Nevarra Stayanoga - Journal/Spirit Codex

[tankteddy]

Nevarra Stayanoga

The Spirit’s Whisper, Daughter of the North Wind

Information taken from her bio is treated OOCly unless you learn of it ICly

///Placeholder for Bio Pending DM approval//

[tankteddy]

The Codex of Spirits Vol. I

Collected and transcribed from the journals of the Spirit Shaman Nevarra Stayanoga of Thasunta, Rashemen.
During her Dajemma and wanderings beyond the borders of her homeland.
Text Key: for understanding the writings of The Spirit Codex

Name
Information
General Notation of spirit/Ritual/etc.
Personal Event writen from Nevarra's personal accounts
Positive responses/Offerings
Negetive responses/warnings


Invocation of Opening

"To those who see with more than eyes — I ask the veil to part.
To the breath between heartbeats, to the whispers that linger in the wind.
Come, my kin unseen, and bear witness to the tale of one who listened."


So begins my Codex, not as command but as offering.
I have walked from the frost-hung groves of Rashemen to the green fields of the Sword Coast,
and the spirits have followed — some kind, some cruel, all curious.
These pages are not for mastery, but for understanding.
For, to bind a spirit is to lose it. To know one is to walk with it awhile, and part as friends.

The Spirits of Rashemen

Thistle, the Raccoon Trickster
Nature: Mischievous household spirit; playful, protective.
Aspect: Curiosity, fortune, and laughter.
First Encounter: Age six, in Thasunta’s snowfields.

Thistle was my first teacher. He taught me that not all spirits are solemn, and not all wisdom is born of silence.
He steals offerings, hides tools, and whispers secrets in the night. Yet when sorrow comes, his chittering laughter is never far.

“A spirit of mischief is a spirit of motion — stillness is death to them.”

The wind carried him before I even saw him — the quick rustle of leaves, a shadow darting across the snow, laughter without lips. Thistle, my first companion of the unseen, reminded me today that even in the coldest hour, the world is never truly silent. I offered him a tiny bead of amber, warmed in my palm, and whispered a story of the fire in my grandmother’s hearth.

He danced atop the snow, circling my feet, and I felt the echo of the past ripple through him. Mischief, yes, but also wisdom. Sometimes I wonder if the spirits choose us, or if we, in our foolish curiosity, stumble into theirs. Today, we played, and I left him with my promise: I will never stop listening.

Offering: Honeyed nuts, silver beads, or laughter freely given.
Warning: Never lie in Thistle’s presence. He will twist the truth into thorns.
//OOC: Based on my love of Raccoons

Alo, the Orglash of the Frozen Cave

Nature: Elemental spirit of winter and sorrow.
Aspect: Cold, endurance, solitude.
Pact Type: Oath of Shelter — temporary, renewed through reverence.

In the mountains, I nearly perished. My tears froze before they struck the ground, and from the frost came Alo.
He spoke not with words but with stillness. To earn his mercy, I offered the warmth of my spirit. Since then, when I call his name, the snow itself answers.

“The ice is not cruel — it merely tests the pulse of life.”

The mountains grow crueler each year, yet the cold is honest, and honesty is the first teacher of any shaman. Trapped within an ice cave, I felt the breath of Alo brush my cheeks like winter’s own hand. I could have begged, begged for warmth, for mercy, for life itself. But I did not. I bowed to the stillness and offered my pulse, my song, my heartbeat — and in return, the Orglash gave me life.

He spoke in silence, and I understood: power is not demanded; it is shared. I left the cave with frost in my hair and awe in my chest, carrying a pact renewed with every flake of snow that fell thereafter. The wind whispers him still when I call his name, reminding me that survival is never solitary, even in isolation.

Offering: Crushed quartz, clear water left to freeze by moonlight.
Danger: Should his name be spoken in anger, his frost will not distinguish friend from foe.
//OOC: From Forgotten Realms Lore

Tahlven the Root-Father

Nature: Ancient forest spirit, dwelling beneath oak and ash.
Aspect: Growth, memory, and the slow wisdom of trees.
Connection: Through the staff gifted by my grandfather, Natunoka.

His voice is deep, like roots cracking stone. I feel him when I lean my staff into the soil and listen. He teaches patience — that all things grow at their own pace, and even the smallest seed can break a mountain’s heart.

Beneath the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, I pressed my staff into the soil and felt him stir. Tahlven, the Root-Father, trembles beneath stone and shadow, patient as the world itself. He showed me how to listen to the pulse of the earth — slow, inexorable, alive.

I offered a strand of my hair, braided with a thin ribbon of blue hide, and spoke my fears aloud. The trees sighed. He did not answer with words, but with a certainty that rooted itself deep in my bones. Life is stubborn. So am I.

