Snarling ebon boar’s head ring
This item was a prize from the Hunt for History.
Item
a snarling ebon boar's head ring
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Cast with purposeful roughness to lend the fur of the wild hogs head a more natural appearance, this heavy silver ring seems older than its possible years, as if it has passed through many lifetimes. The beady onyx eyes glisten as if moist are rolling in opposite direction in their sockets, and two curving tusks hooking out to either side of the snout subtly shift from youthful to worn and cratered, and back. The very band of the ring noticeably changes in thickness, eroding and reforming slowly.
Details
No other details are known.
Loresong
Part I:
As your song focuses into the ring in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Sunbursts of light dance through the blackness and then resolve into a vision.
One of the sunbursts flares brightly, and behind it the form of an aged storyteller is exposed, lighting his pipe. He smiles at something outside of your sight, and from the edge of the vision a boy's hand extends, passing a ring similar to your own to the old man. He examines it closely, and then a settles in to concoct a story. His words begin to flow, and they sweep you away into the fantasy...
Nowhere, never. Ripples of magic seem to swirl in the very air as you find yourself within the towering entry hall of a strange citadel. While nothing out of the ordinary is apparent in a glance at the various robed people walking around, or the elegant furnishings, a moment's observation reveals that things are just not quite normal here. A man sitting on a divan nearby is smoking a long scrimshaw pipe, yet the smoke coils awkwardly and disappears into the pipe, and the divan itself slowly changes from leather to cloth to some kind of fur.
Mages striding in reverse nod in greeting, or farewell (it is hard to tell), to other wizards walking normally through the opulent hall. A stark-faced human sorcerer with wild black hair and scores of heavy rings on each hand is standing near you, unmoving and scowling toward the entrance where a young man carrying a traveling pack is being welcomed by officials.
The continuum of time unfurls vagrantly within the wood-paneled auditorium you find yourself in, evidenced by the flickering light of candles inhaling their flames, and the small fountain in the center of the haon tile floor that pulls streams of water through midair into its mouths. An officious-looking group of mages sit behind a long polished ironwood table, quietly murmuring to each other or poring over thick ledgers. An aging wizard, with prolific wrinkles so dense that they practically seem to writhe, suddenly raises his hand and points his thumb down for a moment, then sits back in his chair rubbing his chin.
An arched doorway opens to admit the heavily-ringed sorcerer, looking even angrier than before. To the bothered expressions of the elders the sorcerer launches into a growling tirade, accusing the young man they had inducted of planning to improperly use his training in the pursuit of his lost love. He continues with gracefully-phrased demands that the man should be expelled and perhaps brainwashed. The board listens silently until he splutters out, and after a moment they each raise their hand and slowly point their thumbs downward. All except the wrinkled wizard, who appears to be flabbergasted and listening to something unheard in the silence of the room.
As your song focuses once more into the ring in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Sunbursts of light dance through the blackness and then resolve into a vision
As the visions again swim nauseatingly into your sight, the sensation of time's passage curls up and dies completely. What appears to be a small dormitory room slams ethereally around you into solidity, and by the dim lamplight you can see you are not alone. A dark figure creeps through the room, silently padding over the thin rugs thrown over the hardwood. Kneeling beside one of the two beds, occupied with a lightly-snoring lump under blankets, the figure leans forward and blows sharply on the wick of a small lamp, which oddly bursts into flame.
The globe of light that swells around the figure reveals him as the angry black-haired sorcerer, wearing his customary scowl and rings. Murder seems palpable in the air, yet the man tears his gaze away from the unprotected sleeping form and reaches under the bed. His bejeweled hand recoils from the shadows holding a large crystal orb, which he examines with a frown as he turns away. Suddenly light androiling smoke bloom within the orb and the sorcerer's jawgoes slack and his eyes become glassy.
Part II:
Your surroundings shift and around you a grey mist extending as far as you can see. Below you, though there is no ground to tell direction, stands the sorcerer, peering around at the mist with a look of disgust and mistrust. He glances at the crystal and to his surprise it becomes a small window! He peers into the window, and suddenly a woman appears on the other side, beautiful beneath her mane of flaming red hair. They stare at each other for a moment, and then the woman reaches out her hand, a pleading look on her face. Giving a start, the black-haired man drops the window frame, and he and the crystal square vanish. Back in the dormitory, the crystal rolls from the recovering sorcerer's hand back under the bed and he crawls away.
Warping into an incomprehensible jumble, moments stretch into eternity and ages condense into instants. A familiar figure, wearing his obligatory excessive finger adornments, is back inside the small dormitory room, but this time as the only occupant. As this is the first instance you have ever seen enjoyment in the foul expression of the sorcerer, it is not a far assumption to make that he is up to no good. From his rugged satchel he begins to pull a mangy assortment of oddities, among the recognizable bits a gold transportation ring. He commences a strange ritual of assembly, connecting the ring to lengths of mithril wire and stringing the thin filament at ankle height across the doorway. Finally, he pulls a small case from his cloak and carefully, perhaps too carefully, opens it to reveal a shimmering crystal within.
Chanting an incantation that defies your mind to even consider attempting to comprehend, the black-haired man focuses a stream of mana into the gem, and inside, images begin to flicker. He appears to be searching for something specific as he shuffles magically through images, and then with a wicked smile he stops on one showing a horrible miniature scene of a raging battle between humans and massive demons. Using a long pair of silver tongs, the sorcerer carefully lifts the flashing crystal out of the case and settles it gently upon the gold ring. Just as his trap is set, he looks up to the sound of footsteps in the hallway beyond, and he quickly leaps out of sight behind the door.
The young man from before appears in the doorframe and, oblivious to the fine wire in front of his foot, he begins to step into the room.
Your senses explode into the infinite, and for a moment it is as though all time is stretched around you, then with an almost audible snap it compresses into an infinitesimal speck. It seems as though you are back at the same moment, watching the previous scene, just as the young man's foot is just about to strike the wire. Suddenly he slows to a stop, reverses, and strides off backward down the hallway from whence he came.
Leaping out from his hiding spot, the black-haired sorcerer scrunches his face tightly and roars in frustration. He reaches out and slams the door in his rage, yet the loud bang is not what brings a sudden sober look to his face. The wire yanks tight as the door hits the frame, and for just a moment the sorcerer's expression is thoughtful as he watches a blue charge spark between the crystal and ring at his feet.
With a wrenching flicker the body of the man narrows and slides as though made of light into the crystal's surface, and the clattering of his rings hitting the floor is like the patter of rain on glass. For an instant you glimpse a thin figure appear in the image of battle in the crystal, but he is quickly blocked out by the gargantuan demonic forms. The stone's shape ripples like water and it and the other bits of the trap waver and disappear, just as the young man opens the door returning to the room. Scratching his head he scoops up the pile of rings from the floor, and then sets them on the bed opposite his own, as if for the other occupant.
As the crawl of moments and the flashing of years warps back into normality. A flash of light within the final darkness illuminates the aged storyteller, handing the ring back to the boy with a sleepy grin on his face. He suddenly looks straight at you, and gives you a sly wink.