Post by Delisha Zrazorian on Oct 8, 2009 10:10:45 GMT -5
Greetings, Ye Who Wield the Power…
I have a couple of suggestions / ideas…
I played on this another PW *blasphemy!*
just once ; )
Two things I really liked that made you feel special, like you belonged…
First, I liked the ability to customize your armor/cloak/helm appearance free of charge…
It actually changes nothing in game play… only how you look… this allows for some really cool uniqueness in appearance… without spending my hard earned cash that I desperately need to buy healing potions and raised dead scrolls!
I feel a unique appearance enhances immersion and creates a one of a kind IC identity that others can easily recognize and respond to.
Second, winning that custom item in the adventure last Sat has saved me more than once... and reminded me this…
Custom item:
Each player (not PC) is allowed to earn one custom item.
First, the player must write and submit a detailed story as to what the item is and how they came to possess it. The story be well thought out and well written explaining how, why, where, and when they acquired the item.
Item requests are not a right; they are a privilege and requests would only be granted to people who put in legitimate effort to earn their custom item. Also, firm guidelines must be followed when requesting an item…
For example… here are the guidelines used by another PW who offers customized items…
· +4 is the ceiling of power for our equipment. This includes AC, Attack Bonus, saves, and Enhancement. Anything +5 will be denied immediately. It's out of the server's power range.
· Damage should not exceed 1d10, in most cases. This is negotiable to a certain degree. Bear in mind that the type of damage also determines this, as not all damage can be resisted as easily as each other. As a general rule, the usefulness of damage type goes from least powerful to most powerful - fire, cold, negative, electric, sonic, acid, positive, magic. Divine damage won't be granted in most cases!
· Skills are a slightly different case than the +4 rule. They can range up higher, to +7 at the very most.
· Absolutely no Haste. Haste will not be on any equipment in WSI, ever. The exception to this are items which cast Haste a certain amount of times per day.
· OnHit spells (e.g. on hit Fireball) are frowned upon and will not usually be granted. OnHit properties are a very different thing and are acceptable, except for OnHit Slay.
· Vorpal, Slay and any other instant death abilities will not be granted.
· No immunities. For example: elemental, physical, or more in general, such as Freedom. Specific spell immunities are an exception to this, but are still heavily restricted. An immunity to Fireball would be allowed with the right RP reasons, but an immunity to Wail of the Banshee would not.
· Damage resistances or damage soak must not exceed 5/- or 5/+1. Additionally, damage resistances of divine, positive or magic will not be accepted.
· No bonus feats.
· No True Seeing.
· Regeneration should not exceed +1 in most cases, and at the very most, +2.
Here is an example story I wrote to get a custom guitar…
Item Creation
NWN - forum login / Character name
Delisha Zrazorian
Item type and stats.
Guitar
Cast Spell – Bane (5) once per day
Cast Spell – Fear (5) once per day
Cast Spell – Darkness (3) once per day
Cast Spell – Confusion (5) once per day
Cast Spell – Doom (5) once per day
Item Name:
Solomon’s Sorrow
Item Description:
A magical golden guitar with blood red strings.
Reason for Item:
To give poor, little Delisha a better chance at survival.
A Wishing Well
Delisha slipped silently from her room, taking extra care not to awaken the crazy boy Zack. Once outside the Challenger's Inn, she moved quickly through the shadowed streets, then out the northern city gates, into the bright moonlit night.
She needed some time alone, some time to think.
Lost in thought, the young bard happened upon an old, crumbling well; Delisha paused for a moment, leaning up against the ancient bricks and took out her lyre.
Soon her strong, nimble fingers were twisting and bending her lyre strings making them cry out in mournful, harmonic discord. Lost in the soulful agony of her baleful ballad, Delisha’s deep, melancholic voice filled the night with a sad and haunting melody of treachery and betrayal.
Launching into her lyre solo, she tortured the taunt-strung catguts forcing them to moan and wail to her will!
SNAP! SNAP! SPRANG! SPRANG! CRACK!
