Baldur's Gate : The Sword Coast Chronicles : NWN2 Persistent World

One Myth of the Dark Seldarine
by Dark Lady Rilae'ar'an of House Mal'rak'phlit
Transcribed and donated by Sirion Te'dwa

[Written in Elvish Espruar using black, water resistant ink on sheepskin parchment. One might recognize Sirion's handwriting]

One story of the enmity between the Elves and the Drow as told by Dark Lady Rilae'ar'an, Sword Dancer of Elistraee, daughter of Dark Lady Phryn'ar'an, blood of House Mal'rak'phlit of Tlindhet.

I - Long ago in the Forest of Arvandor
II - An attempt at peace
III - Enemies gather
IV - Corellon's children & the battle
V - A fellowship poisoned
VI - Birth of a new goddess
VII - Search for justice
VIII - Corellon's mercy
IX - Exile


I - Long ago in the Forest of Arvandor

Before the First Flowering of the People, in the primal forest of Arvandor dwelt the fellowship of brothers and sisters of the wood, the Seldarine. The first among them, a male with beautiful hair the color of the sun called the Larethian, his chosen mate his opposite in many ways.

While his skin was fair, hers was dark. She was a goddess of destiny called Aurashnee the Weaver. Aurashnee was skilled in the Art of the Weave, a powerful mage in her own right.

Together they traveled and together they loved.


II - An attempt at peace

One day the Larethian went outside of Arvandor, travelling to attempt peace with the One-Eye, the two of them ancient enemies who had fought many times. One-Eye of the Uruk, the Orc Gruumsh.

It went poorly at the meeting. The One-Eye betrayed Corellon and was wounded. The Larethian would not strike back, for he had given his word that he would not harm the One Eye, and so he ran.

The One-Eye gave pursuit, but Corellon was able to escape into the forests of Arvandor, which would not permit Gruumsh to follow.

But someone else was there, it is said, watching. Time in Arvandor is said to be very different from here. When some time had passed, a new threat arose. That of the Beast Lord Malar.


III - Enemies gather

Malar had gathered together a great force of ancient ones. The lord of the Trolls, the lord of the Gnolls, Ogres, Goblins. All manner of those who feared or hatred the Seldarine.

Their hatred bound them together, and together they crept into Arvandor. But how so? No one can enter Arvandor who is not permitted by the Seldarine.

There are many stories and many contradictions, but one thing can be agreed upon. The enemies of the Seldarine attacked Arvandor in with great cunning and force. Among the defenders were the son and daughter of Corellon. Though the battle was terrible, victory seemed certain for the Seldarine.


IV - Corellon's children & the battle

Corellon's daughter was a great huntress, a wild girl who ran the forests as quickly as a gazelle, and as nimble as a squirrel. With her she carried a bow, which she had made herself, and it was said that she could split the feather of an eagle from a thousand paces and without harming the eagle.

Never did she miss her shot.

And so when during the battle her arrow pierced the chest of Corellon and he fell, there was little doubt in the minds of the Seldarine, that his daughter had betrayed them. It is said that the Goddess of the Winds said this, and declared Elistraee a traitor.

The battle changed for the worse until Corellon's mate, the goddess Aurashnee rose and drove back the forces of Malar with great force. Then she rushed to the side of her dying husband. She cried in anguish, and screamed at her daughter. The others of the Seldarine were so angry, and Aurashnee demanded they punish Elistraee, and kill her because she had killed Corellon.

As she wept over her husband, Aurashnee tried to give him a healing draught. But just as the sun began to set over Arvandor, so rose the moon, and with it the goddess who had been missing throughout the battle. She who is called Sehanine the Moonbow.

Sehanine appeared among the Seldarine, and knocked the healing draught away from Corellon's lips. Enraged, Aurashnee cried "Traitor!"


V - A fellowship poisoned

But Sehanine said the traitor was not her but the son of Corellon, the young lord Vhaeraun whom Aurashnee had said should lead them, if Corellon were not to survive.

Sehanine said that the healing draught was truly poison. Aurashnee said that Sehanine was jealous of her, that Sehanine had wanted Corellon for herself, and when she would not have him, she planned to have him killed.

Why else was she not there at the battle to defend Arvandor? She must have been the one who let in the forces of Malar and his Hunt.

The other Seldarine were not of one voice, but they did say Elistraee must be punished for what she had done. Aurashnee wept over her husband, and no single one of the Seldarine had the power to save his life.


