Recent content by Rovan Ravenhill

Yes. Yes, the runes were coming together. The words of power were forming. "YES. YES, THE RUNES ARE COMING TOGETHER. THE WORDS OF POWER." Rovan could scarce tell the difference between his own thoughts and the elven words of the dragon any longer; stripped of any elven grace, of course...

Rovan nodded, one eye squinting slightly more than the other, assessing Lilette's state of mind. Resolve draped over her movement now. This would prove more useful, indeed. Self-consciousness came a moment after he had helped her up. It was strange to be holding hands with this grimly armoured...

Rovan's mouth twisted sideways. It seemed whatever mental machinations this ice queen played at had struck Lilette hard. It did give him pause that a tear of blood should fall though . . . perhaps she had suffered an injury to her brow, below her helmet? Nevermind. He offered her a hand up...

As Frazil engaged Dzievaya in a furious melee, the dwarves and Rovan stayed behind, flabbergasted. Some hefted their weapons, but hesitated to engage with this guardian; or the ice that seemed to morph and crack into spontaneous walls about her. Rovan, in turn, took a different tact. He knelt...

Rovan near felt like a halfling between the two behemoths, who were trading barbs rather than blows; for now. Well, he wasn't here to enter a bloodbath. And his scribe's intuition told him that there was more of a story to be reaped here. The tavern presented itself to them with the same modest...

There was something in Dzievaya's tone and the sacrificial shape of the bowl before the statue that threw Rovan into a dreadful unease. She kept dragging and lagging with her answers, as if reluctant to reach them. Her hand extended above the ice near the bowl. A part of the ice where a single...

An altogether different vision was plaguing Rovan. Instead of the venerable and graceful trees of Falwood, he found himself surrounded by the butchered woodwork and drab, rickety, mould-eaten timbers of Grayshore; carpets of mud rolling out for him. A sizeable crowd of commoners and craftsmen...

When had this apparition taken Rovan's place? When he had handed back the vial? When he had first begun his tale, intimating knowledge only few remembered, and still fewer could share with such flawless memory? Or perhaps, his replacement had arrived even further back. Perhaps it had been this...

Rovan gave the potion a whiff and his face puckered up at the suspicious tang of blood. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Down the hatch. The potion managed to instill some warmth through him, counteracting the chill in his breast. It tasted horribly, and he near coughed it up...

Rovan's eyes flicked to Arnor. His was one voice out of more forthcoming, he expected. If one spoke fire, more cinders would follow. Already a faint murmur among other like sellswords mirrored him, especially at the dead orcs part. He could smell a confrontation brewing. But if what Urzak said...

Azrakar . . . now where had he heard that name before? The name reverberated through him, but didn't quite find purchase in his memory. As a bit of a dilettante scholar, Rovan made a point of acquainting himself with as many significant names and figures as he could, past or present. But this...

"Well, what can I say? Not only orcs are privy to loss. Little sense in padding tragedy with more words." A note of strange, earnest soberness struck a chord in Rovan's voice, his eyes downcast and half-lidded. He reflected on his recent perils. Frazil leaving him in the heart of the Spine . ...

"It shouldn't be much, I'm certain I will--" Rovan took the hand, but grimaced as more pain assailed him. Icy pain, as if the internal cold gnawed at his heart. He gripped his chest and heaved air more raspily, his feet shuffling for purchase on the floor while Lilette pulled him up. He caught...

Rovan listened to the chilling tale of this unknown clan's last stand. Of Urzak's last stand, he was starting to figure. Perhaps he was the sole survivor of this ordeal? The orc shied away from mentioning any specifics or names; not even a named enemy of this clan. Why? Did he fear such...

Rovan blinked. By all the Gods above, Urzak was beginning to remind him of Safleure Dellada -- the dusty philosopher monk of the Allirian reach, infamous for his mysterious allusions. An orc pontificating on the nature of stories -- conjuring up a great nebulous mist of insinuations and cryptic...