“Noooooo… Nooooooo”, Delisha whispered in disbelief. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, splashing into the ancient waters below.
“No fixing the old lyre this time, it was broken beyond repair”.
Sobbing an inaudible wish under her breath, Delisha let the broken instrument fall from her trembling hands down into the darkness. Splash!
With sad sigh, the young bard left the old well and returned to Raven’s Bluff.
Throughout the following day, Delisha canvassed all the local merchants and shops in and around the city looking for a used lyre to replace her broken one, but with no success. Just before dusk, however, she overheard some travelers talking about a new merchant who had just arrived in the area; his camp was east of the City, somewhere on the the road to Alvar.
Several hours later Zack and Delisha arrived at their destination.
Entering the shadows just outside the campfire’s flickering light, Zack suddenly smiled wide, leaned up against an old Maple tree and closed his eyes as if the bard were singing to him. He seemed completely contented.
“Probably better if you stay here, anyway”, Delisha thought to herself, and walked out into the firelight.
“I’m looking for a good used lyre”, Delisha stated flatly, seeing no reason for formalities.
“Well you’ve come to the right place, honey”, the short, pock-faced merchant leered, “I’s got just what ya need.”
Rummaging through his wagon, the greasy-haired trader quickly produced a used lyre much like the one Delisha had broken and pitched down the old well.
“Give it try, sweetie”, the trader grinned, showing off rotten yellow teeth. His beady little eyes glistening like a rat in the firelight.
“Nothing special about this old lyre”, Delisha quickly concluded, “but the instrument was well made”.
“How much?” The young bard questioned, thinking that 25 gold pieces would be a fair price, he’d probably ask twice that.
Scratching his dirty beard, the merchant paused for a long moment and then replied “special price, just for you darling, only 100 gold pieces".
Delisha’s eyes went wide in disbelief, “100 gold pieces? That old lyre’s not worth half that, and you know it!”
“Take it or leave it”, the scruffy trader growled back.
“I’ll have to leave it then”, Delisha said bluntly, standing to go.
“Now… now… just wait a minute”, the lusty merchant half-whispered, “Perhaps we could work out some kind of trade?”
Licking his cracked lips, the sleazy trader moved close to the young bard.
“You ain’t nothin’ but skin and bones”, the smelly little man drooled, running a rough, stubby finger down the bard’s left cheekbone, “but still, the nights do get cold in these parts…”
Delisha stiffened, setting her resolve. She’d given herself for less than this.
When they first arrived, Zack had been completely mesmerized the morbid, subliminal harmonics emanating from the traders tent, but awakened from his light trance when Delisha began playing the lyre. Now, the crazy boy stood just outside the firelight watching the situation unfold, a confused look on his face, as if he were trying to solve some complex puzzle. When the grubby little man touched Delisha’s cheek, his puzzled look changed to a wide smile. Immediately, Zack strode out into the firelight, his insane laughter shattering the quiet night. Spinning around in fear, the chubby merchant reached clumsily for the dagger at his belt. Laughing louder still, Zack stepped forward and plunged his dark blade through the lecherous trader’s heart.
Mouth hanging open in total surprise, Delisha blinked several times trying to comprehend what had just happened. The young bard stood in motionless stunned silence, while the blonde boy entered the dead traders tent.
Zack returned with a black, leather guitar case and dropping to one knee, the Blackguard offered up his prize.
Opening the leather case reveled a magnificent golden guitar, strung with blood red strings. Delisha’s eyes opened wide in shock and disbelief.
She’d heard the ballad of Solomon’s Sorrow, but before now she always believed it to be a myth.
Solomon's Sorrow
Bartholomew Solomon was a happy man; the robust, foot-tapping, delightful melodies, that were the bard’s trademark, reflected the joyful soul of Bartholomew Solomon. The Royal Bard was Bartholomew, appointed by the King himself after one dazzling performance seven years, hence. The Lords and Ladies of the court adored Bartholomew and his happy music. At home his beautiful adoring wife, Rachel and their lovely, newborn daughter, Kristina, completed his perfect contented life.