VI - The birth of a new goddess

And so loved by the Seldarine was the Larethian, that three of the goddesses, Sehanine Moon called the Moonbow, Aerdria Faenya called the Winged Mother, and Hanali Celanil old the Golden Heart each gave themselves, their power, their very essence.

Where they were no more, instead stood a new goddess, and perhaps the most ancient of all, Angharradh.

Divine powers unmatched, she restored life to the dying Larethian, healing his wounds and purging his body of the poison from Elistraee's arrow. In all this time Elistraee had spoken very little, but when her father breathed again she cried for joy.


VII - Search for justice

Again Aurashaee demanded that Elistraee be put to death. Elistraee claimed that she had not meant to hit her father, but Aurashnee laughed and said, "But your arrows never miss their mark." Which everyone knew, and she had no defense.

However, and this part of the tale is told differently, but it is said that Angharradh became three again. It may have been Sehanine who spoke, and said that the arrow had been cursed. And that someone had also cursed Corellon's magic sword. She questioned who had the power to do such a thing, and why they would?

She argued, Aurashnee, that if it was not Eilistraee and it was not Sehanine, then it must be her son Vhaeraun. Vhaeraun then became indignant with his mother, and said this was not his idea but in fact hers, pointing at her. All eyes fell on Aurashnee.

First she tried to deny it, but the web of lies had become so tangled she found herself trapped. In a gentle tone Corellon asked her, "Why, my love? I would have given you everything."

Aurashnee cried out, "That is why! Because you will let the Elven people die. I have seen the future. The humans will rise up and dominate this land, and because you have taught the Elven people to be gentle, kind, and merciful, they will protect these humans even as they slowly destroy the forests. You are weak, and your weakness will doom them all!"

And so Aurashnee attacked Corellon, striking him out of hatred and fear.


VIII - Corellon's mercy

But he did not strike back, for he truly loved her. She was his mate and the mother of his children. Aurashnee called upon dark powers, ancient forbidden powers, to overcome him, and there was a great battle.

Eventually Aurashnee had drawn in so much power that it changed her into a great monster, with the likeness of a spider. Once more she attacked Corellon and he defended himself. But he never struck to kill. Grievously wounded and her power spent, as she lay in agony, still she cursed Corellon trying to make him kill her. But he would not. Even then he loved her.

But he said, "My love, my heart breaks over this, but you have shown yourself to not be Seldarine. Having called forbidden powers of the great Abyss, you are no longer Seldarine, but I name you Tanar'ri, a demon. And you do not belong here."


IX - Exile

And so Arvandor spat her out and she fell into the Abyss, Aurashnee the Weaver no longer, the Dark Mother becoming the Demon Queen of Spiders, Lolth.

Then Corellon turned to his son Vhaeraun, who he also loved, and said because of what he had done he must leave Arvandor until he finds repentance in his heart. Vhaeraun was angry, and swore that he would never ask forgiveness, and so he was banished. But he was not cast into the Demonweb Pit, as was Lolth.

Then Corellon turned to his daughter and forgave her. But she loved her brother, and told him that she must follow, so he would not be alone in the world. Corellon did not wish to banish Eilistraee, and in some legends he begged her to stay.

But she said, "I cannot. I do not see the future as clearly as my mother. But I did foresee this, that there will come a time when the People will be lost in darkness. And without a light to guide them back they will be forever lost to us."

And so Corellon allowed Eilistraee to go.

And that is one legend about the goddess Rilae'ar'an follows. She is the Dark Maiden, the Light who shines in Darkness, one cast out of paradise so she might know the suffering of the People she seeks to offer redemption.

The story has much sadness, but it is also not yet finished.

The future has yet to write it.

Auren Magic and Gem Catalogue I
by Jand Auren


Thank you for purchasing Auren Magic and Gem's Premier Catalogue.
Printed Marpenoth 1351.

This catalogue gives contact information and inventory of Auren Magic and Gem's Agents.

Items are priced in Gem Points. The color of the gem marker indicates the minimum gem type. For example, and item of price 15(^) means at least one ruby or greater must be used in the final payment.

Uncolored Gem Point Markers mean that it can be bought in gold as well, where 1(^) = 1000 gold.

