The Hundred Stories of Aisha al Jaziri

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TheFox
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The Hundred Stories of Aisha al Jaziri

Post by TheFox » Thu Nov 04, 2021 7:16 am

Hidden within the endless sea between the first breath of man and the last gasp of the djinni, further west beyond even the tumultuous Moonshae Islands, rests a little island where a hundred, hundred worlds have met and where many more may meet. A nexus of portals and of people, the littlest land secrets stories of weal and woe, both fair and foul, though it does not carry so storied a history as fair Calimshan, may peace forever reign within her.

Here is a place consumed by every human foible, greed and lust, justice and honor, sorrow and the depths of darkness standing beside the most uniquely shining lights. Here cavorts Drow and Dragon, paladin and blackguard, elves and dwarves - fighting, wheedling, pontificating, but most of all vying one with another for control of this strange and magical island.

Here are some of these little tales as I have seen or heard them, embellished here or there and sometimes even tamed for ink to better bear. Many of these things defy belief, even to an erudite Arcanist, after all.

But who am I to write so?

Your author is Aisha al Jaziri, daughter of Mirai al Hasan, wind-kissed and wild and free enough to speak and write as she pleases and go where she pleases. This book too is as she pleases for her memory is the parchment lest she forget these things forever.

Spirited upon a breeze as old as magic ever was, or humans ever will be, and for the honored memory of fair Teshyll burned and gone but ever alive in song and story, ride now with me the full way through - to Arelith, upon the Trackless Sea.

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TheFox
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Re: The Hundred Stories of Aisha al Jaziri

Post by TheFox » Sat Nov 13, 2021 7:31 am

Abaddon

On the northern side of this island, southeast of the venerable dwarven city of Brogendenstine, a series of waterfalls feed into a lake called the Nexus. Beneath the glittering cascade, beautiful in the daylight, the twilight, or in the deepest of evenings, rests a memorial to a duegar hidden in a waterfall cave.

This story was related to me but recently, by a dwarf who holds a high position within the Kuldarn, the company of dwarves which guard the city, and its surrounding history - themselves much-storied in many ways. The dates are not known to me. Nor are the names of many of the participants within this sad story. Nor do I know how to read denthic, the language of dwarves, to read the inscriptions within this little shrine for me. I must be content this time to touch the carvings and listen to the story so that I can tell it to you, my dear mother. I think it might be the sort of thing you would like.

The dwarves can be dour people. A quick perusal of their library has shown me how deep the grudges and old insults cut them as a people so that their collective memories are long and exacting. Sometimes, I think, they can be intensely bitter as well. But they remember and recognize the deeds and works of the honorable, the just, or the particularly self-sacrificing in that same stoical way.

The fate of Abbadon the duegar, doomed paladin, is one such peculiar story.

It seems that one night some time ago, the elders of Brogendenstine received a young duegar come from the Underdark. He claimed to be a paladin of Clangeddin Silverbeard, the Lord of Twin axes. Abbadon perplexed them - Clangeddin is a God of vengeance, war, and battle that turns his blades upon the denizens below and all enemies of dwarven kind. Perhaps a good analogy would be an elf who worships the queen of spiders - a Drow venerating Corellon, god of elves - or for a gnoll to venerate Tyr. Although these gods may, in their way, acknowledge the worship of any individual, the creatures themselves are anathema to the worship.

So, too, was Abbadon incomparable with the followers and the worship of the very god that had called him forth.

But he had not come to the surface to posture or to postulate. Upon hearing this, I am told that he had asked to die.

Having committed no observable crime save his birth, however, the dwarves of Brogendenstine received this request with consternation. Though they did not believe his claims of divine selection, neither could they slay such a person without cause. Therefore, for a little while, Abbadon was permitted to roam. They tell me he wandered as far south as Cordor on the southern shore, and perhaps his adventures on the surface might extend further than the context of this story allows - and should I find this so, I will publish additions.

It is the manner of his death that endears him to his friends and colleagues.

A mural engraved upon the stone depicts him with axes and mail, the banner of his god behind him - faced against his people, and others of the local dark. In the end, angry, bitter and despising himself as much as he hated the evil of his race, he chose to return there and there meet his lot.

He got his wish.

So it is said and written that though he was born a duegar, that he died a dwarf - and prayer is graven here, before me, in the living stone and lit by glowing crystals, to say that though Abbadon lived an exile he died a paladin as fine as any that had walked the halls before him.

This, though sad, is the sort of story rarely heard in either the realm above or below. What must it be like to be called by a god but not allowed his worship?

Then again, I wonder if this stone in front of me might not have been a part of that selfsame calling. I am told that though the Lord of Twin Axes is both unyielding and full of vengeance, that he is still not without a beating heart.
Currently Playing: Aisha al Jaziri yr Mirai

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