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baskfell_recordsCold, clear water rolls in gentle waves upon the gray beaches of the Omoian Landbridge. Dense green pines and poplars line the entirety of the stretch of land even into the Shroud, that sky-high wall of shimmering fog that completely cuts off the world from the North Pole. Within these forests, standing vigil in tall monastic towers and platforms or wandering the coast, the Conclave-Hearers wait, faces focused, expecting to hear the echoes of Divine Wisdom and knowledge of the Mythic Arts drift from the Heavenly Blue Tower across the Shroud.
However, the frequencies of those deceased blessed ones' discourses are far too esoteric, too subtle for the naked mortal ear, and Koloib had ceased to directly communicate with his adherents for millennia. For this reason are their shiny metal helmets forged, made from the magical silver embedded in the Omoian beaches. The complex and occult configurations of their interiors are a zealously guarded secret from the uninitiated; they pick up the ethereal sound waves, guide it to the Hearer's ears, for the price that, once put on, the resonant helmet can never be taken off until death and they must be ever mindful of every whisper. Lay followers who make the trek to their remote posts tell of warbling echoes droning under the helmet.
Whatever is heard from across the mists are recorded in volumes of text stored in their libraries. If it is deemed right to do so, they will relay portions of their transcriptions to lay followers and nearby leaders, whether the Matriarchs of the Great Mirth Hall or the Sorcerer Queens of Kalchikgyuni.
However, the frequencies of those deceased blessed ones' discourses are far too esoteric, too subtle for the naked mortal ear, and Koloib had ceased to directly communicate with his adherents for millennia. For this reason are their shiny metal helmets forged, made from the magical silver embedded in the Omoian beaches. The complex and occult configurations of their interiors are a zealously guarded secret from the uninitiated; they pick up the ethereal sound waves, guide it to the Hearer's ears, for the price that, once put on, the resonant helmet can never be taken off until death and they must be ever mindful of every whisper. Lay followers who make the trek to their remote posts tell of warbling echoes droning under the helmet.
Whatever is heard from across the mists are recorded in volumes of text stored in their libraries. If it is deemed right to do so, they will relay portions of their transcriptions to lay followers and nearby leaders, whether the Matriarchs of the Great Mirth Hall or the Sorcerer Queens of Kalchikgyuni.
