Pallid white veniom-threaded handkerchief

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This item was a prize from the Hunt for History.


a pallid white veniom-threaded handkerchief


Just a shade shy of an actual white, the cloth of this handkerchief seems slightly brittle as if hundreds of years old. Though likely not as vibrant as when created, the small seal and monogram sewn with threads of veniom in the lower corner are nonetheless colorful and suited for royalty. A careful examination at an angle reveals the residue of large dirty fingerprints, very unlike those of a person who would desire a dainty handkerchief.


Dates to the First Elven War.


As your song resonates deeply, an answering tremor from the hankie in your hand sends a shiver through your body. Light fractures and separates into shards, then reforms into a vision.

Sunlight floods your senses and suddenly you find yourself floating high above a great shining city, looking down with an eagle's view at a small caravan winding its way out of the arched gates. A tiny figure below, armored in the regalia of Tamzyrr, urges the wagons onward with haste. With three laden wagons of crates and sixteen armored guards on horseback, the convoy snakes away from the city and heads south.

Soldiers on the road stop to cheer, inducing straight backs and prideful salutes from the mounted guards. Wives, husbands, and children rush forward, wishing their loved-ones safe journeys or thrusting letters for distant recipients into gauntleted hands. Nearly a parade with its buoyant wake of enthusiasm rippling the crowd behind them, the stream of marching soldiers and the wagons wind away from the gleaming walls of civilization toward the unknown highway beyond, carrying their cargo crates marked as weaponry, food, and medical supplies.

Rejoining the eyes of the soaring avian, your view expands into a twilight landscape high above the crawling caravan. With cheers and comfort dwindling far behind on their hard road, the soldiers and wagoners wend their way through the foothills ever southward. The line slows and stops in a wide clearing, the men beginning to dismount and pull bedrolls and cooking supplies from their saddlebags.

Without warning, a barrage of crude spears splits the air, and two men fall with lengths of wood through their innards. Raising the cry of alarm, the men scramble behind wagons and horses to shield themselves, and a moment later dozens of slavering orcs burst from hiding and charge. The battle is swift from your vantage, though surely endless-seeming to the combatants, and in the end two more guards lie dead in the blood-speckled dust. What orcs that have not fled are mangled and motionless, and the remainder of the caravan quickly stows their gear and remounts, speeding away from the unsafe hills and continuing on into the night.

Silver-limned clouds above resolve into clarity within your vision, threatening to split open and deluge the caravan below. The wagons are slowly working their way down a rocky pass, the horses nervously picking their steps through the rocks that are slippery from the pre-storm precipitation. Thunder rolls across the land, vibrating the very soil in its thrumming impatience.

A misplaced hoof and startled cry from the rider precede a sudden tumble down the shale-covered slope by one of the horses, ending far below in a bleeding heap that will travel no more. Continuing even more slowly, moving at a rate nearly imperceptible to the eye, the wagons and horsemen part the storm forcefully with their bodies, shoving through the barrage of rainwater.

Reopening your illusory eyes to the grey landscape lighted by ominous clouds, the storm, as if on cue, begins to pound the shivering travelers below. Puddles swell into ponds almost instantly, and the skies seem to be channeling directly from the domain of Charl. Birds nearby are crushed to the ground by the force of the downpour, and the hapless caravan slows to a straining bent-necked plod. Trekking along the edge of the dark Wyrdeep Forest, an elven village that has been razed can be seen nearby marring the terrain.

Passing close to the wreckage, the horses begin to show nervousness not warranted by either the fresh reek of the burned village, nor the continuing torrential rain. Leaping from their hiding places, a band of barbarians howl with bloodthirsty ire and attack the procession. The military cohesion and skill of the caravan's guards is evident, and with short shrift they dispatch the grubby tribal men, but only after taking a few losses of their own.

Soluble colors waver into clarity and again you view the convoy from a perch in midair, though now there are only a handful of harried-looking guards accompanying the wagons. Still, luckily for them, the journey seems to be finally reaching its close. A small fortress comes into view, still being built in some places and with dozens of men hauling and sharpening logs for the barrier surrounding it. A contingent of human soldiers in battleworn armor rushes out to meet the wagons, and the sight of the caravan rouses cheers fraught with relief from every man nearby.

Like starving hounds the men surround the wagons, some hugging each other and nearly crying while others pull a crate from one of the beds. Laughing and nudging, the men gather around as an officer works his axe's head under the chest's lid and pops it free. As the cover falls away, the cheers and ribbing falter and the soldiers all stare silently for a moment into the open container. Your aerial view swoops down amongst the men as they begin cracking open chest after chest, roaring in frustration greater with each, and you get a clear look inside one. Nestled in neat rows inside the crate are hundreds of pallid white handkerchiefs, each bearing the veniom-threaded monogram and seal of Emperor Krellove. A string of curses erupts from the officer about the incompetence of the royal shipping clerks.

Retreating into obscurity, the vision splayed before you tunnels into a pinpoint of light and then winks out. Your eyes readjust and you take a moment to balance your equilibrium. The magic drains from your connection to the hankie and you feel very tired.