Although his skills were second to few, Bartholomew would be the first to admit that much his success was due to his Golden Guitar, and he always gave thanks to his Great grandfather who had commissioned the magical instrument. Intricately carved and crafted from the ancient hipbone of a long-dead golden dragon, the guitar was finely strung with enchanted golden strings producing wonderful joyous tones and delightful harmonics that were second to none. Indeed, Bartholomew Solomon was a happy man.
Marot Ja’Rocky was not a happy man. Enraged by years of defeat at the hands of Solomon, and obsessed with insatiable desire to have the Golden Guitar for his own, the disgruntled JaRocky hired a Hedge Mage to help him steal the magical instrument from the Royal Bard.
The evil little Mage summoned a Quasit from the Plane of Pandemonium, and then opened a portal from Ja’Rocky’s living room to the Solomon wine cellar.
Instructions given to the Quasit were very explicit: become invisible, sneak around the Solomon mansion until you find the magical guitar, steal it and return through the portal, nothing more!
One small problem existed, however, for unbeknownst to both Ja’Rocky and the Hedge Mage, Bartholomew and his magical guitar were not at home. The Royal Bard was at a homecoming party for his best friend Jordan de’Chronde, a few houses down the road from the Solomon estate. Jordan de’Chronde, his intense magical schooling finally finished, returned home with the impressive rank of High Wizard.
The little Quasit, Scragg, followed his orders precisely, quickly searching every inch of the large estate, but upon not finding the prize he sought, the little demon became confused, what was he to do? Returning empty-handed would bring pain from the wizard who summoned him; the little demon knew that for sure, so he would have to wait. Scragg hoped he didn’t have to too long; he was getting hungry.
By the time the homecoming party was breaking up, a dark, blood-red moon was high in the sky. Jordan offered to escort Bartholomew home and the semi-sober bard gladly accepted. Reminiscing about times gone past, and reflecting upon what the future might hold, the two friends walked leisurely enjoying the warm night air.
“I’m hungry” Jordan announced as they reached their destination, “I never did have dinner”
Scragg found his dinner about a half an hour before the bard arrived home, and was nearly finished when the human woman walked in on him screaming in horror. Her face a mask of utter repulsion, the woman suddenly stumbled and pitched forward, her heart bursting before she hit the nursery floor.
The agonizing scream of terror battered Bartholomew as he opened his front door. Instantly sober, the two friends bolted up the stairs toward the origin of the dreadful shriek.
Heavy footsteps alerted the little Quasit of the returning bard and his companion. Turning invisible, Scragg jumped nimbly from the child’s bloody crib and hid silently behind the nursery’s open door.
Howling in agony, Bartholomew rushed to his wife’s fallen body. He kneeled briefly by his beloved Rachel before springing up and rushing toward the crib. The bloody sight that filled his tear-filled eyes crushed the bard’s immortal soul!
Sorrow gushed through Bartholomew’s veins like a dark, deadly poison. His heartbreaking wails of despair reverberated throughout the mansion and out into the darkness.
Like a man in a trance, Bartholomew rose slowly to his feet. Tears tumbling down his cheeks the heartbroken bard picked up his wife’s lifeless body and placed it gently on top the bloody crib. Grabbing a near-by torch from the wall, he lit the funeral pyre. Jordan made no move to stop his friend; the stone floor and walls would contain the blaze.
When the searing flames reached their peak, Scragg made his move to escape. The Quasit quickly slipped from behind the door toward freedom, but Jordan’s powerful magic found and caged Scragg before he’d moved two feet.
“Here is the murderer”, Jordan hissed, tightening the magical bonds that held the struggling little demon.
Scragg screamed out in terror!
Wiping the tears from his eyes, Bartholomew turned and stared at the Quasit, an almost quizzical look on his face.
“Why?” “Why?” The hapless bard questioned, slowing approaching the tiny fiend.
“No hurt Scragg”, the little demon pleaded, “Scragg get guitar for Master, but Scragg no can find, so Scragg wait, but Scragg get hungry”…
“MY GUITAR!” Bartholomew screamed out in unmitigated agony, “You killed my family for my guitar?!”
