Slove reflected a bit.

Because you asked.
Because I could.
Because I wanted to.
To see if I could hit the target.
To see where the arrow would land.

He looked at the fox.

There is never one reason but many.  There maybe a main reason but that is never the total of the reasons.

Slove shifts his feet a bit.
So why did you ask me to fire the arrow in the first place?
It is the way of my people.  A question should always in part be answer with another question.
Until there are no more questions to be asked.

 Tseran dutifully examines the boot as it's thrown up onto the table, more or less automatically muttering a short cantrip that sees the mud on them creeping off to disperse onto the floor, followed a moment later by any grime left on the table proper... "Practical, and undeniably crafted using the powers of the mind rather than the art." he assesses, before nodding at the tattoos "As too, these.", lifting his own arm and delicately unbuttoning the sleeve to permit the complex swirl of neuron-patterned ink flow up his arm to reveal his own psionic tattoo, after which he opens his mouth to speak, only to fall silent when the girl arrives, letting her complete her transaction then nodding in understanding "Of course. I wear a sword myself because it serves as a symbol that I will defend myself, not because I have any expectation of using it well in a battle... I don't recall the last time I drew it in anger... But I digress, I had intended to ask... Do you think your order would be interested in trading in knowledge and items of the Invisible Art?"

The Head in the Clouds

Sam thought on this a long while, and with the kind of long 'Hmmmmm.' a tradeswoman might give when about to give a hefty quote for a job that customer wouldn't like. 'I don't reckon we'd have much to trade. Our gear is reserved for use by the Order, and our know-how of the Invisible Art is all based around the soul-knife – shaping it, techniques with it, channelling energies to smite demons and undead. Not much good if you don't have one.'

'But what we are looking for,' she began, 'Are the Lost Swords of Impiltur.' Tseran had heard a little of this: the great archmage Soargar, Mage Royal of Old Impiltur in the 10th and 11th centuries DR, had hidden away the kingdom's greatest artifacts, five-score magical swords, and royal regalia during a period of instability and collapse. On his death, he released them to the man who would be the next king, Imphras I. He and his companions, later his Royal Guard, took up the swords and founded New Impiltur. But fate was never kind to Impiltur. Sam took up the story, but spoke in a duller tone, as if in a trance, seemingly having memorised the history verbatim under hypnosis. 'In the Year of the Luminar Procession, 1127 by Dalereckoning, Princess Ilmara saw in the Scrying Stones of Myth Drannor that the hobgoblins of the Giantspire Mountains were stirring for war. She alerted her brother, King Imbrar I, to the threat. But, rather than muster his forces on the border and draw the hobgoblins out, King Imbrar marched north into the mountains accompanied only by his Royal Guard armed with the swords of Soargar's Legacy, together with a host of armsmen, determined to end the hobgoblin menace once and for all. They were courageous, impetuous, and foolish. King Imbrar, the Royal Guard and the armsmen, and the hobgoblins, were never seen or heard of again.'

She blinked, and carried on in her normal tone, 'Neither were most of the swords, but some have been spotted, even found. So us Bladewrights are questing to recover the rest for the realm. I followed a clue all the way to Skullport, but it was a bust, so I came back. A few of the swords were made in the Vast, and a few made their way back through these parts, so I'm having another look around. I'm travelling south to Tsurlagol to talk to the sage Othiiyr Velthrann, he always helps out the Knights... But any information about the swords would be well paid for.'

https://forgottenrealms.fandom...i/Soargar%27s_Legacy

Archery Tournament

Fūdo nodded to Slove's response, 'Of course. But what if we take away all those reasons – say there is no need to hunt, there is no foe to defeat, no contest to win, no target to hit. What are you left with?' This time, he closed his eyes and went through his exact and steady routine again: drawing an arrow, nocking it to his bow, drawing it back, and letting it fly. It hit the target perfectly, but Fūdo wasn't to know. He blindly reached out, plucked it, and returned it to his quiver, and seemed satisfied.

He opened his fox eyes. 'Your turn. Try it with your eyes closed, and tell me what you see.'
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:25, Tue 29 Oct 2019.

Slove answered the fox.
But you did not take all reasons away.  I shoot an arrow because I want to.
I enjoy using my bow.  I find pleasure and peace in using it.
Well most of the time.