Offering: Bury bread and a strand of hair beneath living roots.
Warning: Never strike a tree in anger. His wrath blooms slow but deep.
//OOC: Based on Groot, Yggdrasil, Treebeard

The Hearth-Mothers (Collective Spirit)

Nature: Guardian spirits of Rashemi homes, bound to family lines.
Aspect: Protection, healing, memory of kin.
Manifestation: Flickering warmth in hearth flames.

When I sleep far from home, I sometimes feel their warmth upon my cheek — the breath of my grandmother’s hearth. They are countless and nameless, yet each bears the scent of ash and comfort. In every flame that welcomes a traveler, the Hearth-Mothers linger.

I slept in a tavern on the edge of the Dalelands, hearth fire flickering against the timber walls. I awoke to warmth brushing my cheek, and for a moment, I was home again. The Hearth-Mothers, countless as stars, have a patience that outlives mortals. They watch, they guard, and they remember.

I left milk in a small cup, salted bread upon the sill, and whispered my thanks. The tavernkeeper noticed nothing, but the fire hummed — a quiet, steady song of unseen comfort. One day, I hope to create a hearth as sacred as those I carry with me, where travelers find more than shelter, but the gentle certainty of protection.

Offering: Milk, salt, and whispered thanks.
Warning: They despise neglect. Let the hearth grow cold and they grow bitter.
OOC: Based on varies Lore about house spirits, guardian mothers.

The Shadow of Kolkora

Nature: Restless spirit of a slain hathran.
Aspect: Judgment, remorse, unfulfilled purpose.
Encounter: Within the ruins east of Lake Tirulag.

Kolkora was once a witch of great renown. She defied her circle and was cast into exile, her spirit lingering among shattered stones. She came to me in dreams, asking not for vengeance, but for remembrance. I keep her name so she is not forgotten — a lesson that even among the wise, pride is poison.

Night brought dreams of ruin. Kolkora, bound by her own pride, emerged from the ruins east of Lake Tirulag. She whispered promises, not of malice, but of remembrance. I listened, and I shivered. Pride is a heavy chain, even in death, and she offered me a mirror to see my own stubborn heart.

I burned juniper and ash at dawn, letting the smoke carry both sorrow and warning. Spirits do not judge as mortals do, yet their lessons cut sharper than blades. Velkora’s shadow lingers, reminding me that wisdom often arrives in guise of fear, and the past is never truly silent.

Offering: Burned incense of juniper and ash.
Warning: Speak her name in mockery, and she will haunt your sleep for a year and a day.
//OOC: based on restless spirits.

Spirits Beyond Rashemen

Eithrin, the River’s Heart

Nature: Naiad of the River Chionthar.
Aspect: Flow, renewal, and surrender.
Note: First encountered near Elturel.

Eithrin laughed when I tried to bless her waters. “Do not bless what already blesses you,” she said.
She taught me that the current does not resist; it remembers. The river forgets nothing — every secret, every prayer, every drop of blood becomes its song.

Eithrin laughed when I tried to bless her waters. “Do not bless what already blesses you,” she said. Her voice rippled like the current itself — gentle, endless, knowing. I felt foolish at first, my hands still trembling from the ritual, my words of sanctity caught in my throat. But as I listened, the river spoke in its own language: a murmuring chorus of memory.

I knelt upon the bank and touched the surface. It was cold, alive, and utterly unjudging. Beneath its skin flowed every secret ever whispered to it — every tear, every drop of blood, every vow carried downstream to the waiting sea. Eithrin smiled, and I understood her then: the current does not resist; it remembers.

Tonight I will sleep beside her banks, letting her song keep me. Tomorrow I will not try to bless the river — I will thank it for carrying my voice among the countless others who have sought forgiveness in its flow.

Offering: A pebble thrown with intent to remember.
Warning: Never dam her course. The river always takes back what is stolen.
//OOC: based on the River spirit from Spirited Away

The Fireling Host

Nature: Lesser spirits of living flame, fragments of elemental chaos.
Aspect: Inspiration, transformation, creation.
Manifestation: Small sparks that dance in ritual flame or forge fire.

They gather unbidden when songs are sung with passion. They love storytellers, musicians, and fools. I once watched them dance in a smith’s forge, shaping sparks into faces. Firelings answer joy but flee despair.

Eberc’s forge in Triel was a place of noise and light — the air thick with heat, iron, and laughter. I had stopped only to have a brace made for my broken arm, but I found something far greater waiting in the glow. As his hammer fell, sparks leapt up like a shower of stars, and in the corner of my eye, I saw them — tiny shapes of flame, flickering, darting, laughing. The Firelings.