Eyes wild, the Royal Bard ripped the magical strings from his Golden Guitar and pitched them unceremoniously onto the burning pyre. Holding the ancient dragon bone high above his head, Bartholomew screamed to the heavens!
“That I may play the sorrow that fills my soul, we will string this guitar with live demon gut!”
The little Quasit blanched white.
Moving downstairs to the kitchen, Jordan staked little Scragg spread-eagled to the oaken chopping block, a magical “nail” in each hand and foot.
Scragg screamed out in agonizing pain.
One quick slash of the knife opened up the little demons belly exposing his immortal entrails, thus the grisly process began.
Throughout the long night, a hideous wail of untold suffering echoed throughout the smoke-filled mansion.
The task finally completed, Jordan placed the little Quasit back in his magical cage and carried him down stairs into the wine cellar. .
“Ah, you entered through that”, Jordan stated flatly, tossing the screaming demon back into the glimmering portal.
“Bamorfasol”, the High Wizard thundered! A blazing ball of magical fire leapt from Jordan’s fingertips following the little Quasit into the portal like a burning sun of destruction. Death screams echoing from the portals other end confirmed his spells success!
Much to his dismay, however, when Jordan returned from the wine cellar, his dear, brokenhearted friend Bartholomew Solomon and his Guitar of Sorrow were gone.
For the next several decades, rumors floated down from the high mountains of a lonely bard, playing sad haunting melodies, but the reports were never confirmed.
Centuries passed and the Golden Guitar with its moaning blood-red strings of sorrow was all but forgotten… until now.
The blonde boy smiled one of his wild, crazy smiles, stepped over the dead trader’s body and lay down at Delisha’s feet.
“She who owns my soul, sing for Zack”.
-----------------------------------------------
The DM could also require the player to participate in several DM sponsored events in order to qualify for a custom item… or whatever ; )
Just a couple thoughts that passed through my head while sneaking back into Minotaur Forest to raise Zack … again!
At your service,
DZ
I have a couple of suggestions / ideas…
I played on this another PW *blasphemy!*
just once ; )
Two things I really liked that made you feel special, like you belonged…
First, I liked the ability to customize your armor/cloak/helm appearance free of charge…
It actually changes nothing in game play… only how you look… this allows for some really cool uniqueness in appearance… without spending my hard earned cash that I desperately need to buy healing potions and raised dead scrolls!
I feel a unique appearance enhances immersion and creates a one of a kind IC identity that others can easily recognize and respond to.
Second, winning that custom item in the adventure last Sat has saved me more than once... and reminded me this…
Custom item:
Each player (not PC) is allowed to earn one custom item.
First, the player must write and submit a detailed story as to what the item is and how they came to possess it. The story be well thought out and well written explaining how, why, where, and when they acquired the item.
Item requests are not a right; they are a privilege and requests would only be granted to people who put in legitimate effort to earn their custom item. Also, firm guidelines must be followed when requesting an item…
For example… here are the guidelines used by another PW who offers customized items…
· +4 is the ceiling of power for our equipment. This includes AC, Attack Bonus, saves, and Enhancement. Anything +5 will be denied immediately. It's out of the server's power range.
· Damage should not exceed 1d10, in most cases. This is negotiable to a certain degree. Bear in mind that the type of damage also determines this, as not all damage can be resisted as easily as each other. As a general rule, the usefulness of damage type goes from least powerful to most powerful - fire, cold, negative, electric, sonic, acid, positive, magic. Divine damage won't be granted in most cases!
· Skills are a slightly different case than the +4 rule. They can range up higher, to +7 at the very most.
· Absolutely no Haste. Haste will not be on any equipment in WSI, ever. The exception to this are items which cast Haste a certain amount of times per day.
· OnHit spells (e.g. on hit Fireball) are frowned upon and will not usually be granted. OnHit properties are a very different thing and are acceptable, except for OnHit Slay.