Slove takes his place and holds his bow still.
How you ask of me something you really have no understand of.
Something I wish not to do.  I hope you understand at the end at least something of what you have asked.

A nasty rasping sound comes from Slove.

He closes his eyes and pulls an arrow from his quiver.
As Slove does so he a twitches little uncontrollably.  As he draws back the arrow the twitches increase.
Slove face start to show pain.  As he concentrate the pain grows.
As arrow get to it full draw back length half of sloves face seems to be bumbling and boil.  His flesh pulse and changes from red to black to purple to yellow and back.  Different part of damage face has different colours but effect is sickening to look at.
Heat can be felt coming of Sloves.  The twitches is almost convulsion now.
Slove fires the arrow.  It hits the target.
The heat and twitching lessens and Slove slowly outstretches his hand and takes the arrows.

Then he opens his eyes.  Tears come running down his face.

You ask me what I saw.  I saw white light exploding.  I saw my brother covered in flames.  He was in great pain as flames consumed him.
He looked into my eyes and I with mine into his.  I could see fear, dread, pain and eternal loss in them eyes, and then he was gone.  I saw flames on my own face.  A fire right up to my own eye.

Clearly Slove had scene this more times that he could remember or wished to.
Do you wish me to continue in more detail?
What I described to you is the short, sane version.

Slove whole body and look was filled with sadness.
He was still shaking and twitching a little.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:07, Thu 24 Oct 2019.

 "Unfortunate, but honestly spoken. My companions and I are headed up into the mountains ourselves, entering Orc territory but if we should stumble over word of ensorcelled blades while we're in the region, I'll try and pass word along to your order... Allowing of course, that I travel in the company of warriors who might well wish to claim such weapons for themselves." Tseran adds the last clause with a rueful 'warriors, what can you do?' sort of tone that invites amusement rather than scorning those who have mastered steel instead of spell.

 "That said, I'm no scholar of Old Impiltur... Does a list of the missing weapons and their names or likenesses exist?" he goes on to ask, enough of an adventurer to ask for the practical while enough of a scholar to actually find digging up the sort of history that gets an elf access to royal libraries exciting.

The Head in the Clouds

Sam shrugged at Tseran's allowance, not too bothered by the idea that the warriors wouldn't want to give up such fabulous swords if they found them. It was evidently already fully expected by the questers. 'Eh, it's been two and a half centuries, we can wait a little longer.' Paladins were polite and patient, and could ask very persistently. 'But just knowing they're in worthy hands is worth it.'

She sipped her water, and answered the next question. 'Some records of them exist, but a lot's been lost. Lessee, the ones still known and missing are...' Again, she recited in a hypnotic trance, 'Ashram; Dornavver, the Demonbane; Ellendrin, the Weeping Blade; Felthann, called Liluth's Summertongue; Galathos; Iltornar, the Goretooth; Malagar, the Burnfang; Mau-Jehe, sword of the first Bladewright; Palreth; Sarghathuld, meaning Orcbane; Tendar, the Wailer; Ulfindos, the Corsair Scourge...' She blinked. 'And it goes on like that... Why, does anything ring a bell?'

Archery Tournament

With as sad an expression on his fox face as he could make, Fūdo nodded respectfully to Slove. 'No, it is enough.' he said softly. 'As for me, I see... my mother, slain by an arrow, let fly by a hunter who desires a fox's pelt. She barks, her back arches, she rolls over, she lies still. he shared in sympathy, looking away to the target.

Back to Slove, he explained 'My order believe that in the act of shooting the bow, with beauty and goodness, truth is revealed. You can see yourself. And with truth and goodness, beautiful shooting is achieved. It is a meditative art as much as it is a martial one, used for improvement of mind, body, and soul.' He made a foxy grin. 'I hope you don't think I'm simply looking for converts. But I think you have the skill, and the need, if you're interested?'
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:40, Sat 02 Nov 2019.

Slove makes another rasping noise after listening to Fūdo.
He takes out a small silver arrow with green feathers on it which is on a chain around his neck.
Converting me could be little hard to do.   If you did succeed, you may find yourself on the wrong end of few powerfully place arrows.

