Forum Event

The picture on the table is the picture of the Grandfather of the barbergirl. The parents of the girl died, and she lived in with her grandfather and they liked eachother a lot. Just before the war of Dustari v.s. Bakugun, the grandfather, who was forced to join the military, sended the girl to the main island, to Avalon, and he gave her the picture. Years passed after that, and the girl wasn't sure whether her grandfather was dead or alive. Eventually, she decided to set out to the Samurai island, and visit her old home. She saw it, and noticed it was burned down. North of it was a memorial graveyard, and on one of the stones was inscripted the name of her grandfather. The girl wept alot near the grave, then she decided to move on. But, she saw a little tree growing right behind her father's grave. She took the tree with her, put it in a little pot, and put it next to the picture of her grandfather of the table, the memorize him for ever.

The other letter came from someone formerly known as Shawn Kelfone, who set sail to a foreign land a while ago and brought back some... unpleasant stories to tell, one if which still haunting him. Here is what he had to say, and even though Cyrins story scored more, we will never know whether this isn't the truth, either:

As it were in ancient times, before the arrival of the five kingdoms to the Graal Archipelago, the islands were barely populated at all. Spread out sparsely across the isles were a few small tribes, but nothing that could be considered a civilization. One such tribe was located in the area which is now considered Tanarthia and Avalonia. This tribe focused their beliefs on the spirits of nature, and could have very well been early followers of the Goddess Brigid. Believing that nature would protect them, they planted such small trees around their area. Though proven in these modern times, where death by shell bomy is at an all time low, that trees offer no natural protection against evil, the belief has arisen again as a superstition. One such believer to this superstition is the hairdresser of Avalonia, who keeps a small tree on the counter in her shop reasoning that it cannot harm anything and also that it adds atmosphere to her otherwise plain shop.

Coalface sniggered to himself as he gently eased the round little slate of ice that tipped the igloo out of its space and into his hands. What kind of a moron kept valuables in an igloo? He tossed it into the night air, and watched it as the swift sheets of snow and the night devoured it. This is going to be a good night, i can tell he whispered, slipping down through the open hole with ease.
He landed softly on what felt like a carpet covering the frozen concrete floor, and looked about him. Well, he didn't really look about him so much as move his head around a bit, due to the fact that it was pitch black. From the recesses of his cloak came a match, which he lit, and -then- he looked around. He was in the middle of a shop. Ok, so he had the right Igloo, that was a good sign. Shelf upon shelf of large, multifaceted glimmering objects reflected the orange light of the match back at him and each other, and they inturn reflected the light once more at each other, and soon the whole room was illuminated rather well. If you slowed it down, it would have looked somewhat like a complex game of tennis, with light rays in place of a ball. These aught to be worth a few plats Coalface muttered to himself, walking over to one and picking it up. As he did so, an ear-piercing screech emerged from the crystal, and the others around it returned the call. He dropped it back onto the shelf and withdrew a kryss, expecting to have company fairly soon. If he knew that he wouldn't be around to recieve this company, he wouldn't have bothered drawing it.
The crystals began to glow an eerie blue, and his match blew out of its own accord. The shining things made patterns on the walls like you'd find at a swimming pool, but much faster. They hummed menacingly, and some even began to float in the air. Coalface turned to run just as they fired.
Searing hot beams of pure mana raced from each crystal, cocooning the man and lifting him from the ground, snatching the kryss from his hands and raising it above him. He found he could not move, or breathe, and began to panic. He managed to see below him the carpet disappearing, as if there were nothing below it. Sure enough, the floor soon disappeared, opening up to a void of blackness. He began a downward descent, and his life flashed before his eyes. If he could have moved, he would have tried to bat it out of the way so he could see what was happening to him...although it was probably best that he didnt see. Soon, he was inside and the floor began to close up behind him - not, however, behind the kryss. Just as it was passing down, the void disappeared completely and the concrete floor encompassed its blade, trapping it forever more.
In the morning, the shopkeeper was rather alarmed and puzzled to find a weapon sticking out of his floor. He was more puzzled, however, as to where his carpet had gone.

The other account I received came from Cyrin Cyrilin, but while the sparse records of that time indicate that this General did have a camp there, he was reported to have left the site on his feet - yet we cannot rule out Bile's involvement, as there is no note about the man's living functions when he left.