They gathered unbidden, drawn not by spell nor summons but by the rhythm of Eberc’s work and the song his hammer hummed beneath each strike. I stilled myself and watched. Each spark seemed alive — faces forming for the blink of a heartbeat before vanishing again into the fire. The forge sang with them, iron and spirit entwined.

Offering: Oil burned with song.
Warning: Firelings feed on emotion — uncontrolled sorrow can turn them cruel.
//OOC: Based on Calcifer, Howls Moving Castle

The Wight of Hollowfen


Nature: Corrupted spirit, once a druid of the Mere of Dead Men.
Aspect: Decay, regret, false rebirth.
Record: Exorcised under supervision

A cautionary tale: when a spirit clings too tightly to life, it rots. The Wight whispered to me promises of eternal renewal, but its roots were disease and grief. I freed it with fire, prayer, and the tears of willow bark.

“Not all spirits deserve our company.”

The swamp was breathing rot. I could taste it on the air — a bitterness that clung to the back of my throat, the echo of something that refused to die. The villagers spoke of a druid once beloved, a guardian who turned his devotion inward until it soured. When I found him, he was no longer man nor spirit, but something in between — roots twined through his flesh, eyes burning with the dull hunger of the forgotten.

He spoke softly, promising eternal renewal. His voice was wet earth and mourning. “The cycle need not end,” he whispered. “We can bloom forever.” But I saw the truth — his renewal was decay without rest, a garden of rot that fed upon itself.

I drew my circle with ash and salt, bound it with the scent of juniper and the sap of the willow. The spirits stirred uneasily as I called upon flame, prayer, and grief in equal measure. The fire took him slowly, not in vengeance but release. As the last of his form crumbled into embers, I felt the weight of countless sighs — roots loosening, spirits unbound.

When the smoke cleared, the swamp exhaled. Frogs began to sing again. I sat by the dying embers and whispered to the still air, “Not all spirits deserve our company.” And I meant it — though I pitied the ones who linger too long, mistaking rot for life.

Offering: None. Avoid.
Warning: If it speaks your name, do not answer.
//OOC: based on Shadow Druid encounter from BGIII game

The Gale Sisters

Nature: Twin air elementals bound by song.
Aspect: Freedom, travel, fate.
Note: Encountered crossing the Anauroch.

They sang as I slept beneath shifting sands. Their laughter became the wind at my back, guiding me westward. They cannot be summoned, only heard — and only by those who walk alone beneath open sky.

The Anauroch stretched around me like an ocean of gold, endless and indifferent. For three days, I walked alone beneath its burning sun and shivering moon, the sand whispering secrets in voices too faint to name. On the fourth night, exhaustion claimed me. I lay upon a dune and surrendered to the silence. That was when I heard them — the Gale Sisters.

Their song rose from nowhere and everywhere, weaving through the cool night air like silver thread. It was laughter and lament in the same breath, a melody that lifted the weight from my chest and filled it with motion. I could not see them, but I felt their hands — cool gusts tracing my face, stirring my hair, urging me to rise.

When dawn came, the wind carried me westward. Each step felt lighter, guided by an unseen rhythm. I tried to thank them, but the desert swallowed my words, returning only a sigh that might have been their reply.

The Gale Sisters do not answer to names or ritual. They are freedom given voice — companions to those who walk without destination, and omens to those who mistake stillness for peace. I will remember their song when the road grows heavy again, and perhaps they will find me once more, laughing in the wind at my back.

Offering: A single breath offered to the wind.
Blessing: Those who honor them will never lose their way.
//OOC: Based on Gemini Twin Zodiac sign

The Spirit Within the Amulet

Nature: Unknown — possibly celestial or ancient fey.
Aspect: Hidden destiny.
Connection: Bound within the gem once worn by my mother, Fyevarra.

Sometimes, when the stars align and I hold the amulet to the moonlight, I hear singing — distant, wordless, yet unbearably familiar. I have never dared answer. Some doors, once opened, never close again.

Offering: None known.
Warning: It watches, always.
//OOC: Based on Orian's Belt from Men in Black

Ritual Fragments & Invocations

The Binding of Breath:
To calm a wrathful spirit — breathe thrice upon still water, name it friend, and offer a lock of hair.

The Path of Smoke:
To find a lost soul — burn juniper and hawthorn, follow the smoke until it bends against the wind.

The Turning of the Moon:
For visions — place the left hand upon earth, the right upon sky, and whisper your true name. The spirit that answers will show not what is, but what might be.

"We are born of spirits and return to them.
The line between life and death is not a wall, but a breath —
And if one listens closely enough,
The world itself hums with voices that never sleep."