However when you have lived as long as I have and keep your eyes open.
Then you know there is always more to learn and understand.
It is my understanding that some orders are more about being a group creatures that follow a discipline and teaching.  Who's aim is to help and improve each other knowledge and skills.
Orders like this are less interested in what god you follow as long as the god doctrine and rules of the order do not conflict.
Now this type of order I be happy to learn more about.

'Well, you're in luck then!' Fūdo agreed with a fox's grin. 'Kyūdō – the Way of the Bow – is not based around any god or faith, but only what is in here,' he touched his head, 'In here,' he pointed to his heart, 'And in here.' He spread open his paw-like hands, still grasping his bow and and his arrow. 'You can apply it however you think best, as a meditation, a religious rite, a martial technique, or an art... But I think the Great Archer would not be dishonoured in any case.' he added, gesturing to Slove's holy symbol. There were precious few non-elves who would recognise the symbol and know the titles of Solonor Thelandira.

'What we all seek is to attain the state we call shin-zen-bi, or "truth, goodness, beauty". When an archer shoots truthfully, and with goodness in his spirit, a beautiful shot is the natural result. And in the process, he may seek seisha hitchū, "true shooting, certain hitting". Shoot truly and the target is hit.'

 "Nothing as yet." Tseran admits, noting down the names and descriptions - such as they are - in exquisite copper-plate handwriting after fishing a charcoal pencil and a small scrap of parchment out of his travelling kit, a reminder which he then folds neatly over and tucks into his kit to be properly transcribed later into his notes "But you never know when you'll run into something like that and having some idea of what the list might be will only increase the chance that one will turn up. If nothing else, my companions and I are apparently headed into Orc country, so there's at least a passing chance of us running across mention of Sarghathuld."

The Head in the Clouds

'Ah, Sarghathuld's been found already,' Sam supplied animatedly, 'And lost again, coz dwarves are unlucky like that, in the Mines of Tethyamar, they say. But they're welcome to it, it means more to the Stout Folk of the Vast than it does to us.' she ended with a shrug. The questers necessarily had to accept that there would be some swords for which other, and greater, claims existed.

'But it's not the only one either. The dwarves of Roldilar manufactured over a thousand blades of this special orc-slayer blood-metal, a dull grey stuff, to help 'em take Vastar, the orcish kingdom. Sarghathuld's just one special one. But in the end, there were more orcs than swords, Roldilar fell, and a lot are in orc hands, coz they're good at killing each other. You find one, it'll do the same for you.'

There was a fundamental irony to the Order of the Bladewright: the warriors who did not need magic swords, who quested to learn and recover them.

https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Sarghathuld
https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Orcslayer

Archery Tournament

Going on, Fūdo explained the Way of the Bow, taking Slove through a whole new style of Eastern archery techniques while stressing he was free to focus on his native elven style or cultivate his own, and a set of philosophies and practices he was similarly free to adapt. The core of it, however, was using archery as a means of meditation to cultivate the self, to link mind and body and bow as one.


OOC: Since I'd just end up reiterating the Wikipedia article for real-world kyūdō and the original description for the Order of the Bow Initiate in Sword & Fist that summarises it, I'll do just that:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ky%C5%ABd%C5%8D#Purpose
(Starting about here)

Order of the Bow Initiate:
"The Way of the Bow is used by some for spiritual self-improvement, by others a philosophical art. Others practice it as a way of life, and yet others employ it as a religious ceremony. Of course, many find the art of killing with the bow to be an important skill in a dangerous world. The Way of the Bow is always what you make of it. The Way of the Bow embraces the following concepts:

"Through one's archery, one's true character can be determined.
The Way of the Bow is a spiritual art. By learning it, the archer learns about himself. By improving in the Way of the Bow, the archer improves himself.
The Way of the Bow is a highly meditative martial art whose ultimate goals are Truth, Goodness, and Beauty. When asked, “What is Truth?”, a Master Archer picks up his bow, fires an arrow and, without saying a word, lets his mastery of the bow serve as the gauge of the archer's progress along the “way,” thereby showing the archer's knowledge of reality, or “truth” itself.

"The Way of the Bow is a matter of precision and discipline: the relationship you have with your bow, the arrow, your body, and your mind. The Way of the Bow is standing meditation. When you shoot, you can see the reflection of your mind, as in a mirror. The target is the mirror. When you release) you also let go of your ego. You can see your own mind."