· Vorpal, Slay and any other instant death abilities will not be granted.
· No immunities. For example: elemental, physical, or more in general, such as Freedom. Specific spell immunities are an exception to this, but are still heavily restricted. An immunity to Fireball would be allowed with the right RP reasons, but an immunity to Wail of the Banshee would not.
· Damage resistances or damage soak must not exceed 5/- or 5/+1. Additionally, damage resistances of divine, positive or magic will not be accepted.
· No bonus feats.
· No True Seeing.
· Regeneration should not exceed +1 in most cases, and at the very most, +2.
Here is an example story I wrote to get a custom guitar…
Item Creation
NWN - forum login / Character name
Delisha Zrazorian
Item type and stats.
Guitar
Cast Spell – Bane (5) once per day
Cast Spell – Fear (5) once per day
Cast Spell – Darkness (3) once per day
Cast Spell – Confusion (5) once per day
Cast Spell – Doom (5) once per day
Item Name:
Solomon’s Sorrow
Item Description:
A magical golden guitar with blood red strings.
Reason for Item:
To give poor, little Delisha a better chance at survival.
A Wishing Well
Delisha slipped silently from her room, taking extra care not to awaken the crazy boy Zack. Once outside the Challenger's Inn, she moved quickly through the shadowed streets, then out the northern city gates, into the bright moonlit night.
She needed some time alone, some time to think.
Lost in thought, the young bard happened upon an old, crumbling well; Delisha paused for a moment, leaning up against the ancient bricks and took out her lyre.
Soon her strong, nimble fingers were twisting and bending her lyre strings making them cry out in mournful, harmonic discord. Lost in the soulful agony of her baleful ballad, Delisha’s deep, melancholic voice filled the night with a sad and haunting melody of treachery and betrayal.
Launching into her lyre solo, she tortured the taunt-strung catguts forcing them to moan and wail to her will!
SNAP! SNAP! SPRANG! SPRANG! CRACK!
“Noooooo… Nooooooo”, Delisha whispered in disbelief. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, splashing into the ancient waters below.
“No fixing the old lyre this time, it was broken beyond repair”.
Sobbing an inaudible wish under her breath, Delisha let the broken instrument fall from her trembling hands down into the darkness. Splash!
With sad sigh, the young bard left the old well and returned to Raven’s Bluff.
Throughout the following day, Delisha canvassed all the local merchants and shops in and around the city looking for a used lyre to replace her broken one, but with no success. Just before dusk, however, she overheard some travelers talking about a new merchant who had just arrived in the area; his camp was east of the City, somewhere on the the road to Alvar.
Several hours later Zack and Delisha arrived at their destination.
Entering the shadows just outside the campfire’s flickering light, Zack suddenly smiled wide, leaned up against an old Maple tree and closed his eyes as if the bard were singing to him. He seemed completely contented.
“Probably better if you stay here, anyway”, Delisha thought to herself, and walked out into the firelight.
“I’m looking for a good used lyre”, Delisha stated flatly, seeing no reason for formalities.
“Well you’ve come to the right place, honey”, the short, pock-faced merchant leered, “I’s got just what ya need.”
Rummaging through his wagon, the greasy-haired trader quickly produced a used lyre much like the one Delisha had broken and pitched down the old well.
“Give it try, sweetie”, the trader grinned, showing off rotten yellow teeth. His beady little eyes glistening like a rat in the firelight.
“Nothing special about this old lyre”, Delisha quickly concluded, “but the instrument was well made”.
“How much?” The young bard questioned, thinking that 25 gold pieces would be a fair price, he’d probably ask twice that.
Scratching his dirty beard, the merchant paused for a long moment and then replied “special price, just for you darling, only 100 gold pieces".
Delisha’s eyes went wide in disbelief, “100 gold pieces? That old lyre’s not worth half that, and you know it!”
“Take it or leave it”, the scruffy trader growled back.
“I’ll have to leave it then”, Delisha said bluntly, standing to go.
“Now… now… just wait a minute”, the lusty merchant half-whispered, “Perhaps we could work out some kind of trade?”
