(055) Wildwood/The Ivory Wold

[ehiker133]

Double Des steps up to the elves and says, "Don't have but coin to wager, and not much of that, even... Unless you had sommit else in mind?"

[Olroda]

"Been a while since I used one of these", says Beringar and pats his new bow a few times. "...But I'm up for showing you Elves what a Man can do!"

[waysoftheearth]

"Ten pieces of tarnished silver is a drab wager for one so blessed with your measure of luck," tisk the Elves to Olaf. "We had in mind something more sporting--something more meaningful. What say you wager your luck? Or your boots? Or your hair?" several of the elves jest and titter at their own good humour--they are reasonably confident it seems.

Meanwhile several of the more practical sorts are happy to expound to Torben and Beringar the terms of their usual contest.

"We prize accurate shooting and mobility over the other bow crafts--the best of twenty shafts on the run through through yonder tree tops..." explains one of the way watchers, casually waving toward the precarious-looking suspension bridge running through the trees, above. Torben wonders whether it would even hold his weight at a run?

When some of the elves giggle at Torben's look of concern, a graceful but wary-eyed fellow steps forward and says, "But because we are good sports our guests shall name a test of bow craft on this occasion. And I, Gwínir, shall wager for the Wold this shirt of mail I wear!" The eight or so elves present (other than the Quartermaster--who is too old for such foolishness--and Gwínir--who is too wary) "Oohhh!" in delight and several several of them call for wine to be brought and song to be raised to accompany the sport. Gwínir allows himself a fickle grin as he grasps a gloveful of the tightly woven, glittering mail shirt beneath his great cloak--it looks so wondrously light and flexible you had hardly noticed he was weaving it. "In our tongue it is called mithril!" explains the Quartermaster gravely, "What have you to wager against it?"

[coffee]

"I have nothing to wager," Dieter says. "I'm here to practice." He glances up at the rope bridge, then shakes his head. "And I'm a ground rat, not a tree squirrel."

He strings his bow and nocks an arrow, looking for a suitable target (I assume they don't have the traditional human-style bullseye targets at the end of a straight boring range...)

Assuming nobody moves to stop him, he'll fire at his chosen target.

[ehiker133]

Desmond's eyes (indeed, Mondes' eyes, too) twinkle at the sight of the elven mail shirt.

"That's a pretty shirt," he says, "Might be a bit big for us to properly consider betting on, though. Olaf, wager some of your hair!" Desmond chuckles at the thought of a shaven Olaf in the shining shirt.

"I'm still up for a test of skill, though," he adds, eyeing the bridge.

[Eris]

"Ha!" Olaf laughs, "I don't mind being bald, at my age, hair will grow back, so if you win you shave my head and keep my hair...but you've got to give me a cloth cap to put between my noggin and my helm...and if I win I get that mail shirt."

"Now, what's the target?" Olaf asks then notices Dieter firing off his arrow, "Ah! That will do."

[danhem]

Meanwhile, Ulric and Josiane consider the workings of the crystal ball, and between them they eventually contrive to cause a lengthy "virtual scroll" of spurious runes to flow through the misty interior of the device (aka the man pages). Josiane recognises the runes as an ancestral form of the present day Empyrean symbols, and with much concentration is able to divine their general meaning. From there, it doesn't take long (mere hours) to master the basic use of the wondrous device!

As the unknown Empyrean symbols appear in the orb, Ulric casts The Effable Apperception so that he may know their meaning more fully.

[danhem]

With the secrets of the crystal ball unlocked, Ulric probes it's depths seeking to gain a view of Ket and the Sisters of Mercy.

[verhaden]

Torben

Torben fidgets and scratches his beard. 'Mithril? A kind wager, indeed. Though, I'm afraid that I do not possess anything so beautiful to offer in return.'

He reaches into his backpack and pulls forth the grotesque Hand of Naat and slides it onto his left hand, the sickly green leathered flesh gleaming in the daylight. 'With this glove, one may pass through solid mater on moonless nights.' He pauses. 'Or so I'm told.'

Torben continues. 'Normally, I would suggest a contest of roving marks, but I feel that a wand shoot would be more fair -- say at a distance of 60 yards? Your Quartermaster supplies the bows and arrows for the contest. Coin flip to determine right of first choice on the weapons selected.'

'Win, and you may destroy this abomination.' He clenches his fist for effect.

[ehiker133]

Torben

Torben fidgets and scratches his beard. 'Mithril? A kind wager, indeed. Though, I'm afraid that I do not possess anything so beautiful to offer in return.'

He reaches into his backpack and pulls forth the grotesque Hand of Naat and slides it onto his left hand, the sickly green leathered flesh gleaming in the daylight. 'With this glove, one may pass through solid mater on moonless nights.' He pauses. 'Or so I'm told.'

Torben continues. 'Normally, I would suggest a contest of roving marks, but I feel that a wand shoot would be more fair -- say at a distance of 60 yards? Your Quartermaster supplies the bows and arrows for the contest. Coin flip to determine right of first choice on the weapons selected.'

'Win, and you may destroy this abomination.' He clenches his fist for effect.

Desmond looks at Torben incredulously, wondering what kind of mischief he could cause with such an item in HIS possession and why someone would offer it up so readily...