"If I'm reduced to swinging a sword at an Orc, I rather doubt it'll go all that well for me... I'm a number of things, good knight but a fearsome warrior-at-arms is not amongst them." Tseran replies with a certain amount of well-deserved self-deprecation, finishing his notes and tucking them away with due care for the possibility of his neat hand being smudged.

 "In any case." he then goes on, sensing a natural end to the conversation "Unless you have questions about what I have discovered of the invisible art, I believe this the point at which I should wish you good fortune in your quest, not that your martial display suggests you need rely upon fortune for your success."

With everyone else being busy with their own endeavors, Aerin enjoyed herself, ordering an ale to wet her parched throat.

Slove is thoughtful for a while.
I think.  Back in the forest is a library with much of what is in the world and different organization that may be found.
The Way of the Bow was listed in ne of it books.  Little was said about it.
A few elves had followed that path.  All it really told one was that each elf that choose this both over the more traditional elven studies of the bow considered it to be an honor to take such a path.

Slove nods his head.
Then if you are willing to show me this path I would be honored to follow it.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:21, Wed 04 Dec 2019.

The conversations went on long into the evening, with Fūdo teaching Slove the finer points of the Way of the Bow, with the archery competition forgotten behind them; Sam and Tseran discussing the intricacies of the Invisible Art; and Aerin, Angel, Maelarra, and Tamae listening to the bards in the Head in the Clouds. In the Arming tradition, they sang ballads and told rousing tales of battle and valour, of victories, not losses. A favourite was the legend of the local hero Beluar, a great elf warrior. In the Year of the Bloody Crown, 649 DR, as resurgent orcs swarmed over the falling kingdom of Roldilar, the dwarves' human and elf allies came to their aid. Beluar and his forces battled an orc army at Viperstongue Ford – just up the road from Thindilar – routed them, and doggedly pursued them north, beyond the Troll Mountains to Maskyr's Eye, never letting up for a moment, winning victory after victory, and leaving severed orc heads across the land, thanks to his sharp sword. Alongside this, there was feasting and plenty of drinking, rowdy games and good-natured brawls. There would be more than a few headaches and a number of other pains come the morning.

One thing they did learn in all this was that, several days ago, a group of young adventurers matching descriptions of the Calauntan scions and Dorn Hammerhand had passed through Thindilar, and turned north, toward the Troll Mountains. This tallied with the maps Tseran had found.

*

Cross Road to Viperstongue Ford
Date: Morning, 5th Tarsakh 1376 DR, the Year of the Bent Blade
Weather: Spring, overcast

In the morning after the night before, the adventurers woke early and set off, trying to make up for time lost. They took the Cross Road north; it was a proper road and well-travelled, but the merchants hurried along it quickly, for fear of raids and robbers. The day was uneventful, but the clear skies of the last few days gradually gave way to growing clouds.

Through the morning, they journeyed through the fertile floodplains of the River Vesper, and by midday they came to the river itself, wide and slow as it flowed reluctantly toward Calaunt. This was Viperstongue Ford, where the river was shallow and calm enough for them to ride their horses across, though they needed to take some care the horses didn't slip. There was a simple hamlet here, centred around the homely Stag and Viper inn.

 Tseran still doesn't actually own a horse, but he does his best to gamely keep up with those who do, pushing on until each they come to ford the river, whereupon he plunges in with a disgruntled expression, mentally kicking himself for never taking the time to invest in learning the ubiquitous spell, mount.

Slove also follows the group on foot.
However unlike Tseran he does not have any real problems keeping up with the group.
He sometimes goes off on small scouting walks when others are reason.
He also makes a large leap to cover a large distance of river and jump out again the other side.

Aerin looked up at the sky with a frown, the weather was getting worse and it might start raining soon enough. The warrior-witch wasn't worried about getting wet, her new coat, which she had bought in Calaunt would make sure she didn't have to suffer, but it also meant visibility range would be significantly shorter. But unless one of them suddenly became a druid, it was nothing that they could change.

As they reached the ford, the dragonkin gave the signal to stop and began scanning the other side of the river for a potential ambush. This was a good place to surprise people, right in the middle of the water, when they were at a disadvantage. Finding no threat waiting, she signaled to go ahead. [Private to GM: Spot check: 1.]