Licking his cracked lips, the sleazy trader moved close to the young bard.
“You ain’t nothin’ but skin and bones”, the smelly little man drooled, running a rough, stubby finger down the bard’s left cheekbone, “but still, the nights do get cold in these parts…”
Delisha stiffened, setting her resolve. She’d given herself for less than this.
When they first arrived, Zack had been completely mesmerized the morbid, subliminal harmonics emanating from the traders tent, but awakened from his light trance when Delisha began playing the lyre. Now, the crazy boy stood just outside the firelight watching the situation unfold, a confused look on his face, as if he were trying to solve some complex puzzle. When the grubby little man touched Delisha’s cheek, his puzzled look changed to a wide smile. Immediately, Zack strode out into the firelight, his insane laughter shattering the quiet night. Spinning around in fear, the chubby merchant reached clumsily for the dagger at his belt. Laughing louder still, Zack stepped forward and plunged his dark blade through the lecherous trader’s heart.
Mouth hanging open in total surprise, Delisha blinked several times trying to comprehend what had just happened. The young bard stood in motionless stunned silence, while the blonde boy entered the dead traders tent.
Zack returned with a black, leather guitar case and dropping to one knee, the Blackguard offered up his prize.
Opening the leather case reveled a magnificent golden guitar, strung with blood red strings. Delisha’s eyes opened wide in shock and disbelief.
She’d heard the ballad of Solomon’s Sorrow, but before now she always believed it to be a myth.
Solomon's Sorrow
Bartholomew Solomon was a happy man; the robust, foot-tapping, delightful melodies, that were the bard’s trademark, reflected the joyful soul of Bartholomew Solomon. The Royal Bard was Bartholomew, appointed by the King himself after one dazzling performance seven years, hence. The Lords and Ladies of the court adored Bartholomew and his happy music. At home his beautiful adoring wife, Rachel and their lovely, newborn daughter, Kristina, completed his perfect contented life.
Although his skills were second to few, Bartholomew would be the first to admit that much his success was due to his Golden Guitar, and he always gave thanks to his Great grandfather who had commissioned the magical instrument. Intricately carved and crafted from the ancient hipbone of a long-dead golden dragon, the guitar was finely strung with enchanted golden strings producing wonderful joyous tones and delightful harmonics that were second to none. Indeed, Bartholomew Solomon was a happy man.
Marot Ja’Rocky was not a happy man. Enraged by years of defeat at the hands of Solomon, and obsessed with insatiable desire to have the Golden Guitar for his own, the disgruntled JaRocky hired a Hedge Mage to help him steal the magical instrument from the Royal Bard.
The evil little Mage summoned a Quasit from the Plane of Pandemonium, and then opened a portal from Ja’Rocky’s living room to the Solomon wine cellar.
Instructions given to the Quasit were very explicit: become invisible, sneak around the Solomon mansion until you find the magical guitar, steal it and return through the portal, nothing more!
One small problem existed, however, for unbeknownst to both Ja’Rocky and the Hedge Mage, Bartholomew and his magical guitar were not at home. The Royal Bard was at a homecoming party for his best friend Jordan de’Chronde, a few houses down the road from the Solomon estate. Jordan de’Chronde, his intense magical schooling finally finished, returned home with the impressive rank of High Wizard.
The little Quasit, Scragg, followed his orders precisely, quickly searching every inch of the large estate, but upon not finding the prize he sought, the little demon became confused, what was he to do? Returning empty-handed would bring pain from the wizard who summoned him; the little demon knew that for sure, so he would have to wait. Scragg hoped he didn’t have to too long; he was getting hungry.
By the time the homecoming party was breaking up, a dark, blood-red moon was high in the sky. Jordan offered to escort Bartholomew home and the semi-sober bard gladly accepted. Reminiscing about times gone past, and reflecting upon what the future might hold, the two friends walked leisurely enjoying the warm night air.