The guard blew in his hands to keep them warm. He still wondered why he was there. In the tent behind him, he could hear voices.
Damn conquer-mad General Kaltstrong... he said to himself We could've just left these lands, we'd still have the other ones. But no... Instead of leaving, he retreats to the high, cold mountains because it will be hard to reach for enemy troops. How stupid! The enemy is guarding the passes, and winter's coming. We'll freeze to death here!
While talking to himself, he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings, and didn't see someone trip over a stone which he couldn't see due to the snow. The man tripped without a sound though. He grabbed a dagger from his belt - perhaps he hadn't tripped, but just fell down because he thought the guard had spotted him - he aimed the dagger, and he threw.
The guard made a little choking sound and fell down.
There said the assasin.
He went to the tent, and wielded his Sai. He stealthily looked behind the cloth that was in the entrance of the tent, and could see General Kaltstrong and his officers talking about what to do.
General, we can't go on like this! said an officer. The moral of the troops is low, we're on the edge of mutiny! I demand we go now!
The General raised from his chair, and spoke with a thundering voice:
You will do exactly as i tell you to, and if you won't obey me, you will suffer a terrible death!
Very well replied the officer. Do you still remember where i come from? I come from these lands... i have friends here. Gar'djel, go ahead.
This was the sign for the assasin to jump forward and attack the General with his sai. He cut his throat, and the General fell backwards, with his back on the floor. The assasin grabbed his sword, and stabbed it right trough the man's heart, in the ice-cold floor. Then he and the officer ran away, into the cover of the night. No alarm was raised, because the officers didn't see it neccesary.One day later, the foreign army had left. Years later, on the place of the camp, a village was founded. One of the first habitants erected a shop where the General's camp was, and because he couldn't get the sword out of the ground, he decided to keep it as a monument.

The first account comes from Shawn Kelfone, currently recovering from some kind of, well, posession. His theory is backed up by a name carved in the underside of the office's desk, which, with some imagination, reads Taney.

Taney never was a person to think very much of himself. After all, his parents were farmers, who grew fruit for the local market, what could he expect other than to end up following in their footsteps? One day while he was picking apples from the trees on his family's farm, he overheard a conversation between two men walking down the road. Oi, so th' postman's tak'n a turn fer th' worse, eh? The other man replied Aye, seems like we're gonna be out a postm'n soon. Time t'start lookin' fer a replacement . And so, as it happened, a week or so later, the town's postman had died, leaving a vacancy. Taney was in town the next day, when he saw a young girl about the age of 8 trying to deliver the mail. Apparently, this girl was the old postman's daughter, and with no one else to take the job, she took it upon herself. Feeling sorry for the girl, he offered her his help and after finishing the day's work, decided that he actually enjoyed it.
A week later, he had become the new postman, but something was lacking. Though he enjoyed his new job, he was required to work long hours, and missed the comfortable feeling of home. While taking a stroll around the town on one of his breaks, he noticed a painting of a small bunch of fruit. Looking at this painting filled him with memories of living on the fruit farm back as home. He dug through his pockets and handed the shopkeeper a few platinum, greatly overpaying for the painting, and took it back to the post office.
Hanging the picture with pride, it now remains as a reminder of the home he left behind, lest he ever feel homesick.

Again, Cyrin Cyrilin submitted a text, but I'm afraid this time it proved too hard to prove. The wall behind the picture looks slightly different, yet the Governor wouldn't allow me to blast it with a bullet to see whether there really is - or was - a safe.

Knock, knock, and two fast knocks, in the middle of the night.
The old man grunted, and climbed out of bed. He took a heavy stick from under his bed, and went down the stairs. He opened the window in the door, and spoke:
The Moon's Storming
but the clouds see he got in reply.
Good, he thought. The man grabbed a key from a ring which was attached to his belt, and opens the door with it.
Come in, come in, warm yourself at the hearth and i'll make you some thea!
No time said the cloaked person outside. Is your son in town?
No , replied the old man he's to the counsel of Captains.
The better. I assume you have the key of the post office, then?
Indeed. You need the painting, right?
Yes, the time has come. I got the exchange too.
Well, let's go then! the oldtimer decided, and he went to the post office next door, with the cloaked man behind him. He took another key from his belt and opened the door. The man want in, and the old man followed him, and locked the door behind him when he entered.
The cloaked man immediatly went behind the counter, and removed the painting there. Behind the painting was a safe. The man grabbed a key from a string around his neck, and put it in the lock of the safe. He said a few strange words, then turned the key. The safe opened, he took the contents, and laid something else in the safe. Then he closed the safe.
You did a good job he said to the old man, whom opened the door. The cloaked man walked out, and disappeared in the night.

