Braided horsehair wristlet
This item was a prize from the Hunt for History.
Item
a braided horsehair wristlet
Show
Secured with a bit of faded scarlet thread, the wristlet has been carefully fashioned of what must have once been creamy white horsehair. The hair itself smells musty, as though it has been dampened repeatedly and never fully dried. Over time, dirt and impurities of various origins have worked themselves into the braid, leaving the once-bright hair a dingy, mottled grey.
Details
This wristlet was said to date to the destruction of the halfling ponies.
Loresong
As you begin to sing, your surroundings fade to blackness. When your vision clears a vast grassy plain stands before you. A herd of shaggy but sturdy horses grazes amid a cluster of round tents, placidly munching on the grass. Their heads and tails hang low in relaxation as they nose along the ground, seeking the most tender stalks. In front of one of the gers, a young halfling boy stands with a small ivory-colored mare, running his fingers through her creamy mane. The mare nickers softly to the boy and butts him in the shoulder with her nose, clearly pleased to see him.
As you continue to sing, the darkness returns. Within it, a group of slender, robed figures appears. They stand in a circle, arms upraised, chanting in unison and directing their powers at an unseen target. Outside of the circle, a man with pointed ears stands, a diadem atop his head, observing the incantations of those around him. Though you cannot make out the words, the tone is ominous, and a feeling of apprehension passes over you as the figures are once again swallowed by the darkness.
As you sing a new verse, you are suddenly returned to the grassy plain, with a sense that time has shifted. What was once tranquil is now chaos. Your ears are filled with the panicked screams of horses. Those still standing paw anxiously at the dirt, tails and heads upright, as though they would flee at any moment. Others lay dead and dying upon the ground, their beautiful coats matted and dirty. Clusters of halflings, some of them clutching strands of braided horsehair, try to soothe the doomed animals. The ivory-colored mare lays upon the ground, flanks heaving in distress, her head cradled in the lap of the young boy you saw before. His face is gaunt and pale as he weeps over his beloved horse.
The scene shifts again, and the chaos has now gone silent. The cluster of gers has fallen into disarray. The air is filled with ash and the pungent odor of burning horseflesh emanating from large pyres on the plain. Vultures soar overhead, swooping down to snatch bits of carrion with their beaks. The body of the ivory mare lies to one side, where the boy struggles with other halflings to drag the mare's body into a shallow hole. They finally succeed in burying the animal and lay a cairn atop the mound, adding to the number of similar cairns spread across the steppe. Clutching strands from the mare's tail, the young boy falls to his knees with a high, keening wail, mourning the loss of his companion.
You attempt to withdraw more hidden secrets from the wristlet, but meet with failure.
This loresong is incomplete.