"The Blizzard be strong outside, lads; settle yehself in and breathe the steam; we'll pass the time with a story."
An ancient shrine of a mischievous goddess. The proper offering will give you her blessing, but 'ware you don't feed her wrong!
A well-loved and somewhat crudely hand-crafted tribal drum owned by the Tribal Half-Orc, Somnak. It is said that Somnak possessed the ability to call upon the spirit of any creature whose skin was pulled over the drum to aid him and his allies in battle, as well as curse his foes.
Six white tomes, Encased in bone.
They shine in light like polished stone.
Trapped deep inside, fel beasts reside.
Dark power; to the holder, the books provide.
In lakes, submersed, and tombs accursed.
Across the land they are disbursed.
Once upon a time this sword may have been a sight to behold, but no more. Rust and decay now tarnish the metal of this forgotten relic, and those who stumble upon it are more likely to toss it than use it.
An unassuming sewing needle, five to six inches long. Certainly nothing out of the ordinary.
The words which lie herein are a documentary of the Ouzala - the Weapon of the Ouzquin Dremorix - And the enchantments of Axtrami.
An object out of a children’s tale, few regard the Key of the Gods as a real object. But those who hunt for it may be in for more than they bargained for.
Originally a failed invention, the usefulness of Nurin beads have since been redifined for a more nefarious purpose. Those who know of the usefulness of these gems are able to get whatever they want from their most hated enemy, and incriminate them just hours later.
Few in the history of the world have mastered creation of the aspect stones - certainly there is no mortal alive today that could craft one. Few even know of such an items existence. It is said, however, that all legends are derived from truths, and the Aspect stones may be the fact behind many great myths.
An innocent square of delicate material - barely larger than a handkerchief in size. However, those who’s skin come into contact with this cloth, may find themselves wishing they never handled it.
A small trinket, unseen for centuries. It could be found anywhere: Perhaps lying with another cache of coins in an abandoned monestary. Perhaps behind a glass casing of a coin collectors display. But those who know what this coin represents may be inclined to flip it during times of oppression. Doing so may become their salvation, or the instrument of their demise. So toss the coin if there is nothing to lose, and see if you have The Devils Luck.
A christmas gift to my fellow citadelians, made in my favourite medium. Of course, you all know what my gifts are like. But hey, Christmas is a time of giving!
The lost Topaz of Anamis, the famous explorer, who disappeared on a foolhardy expedition.
(Author: I made myself sit down and write this :P I missed posting items :( )
A dagger which never kills directly certainly seems useless. But there are more ways to kill a person than to stab them.
A simple, almost clear potion with a misty swirl within it. Pungeant smelling and extremely poisonous to drink. Its purpose isn’t to drink, however, but to call upon aid.
Ever had that oh-so-annoying companion, that just wouldnt shut up? Here is the perfect remedy.
In the center of the great library, seated on a plain pedastal of twisted iron, sits a Grey crystal ball, 30 centimetres in diameter and with a misty interior to it. It is to this ball, that people go to find the whereabouts of books in the library, but the orb is much more complex than its simple task, though few may be aware of it.
A fluffy, pink stuffed bear which always seems to end up in unlikely places, and which people tend to get quite attatched to…
AutoMedon – A mechanical poet of renown not for his vast catalog of poetry, but for his complete lack of anything written or spoken, having had no output in his programmed profession. His creator is unknown or at least unaccredited, and there are those in great number in the artistic world who wonder and marvel at his inability to produce poetry, crediting that flaw to his creator who is unknown or at least un-credited. There is also a small faction of scholars who believe that when he finally, finally speaks, it will be the most beautiful or sorrowful verse ever spoke or will ever be spoken. Whether his creator is among either group or dead is unknown. AutoMedon sits alone under a tin roofed enclosure, upon a stone chair, with his gaze off in the distant as if thinking.
“It’s strange to look at this mechanical man and think what thoughts are working through its’ workings or even if the damn thing is” – Aralis of Qurim, poet and pottery salesman