After thorough investigations, the letter written by LegoBomb appears to be closest to the truth. Few evidence can be provided to prove it, yet even less is there that contradict it in subtle ways as it is usally the case with half-baked rumor. I will, for this week, give the winner a coin, freshly cleaned, hoping that it will be a more pleasant reward than a bottle of cheap booze.

The sign that hangs upon the door to that large workhouse south of hirathia was made by none other than the craftsman Pir, who also designed and built the workshop. It was in fact the last ingredient to this humble yet important structure, and like so many nik-naks about the Archipelagos of graal, has its own crazy story to tell.
Pir yelled at his various workers, telling them to get a move on. The clouds were gathering overhead, and the crafthall was only half finished. On they toiled, slapping on brick, cement, then brick, cement, then brick, cement, and on. When the walls were finished, he balanced upon the chimneytop and yelled at the workers, telling them to pull harder, and hoist the great logs up to be part of the roof. The clouds had loomed for long enough, and eventually they burst into life with a rumble, lashing down rain and lightning upon the men. On they worked, as Pir loomed over them in the storm, yelling at them and beating his shield. On they toiled, through the night.
As day crept forth, only daring to weave a dim light through the thick sheet of clouds, the men hoisted the last sodden log into position, and it was hastily strapped down. They had finished at last.
The hall is complete, master Pir
He said nothing
Uh...as you can see, every brick has been laid, and every log dragged into position, by my men.
He kept his silence
Tis a fine building, that we, the builders, have built for you, master Pir
Pir eventually turned to look at the work, but still did not say anything. One man finally stepped forward, turning his hat over in his hand sheepishly.
Uhh....about the payment, master Pir?
It is not complete Pir said hastily in a quiet tone. I beg pardon, master Pir, but every stone has been laid, not a single gap in the roof...'tis done! said a worker. No, fool, look at it! It's missing something! was the reply.
Look, master Pir...i dont know what you're on about, but we have done what we were hired to do. Our payment, please? Several hands were inching towards weapons. FINE pir shouted, and stormed inside. Within moments, a sack of gold flew through the door, and it slammed shut thereafter. The men grabbed it, waving insults to the closed door, and left.
Inside, pir paced, his arms folded. He was fuming. He peered around the room, inspecting every corner, every edge, every tile upon the floor. What is missing! he growled to himself every so often. A servant came to the door after a few hours, with some lunch for Pir. NO LUNCH! NOT UNTIL THE WORK IS COMPLETE! he shouted, and slammed the door once again.
The door.
He paced back, opened it, and slammed it. He did it again. A grin swept across his face, and he rushed to the store room and retrieved a large branch. He began work immediately, sawing and planing and sanding until he was left with a block of wood no larger than his forearm. By this time it was late evening, but he did not care. He sat upon a workbench, took up a knife, and began to carve. On through the night he sat, whittling away, as the clock rolled on. 11, 12, 1, 2 oclock, and he still carefully sculpted the wood.
Dawn. The servant returned, with some breakfast, hoping that his master would be reasonable this time. He found the man slouched over his bench, fast asleep. He woke him gently, and was greeted by a huge hug. It's almost complete! With that, pir grabbed the piece of wood, threaded it and raced outside to hang it upon the door. He then returned inside, swung the door open, and slammed it shut. A faint clatter of wood upon the door was heard for a few seconds thereafter. Perfect

While being the first one to send his version of the story - again, Cyrin Cyrilin's account lacks in some ways, as there are not enough under-the-table sources to approve it. And by under the table, I mean literally hidden under tue furniture. The floor does not sport any patches of dried beer or such as it is common in contemporary bars.