Noticing the grimace on Tseran's face the Rashemi smiled and steered Albion over. Reaching out to the elf she offered a hand and a ride on her steed's backside across the river "Here, sit behind me, Albion can handle the two of us."

Angel was unusually subdued and quiet as they left the city, and to the surprise of everyone she chose to walk along with Tseran and Slove.

When they reached the ford though, she then took a moment to transform into her winged form and easily flew over the river. Landing gently beside a soaked Tseran, she smirked at the wizard. "Amateur," she scoffed, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation.

 Tseran... Well, permits it would be something of a stretch but he does nothing to discourage Angel's company either, the three walking along in an amenable enough fashion - and even when he plunges into the river (replying to Aerin with a polite "No, by this point I may as well press on. Best we have our rider able to move freely without my weighing her down, but my thanks regardless.")out of the river he simply looks at Angel for long enough for her to observe that he is, in fact absolutely bone-dry and unstained by the encounter despite having plunged into the river to his waist and answers "Merely a difference of approach."

Taking care, the adventurers crossed the ford with ease. While floods on the Vesper were a risk in winter and spring, it hadn't rained for several days, and the waters remained steady and safe. But there was also no sighting of lost dwarven gold or flying ioun stones coming down the river either, as some travellers had occasionally been lucky (or unlucky) enough to find.

Leaving the Stag and Viper behind, it being too early in the day to rest, they continued north along the Cross Road, journeying out of the Vesper's shallow river valley and into a pass through the Troll Mountains. "Don't worry," dwarves had said, "It's just a name." Supposedly the Stout Folk had nearly wiped out the green giants that had given the Troll Mountains, or Trollcrag Mountains, their fearsome name. However, that was "nearly", and trolls were exceedingly difficult to eradicate. Still, very few had been sighted on the slopes in recent years, and not in any great numbers. But that was before recent orc activity had stirred things up.

Regardless, from the green forested slopes to the jagged crags and peaks of stone, they were put in mind of a troll's claws, grasping hungrily at the grey skies all around them. The Calauntan scions had gone missing somewhere in these mountains, and needed to be found.

At the end of the day, as the sun disappeared behind those peaks, turning them black against red, they came to the village of Blanaer. It was a plain, simple, even boring place, surrounded by sheep and cattle farms, with markets for selling the beasts and their manure. It stunk almost as badly as Calaunt, but at least it was an honest, hardworking stink.

And this was their last stop in civilisation, before they ventured into the Troll Mountains tomorrow, on the trail of the young adventurers.

The dragonkin rode quietly among the others, the incident at the ford was already forgotten as her mind was dealing with the potential fate of the scions of Calaunt. If there had been any trolls left in these mountains, they were likely dead. Then it would be important to find proof of their demise at least. Then her thoughts would turn towards the behirs they had encountered and what they had told them. Nothing could really hold her interest long and soon she got bored and her eyes surveyed the landscape without actually noticing much.

Eventually they arrived at a village. If they could find an inn, they might even be lucky enough to encounter a bard with some interesting stories to share. As they rode in on what passed as the main road, Aerin stopped the first grown up person she could find and asked "Well met, friend. Can you tell us where to find an inn in this place?"

OOC: Sorry, sorry.


Both the farmer and his cow looked surprised and a little worried at Aerin, not least because she was a large ferocious-looking dragon woman with a big sword, and therefore a bit exotic. 'Oh, ah, you want the Blanaer Inn, over there.' He pointed to a homely-looking inn on the main road near the centre of the village, furthest from the sheepyards.

She gave the man a smile, without showing teeth, "Thank you, good sir, may the gods bless you and your family." she said and gave him a nod.

Turning Albion in the right direction she rode on, gesturing for the others to follow her. The Rashemi looked around from the higher vantage point that was her steed. While the village wasn't exceptional in any way, it still reminded her of the simpler places in Rashemen, where farmers and decent folk were trying to make a decent living in a world, that seemed to become more crazy by the day.

Slove sees little point in saying anything else.
Aerin was able to deal with talking to others.
So the elf follows on to the inn.

 Tseran by contrast, is just flat-out exhausted by the long march and more or less directly aims himself towards the nearest spot that holds the promise of a few hours of rest with no sign nor remark that suggests he resents the 'honest country air' and its distinctive pungency... Not if there's a bench or (heavens hope) a straw pallet with his name upon it in his near future.