— Nevarra Stayanoga, written near Berdusk, 1356 DR

Disclaimer:
While most of the information is a collection of random thoughts, mixed lores, RL spirits/Shows/etc.
I do use some AI features for images just to help give visuals based on descriptions I create.
Please be respectful at don't @ me for using the AI to help my talentless *Redacted*

[tankteddy]

Codex of Spirits Vol. II

Orantharsilvonaxil, The Dragon Bound in Bone

Nature: Calmed Anger, Powerful, Proud
Aspect: A bone Scimitar, carved from the rib of a Dragon.
Note: The sword is a prision, housing the spirit of a powerful Silver Dragon


In the mage’s tower of Doron Amar, I was brought to the fourth floor to commune with the spirit bound within a sword — a dragon’s rib, carved into a blade. The Silver Dragon called itself Orantharsilvonaxil, calm yet burning with betrayal. It claimed the Harpers had trapped it and begged release through the sword’s destruction.

As the ritual deepened, the dragon’s power coursed through me. My eyes bled, my arm cracked beneath the strain, and its roar echoed through the tower, shaking stone and soul alike. Naer’eanque and Larael ended the rite before it consumed me. The spirit withdrew willingly, retreating into the blade’s hollow heart.

Its anger lingers still — not wild, but patient, waiting for the day freedom will find it.

The chamber within Doron Amar’s tower was warded in silver light, runes trembling faintly as I traced them into being. The air was heavy — filled with the weight of something vast and ancient waiting to be remembered. The sword lay upon the ritual table, pale as moonlight, carved from a dragon’s rib. Its aura was cold, regal, and wounded all at once. A spirit was bound within: a Silver Dragon, once proud, now trapped.

Naer’eanque and Larael stood watch as I knelt, palms pressed to the cold floor, whispering the invocation that would open the vessel — my body, as conduit. The first breath of it entered me like winter storming through a cracked door: clean, furious, magnificent. Scales of light rippled beneath my skin; I heard my voice change, deepening into something not my own, as I slowly rose floating just over the ground.

When they asked its name, the answer came as thunder through my lips: “Orantharsilvonaxil.” The tower shuddered with the sound — not mere speech, but a roar that shook the wards themselves. Its emotions ran like twin rivers — calm as snowfall, yet burning with quiet rage. He spoke of betrayal — of Harpers once trusted who had turned his purpose into imprisonment. He did not rage; his anger was the kind that burns cold, older than memory. He desired freedom, but only through destruction of the vessel that chained him.

I felt its sorrow like a hand at my throat, its anger like fire through my veins. The power began to turn then — my vision blurred, blood seeping from my eyes and ears — the cost of communion. Still, I held fast, until the pain turned to a white roar in my skull. His sorrow was unbearable, pressing through me like the weight of ages. When the first crack split my left arm snapping beneath unseen weight, Larael’s voice cut through the ringing in my ears: “That is enough for now.” B

At once, the presence withdrew, gliding back into the sword of its own will. The room fell silent, save for the hum of strained wards and my own ragged breath.
Orantharsilvonaxil is calm now, sleeping within its prison — but I can still feel it watching, patient, wounded, waiting for the promise of freedom to be kept. I can still feel the echo in my bones — a promise unfulfilled, waiting for the day he might finally take wing again.
//OOC: DM Event, DM Smile

King Jort, Warrior Poet of the swamps


Nature: Proud, regal, Stoic
Aspect: Lilies, Cattails, Butterflies
Manifestation: Bubbling waters, rising from Lilypad covered pond

Thick with the hum of crickets and the scent of wet grass. I sat by the pond working in my Codex. Bubbles rose, rippling outward until a great shape emerged — vast, green, and glistening beneath the falling sun. King Jort had risen.

It began as a gathering of butterflies — low and bubbling from the pond in Triel. Cattails bending without wind, of croaks that carried like words. Curiosity, ever my downfall, drew me there beneath the waning sun.

The water stirred, and from its mirror rose King Jort — a giant frog spirit, rippling outward until a great shape emerged — vast, green, crown of pondweed upon his broad, glistening brow. His eyes were golden as lanterns, his voice a chorus of croaks and sighs. He smelled of wet earth and the sweetness of decay, the scent of life endlessly reborn.

“I have lost my way. My love waits, Aunt Ginny. However, the paths have all turned strange.” His tone was heavy with despair, the kind that seeps from centuries of wandering. With an ancient croak, he demands a map of his newly squired "Knights of the Resplendent Lilypad". After studying the map, a resonating croak of land long forgotten in time. "This is not Abeir!"

Now, sometimes when I pass that water, I hear him faintly — a low, patient hum beneath the rush of reeds. Perhaps he still seeks his Ginny, or perhaps he has learned that even spirits must sometimes lose their way to remember where the heart belongs.


Offering: Leave him a lily crown and a cup of honeyed wine.
Warning: The deep croak of frogs where none should be. A warning of danger to come
//OOC: DM event, DM Verjigorm