On the West bank of the Bomboria lay a man, seemingly dead. A group of Shell Bomies were standing around him, not sure whether he was dead or not, and if it would be a big risk to take a bite of the man. Eventually, one of the creatures gathered together some courage, crab-walked to the man and pinched him. The man didn't do anything. The shell bomies thought it was logical that he was dead, so others engaged too. When there were around ten bomies near the man, he suddenly stretched out his arm, and crushed one, and another one, until he had a nice meal next to him. He started to eat the meat of the beasts, and threw the remains in the river. Now that he had gained more energy, he decided it was time to go to a safe place. So, he lifted himself up from the sand, found his balance for he still was a little bit dizzy, and he went walking trough the wilderness. He had only walked a few metres on the grass, until he heard something big behind him. He turned around to see a stag running to him, pursued by a pack of hunters. The stag walked into him, knocking the man out, and fell to the ground. When the hunters found the man, and the stag, they split up; one group went away with the stag, another group brought the man to a nearby town. This town was Hirathia. The man managed to construct a living in Hirathia, by working in the mines, and soon acquired a small fortune by saving the diamonds, and selling them when the price was high. Eventually he had enough money to expand his house with a cellar and a second floor. He moved the living part from the first floor to the second, and decided to make a bar of the first floor. The business of the bar went pretty well - it was the only bar troughout the country, and the dust of the mines made miners very thirsty. The bar made Hirathia even more prosperous, but on an assembly of the town's most prominent members, it was decided that the town missed a craftshouse, and that the bar was, next to a source of joy, also a source of trouble. Women sold their bodies for money, and men often had quarrels - over women, money, because they were drunk or because of something else - which often resolved into a fight, in which some people died. Eventually, the bar owner, Pir, decided that it was better to stop the bar, and make a crafting place of it. In his free time he did some crafting, so the neccesary tools were upstairs in his room. He dismantled the bar, brought the crafting tools downstairs, locked himself up in the house for three days, and when he finally returned, he had a state-of-the-art crafting place instead of his bar. The only thing of the bar he kept, was the sign on his door, which also was the first thing he crafted; Pir's

A rather young Cirizen of the Archipelagos, Selflon by name, submited this piece, and I take it that his sources originate from a foreign land, to where some historian may have traveled after they inspected these islands. I cannot tell whether this is true or not, and it is well possible that it is, yet it is impossible to prove, as the current owner of the workshop will not hesitate to provide extensive clubbing to anyone trying to get hold of his sign for magic probing.

Casually walked past by most travellers going about their daily business, little attention is ever paid to the solid oak hanging upon the door. Deeply embedded onto the surface of this seemingly normal piece of oak is the word Pirs . This piece of oak, while normal in it's appearance, is something entirely different in its reallity. When the wizards roamed the kingdoms, indeed before even the kingdoms themselves had been established as the powerful entities that they are now, they took on disciples. The trials to become a disciple of any of these wizards was rigorous, and as a proof of worth, a magical item had to be crafted to show they were capable of great magical feats. One budding wizard, Pirs by name, decided to create a plank of wood, indeed no ordianry plank of wood, but a plank of wood that would be able to transmogrify itself upon command into a carving of the local fauna. The work was submitted, as a plank of wood, with merely his name upon in it. Alas, before Pirs could teach the wizard, his tutor, the commands, he was struck down, by a falling tree (how appropriate), and the secret of the sign was forgotten. The sign having passed down through generations, now appears on the workshop door.

A piece of furniture caught my attention recently, mostly because it appeared to be too instable to support anything, yet the owner trusted it enough to place a candle on it, among other things. Appearantly, it had been there when they moved in, and has been there for longer than the previous owner could remember. Hence, it made it straight on the pub's door.

Cyrin Cyrilin as - once again - was first to submit an account, and I'm afraid once again there is no arguing about it - as it could well be true. Then again, there's no way to prove it either.

Although the table in the house of Bogenera is quite simple for such a grand house of a rich family, it's not as odd as it may seem. This house is one of the latest build houses in Bogenera, and the family there is quite new. This already would be enough information for one to think that, because the family didn't had much other furniture at that time, just used that table, but there's more. Because they can afford all the furniture they want now, why don't they replace the table? Here's the answer: the table came from a villa which was destroyed by the evil bomies, and the only thing that was saved was the table. Why the table, and not, for example, the treasure chest? The answer is s follows: when the family bought the table, the owner said, so he could raise the price, that this table wasn't like any others. Rumours were, that the secret of turning the smallest piece of lead to a huge nugget of gold was hidden somewhere in, or on the table. Ofcourse, nobody can say sure whether or not it's there, and the owner of the table is way to greedy to destroy it on base of a vague gossip. This explains why such a simple table wasn't sold, and what the power of gossip is.