“I’m hungry” Jordan announced as they reached their destination, “I never did have dinner”
Scragg found his dinner about a half an hour before the bard arrived home, and was nearly finished when the human woman walked in on him screaming in horror. Her face a mask of utter repulsion, the woman suddenly stumbled and pitched forward, her heart bursting before she hit the nursery floor.
The agonizing scream of terror battered Bartholomew as he opened his front door. Instantly sober, the two friends bolted up the stairs toward the origin of the dreadful shriek.
Heavy footsteps alerted the little Quasit of the returning bard and his companion. Turning invisible, Scragg jumped nimbly from the child’s bloody crib and hid silently behind the nursery’s open door.
Howling in agony, Bartholomew rushed to his wife’s fallen body. He kneeled briefly by his beloved Rachel before springing up and rushing toward the crib. The bloody sight that filled his tear-filled eyes crushed the bard’s immortal soul!
Sorrow gushed through Bartholomew’s veins like a dark, deadly poison. His heartbreaking wails of despair reverberated throughout the mansion and out into the darkness.
Like a man in a trance, Bartholomew rose slowly to his feet. Tears tumbling down his cheeks the heartbroken bard picked up his wife’s lifeless body and placed it gently on top the bloody crib. Grabbing a near-by torch from the wall, he lit the funeral pyre. Jordan made no move to stop his friend; the stone floor and walls would contain the blaze.
When the searing flames reached their peak, Scragg made his move to escape. The Quasit quickly slipped from behind the door toward freedom, but Jordan’s powerful magic found and caged Scragg before he’d moved two feet.
“Here is the murderer”, Jordan hissed, tightening the magical bonds that held the struggling little demon.
Scragg screamed out in terror!
Wiping the tears from his eyes, Bartholomew turned and stared at the Quasit, an almost quizzical look on his face.
“Why?” “Why?” The hapless bard questioned, slowing approaching the tiny fiend.
“No hurt Scragg”, the little demon pleaded, “Scragg get guitar for Master, but Scragg no can find, so Scragg wait, but Scragg get hungry”…
“MY GUITAR!” Bartholomew screamed out in unmitigated agony, “You killed my family for my guitar?!”
Eyes wild, the Royal Bard ripped the magical strings from his Golden Guitar and pitched them unceremoniously onto the burning pyre. Holding the ancient dragon bone high above his head, Bartholomew screamed to the heavens!
“That I may play the sorrow that fills my soul, we will string this guitar with live demon gut!”
The little Quasit blanched white.
Moving downstairs to the kitchen, Jordan staked little Scragg spread-eagled to the oaken chopping block, a magical “nail” in each hand and foot.
Scragg screamed out in agonizing pain.
One quick slash of the knife opened up the little demons belly exposing his immortal entrails, thus the grisly process began.
Throughout the long night, a hideous wail of untold suffering echoed throughout the smoke-filled mansion.
The task finally completed, Jordan placed the little Quasit back in his magical cage and carried him down stairs into the wine cellar. .
“Ah, you entered through that”, Jordan stated flatly, tossing the screaming demon back into the glimmering portal.
“Bamorfasol”, the High Wizard thundered! A blazing ball of magical fire leapt from Jordan’s fingertips following the little Quasit into the portal like a burning sun of destruction. Death screams echoing from the portals other end confirmed his spells success!
Much to his dismay, however, when Jordan returned from the wine cellar, his dear, brokenhearted friend Bartholomew Solomon and his Guitar of Sorrow were gone.
For the next several decades, rumors floated down from the high mountains of a lonely bard, playing sad haunting melodies, but the reports were never confirmed.
Centuries passed and the Golden Guitar with its moaning blood-red strings of sorrow was all but forgotten… until now.
The blonde boy smiled one of his wild, crazy smiles, stepped over the dead trader’s body and lay down at Delisha’s feet.
“She who owns my soul, sing for Zack”.
-----------------------------------------------
The DM could also require the player to participate in several DM sponsored events in order to qualify for a custom item… or whatever ; )
Just a couple thoughts that passed through my head while sneaking back into Minotaur Forest to raise Zack … again!
At your service,
DZ