It took everything he had to push off the wall, take a step forward and swing at the closest cultist.
They stepped out of the way of the pitiful attack, but thin crimson tendrils leapt from the blade and skewered them. There was a pulse, and suddenly Leroy felt strong. As the first cultist collapsed, Leroy pushed forward, growing bolder and more powerful with every slain foe. Those who dodged away were transfixed by tendrils of blood, and shields and armour alike were rent apart by supernatural strength.