As long as always, LegoBomb had a different story to tell, which fits well with Pir's known biography, yet through the years the table has been washed and polished often enough to remove most traced of any possible scribblings and scratchings.

Long, long ago, before the archipelagos were colonised properly, the majority of the graalian and zormitean races populated a small island a few miles to the southwest of the five continents. The main town on this little island was called Palmaloma, and within its busy, tightly packed streets was a small school where the immigrants arriving at the new land were educated in the ways of their new life; how to use tools, what to trade, what the wildlife and herbology was, ecceterra. One of the teachers here was that Master Craftsman, Pir. He had infact helped found the town, and carved the desks for the school himself from the northern forests. But this story is not about those times, it is about the times after this small island, the time when the archipelagos was first colonised.
Pir sat upon one of the chairs in the field just outside harmonia, on the edge of a vast crop of furniture and equipment. One or two people were looking at various pieces, but Pir had only had three sales that day. "Why on earth did I bother shipping all this junk across, eh? I'm never going to sell it all" he muttered to a bird which had begun pecking at a nearby commode. A brisk young gentleman with glasses approached him and cleared his throat. "I say, Master Pir...don't you have any desks that are -clean-?" he said in a rather high pitched, petulant tone. "No, Master Blacktrunks, i don't. This furniture came from my school back at Palmaloma, you see, and children tend to miss the paper when writing, rather habitulantly it seems. And" he added, being somewhat older than the young Blacktrunks, "I seem to remember you being one of those children.". He flashed a breif, patronising smile. It was countered with a brief look of distaste, and then Blacktrunks strolled off down the lane.
It was at this moment that he noticed a rather odd fellow hunching over one of the defiled tables, examining it closely with a lense. His clothes were strangely designed, skin-tight in some places, baggy in others, and all in vibrant, nauseous colours. And a green top hat. "Er..may I help you with anything, Sir?" Pir asked, raising a brow. The man ignored him, but after a while began mumbling things to himself. They followed along the lines of "Amazing! Simply Exquisit! The spontaneous scrawls! The decorative grooves! Incredible! And only with blue and black ink!". Pir raised from his seat and walked cautiously towards the man. "Excuse me sir...are you quite alright?" he asked. The man bolted upright and spun on his heels to face pir, and what a shock he recieved! The man's clothing was even wilder than originally thought, because only half of his body was covered in what Pir had seen. The other half was completely different. The clothing was as normal as could be, but was all in dreary tones of grey. And upon his head on the other side was half a bolar hat! "What is this guy?" pir thought to himself.
"Ahahaha, master pir! I must ask you, where on earth did you get this, remarkable, and that is, ahaha, it is truly magnificent, piece of artwork?" the man chirped quickly, gazing at Pir with wide, gleaming eyes. Pir stepped back, alarmed by the man's rapid voice and spontaneous laughter, not to mention the dress-sense. "Well...i made the table a year or so ago..." "I see, and the paintwork?" "Paintwork? what do you mean? I never painted it" "The calligraphy, my dear man! These extraordinary markings!" "The grafitti? Well, that was the children at school, obviously. They ruin furniture in days" "Ruined, ahaha, not quite ruined, my good Master Pir! That is to say, ahahaha, that it is quite the opposite of ruined! I have not seen such a masterful work of art since...ahaha, well, ever! I simply must have it!"
Pir looked rather shocked that anybody would want to purchase this pile of junk, but business was business. "Fair enough, but...I must ask why you want it so dearly" he queried. "Ahaha, my good Master Pir! My name is Mr Plumsquabble, and I am a collector of art! Have you ever seen the large, beautiful house in Eastern Bogenera?" "Oh, you must mean the place with the craz..i mean creative Antlers over the door" "Precisely the place, man, precisely indeed! This table would be a perfect addition to my collection of masterpieces!" And with that, Mr Plumbsquabble withdrew a large pouch containing what sounded like platinum, tossed it to Pir, sprawled out his arms and hoisted the table from the ground. He then trotted off gleefully up the road in the direction of bogenera.