White or black pearls 1/4(^)
Topaz or Fire Opal 1/4 (^)
Emerald, Sapphire, Amber 1(^)
Ametrine 2(^)
Diamond 3(^)
Ruby(^)
Jacynth 15(^)
Canary Diamond 20(^)
Star Sapphire 25(^)
Beljuril 100(^)
Rogue Stone 100(^)
Blue Diamond 250(^)
King's Tear 250(^)

Alchemy, Lesser Magecraft, Lesser Clerical, and Lesser Spirit items are traded by Agent Mers Mennall, of East Gate, Baldur's Gate.

Greater Magecraft items, Scrolls and Gems are traded by Partner Jand Auren of Palace District, Baldur's Gate.

Legend:
))- Amulet, bb Boots, *O Ring, [o] Helm, (M) shirt, ((M) Padded Armor, +(==- Weapon, (((d Gloves, =0= Belt.

=0= Belt of the Drunk Archmage 10(^)
Wizard4, reflex-1

=(==- Magus' Spear 10(^)
Wizard4

[o] Magus' Hat 8(^)
Wizard4

(((d Magus Bracers 10(^)
Wizard4

bb Magus Mule Shoes 8(^)
Wizard4, will+1

(M) Fine Magus Robes 9(^)
Wizard4, AC+1

bb Archmage's Pearl Tiger Shoes 15(^)

*O Fine Archmage ring 25(^)
Wizard5, AC+1

((M) Coat of the Maji 20(^)
5%ASF, Wizard6

(M) Robes of the Maji 100(^)
Wizard6

((M) Arcane Ferret Coat 10(^)
0%ASF, reflex+1

((M) Arcane Pig Jacket 10(^)
0%ASF, diplo+1

Compiled Essays on Shadowdale vol I
by Jacho Bartholomay

Herein is a compilation of a number of Essays on Shadowdale. Transcribed by Jacho Bartholomay, 1357 D.R.

The Fall of Azmaer, Last Drow Marshall of the Twisted Tower:

The drow rule of Shadowdale lasted until the early 900s Dale Reckoning, when the increased human population in the area brought the elves in conflict with their now more numerous neighbors. The humans were the Dalesmen who a millennium earlier had crossed the Dragon Reach and made peace with the elves of Myth Drannor, settling at the borders of the great woods that was the elven home.
The drow soon found themselves under continual attack, and most of those who held overgrown settlements retreated back below. The last powerful drow leader was Azmaer, the marshall of the Twisted Tower in its last retreat of the drow holdings in the face of human uprising, and held the citadel against a year-long siege. With supplies and slaves brought up from the Underdark directly into the tower, the drow could have conceivably held out forever; however, a human slave (family histories in the Dales indicate a number of possible individuals) poisoned the well in the Tower and the citadel was easily overrun. Azmaer's body was not found among the dead, leading some to believe that he escaped back into the depths to rejoin his people. Noting the fact that he would have had to explain to his matriarch how he lost Shadowdale, it is much more likely that, should Azmaer have survived, he went into voluntary exile, hiding from both human and drow. Given that this occurred only 400 years ago, it is certainly possible that Azmaer still lives.


Ashaba Becomes First Lord of Shadowdale:

Upon taking the Twisted Tower and removing the drowish yoke from the people, the Dalesmen had fully established the Dale of Shadowdale, with its seat of power in the tower itself. Its first lord was a water wizard who had aided in the final attack: Ashaba, who was great in age when he ascended, and ruled peacefully for 40 years thereafter. It is said that Ashaba realized he was dying and turned himself into water, merging with the river. Since that time, the river, the ford and the Twisted Tower all bear his name. Before passing on, Ashaba chose one of his trusted lieutenants as the new lord of Shadowdale. Presented to the people of the Dale, he was made the new lord by acclamation. In an additional honor, the pendant worn by Ashaba was thereafter recognized as the symbol of the lordship in the Dalelands, and was possessed by each of the successive lords following.


Jodath and the Tyrist Massacre:

The past hundred years have been an example of the best and the worst of the lords of Shadowdale. All have been nonnative to the Dalelands, though all made the land their home. A century ago the lord of the Dales was one Jodath, a stiff-necked agnostic who denied the power of any god, good or evil, and used force to back up his beliefs. During this time there was a great deal of religious persecution, including a massacre of Tyrists on Watcher's Knoll. Jodath was eventually killed by a beast of the nether planes summoned by parties unknown, which then proceeded to rampage through the Dales. The beast was killed and Shadowdale rescued by the spellcasters Aumry and Sylune. Aumry was proclaimed lord by acclamation.


Aumry Rules in Peace:

The longest period of peaceful rule was by Lord Aumry and his wife Sylune (better known as the Witch of Shadowdale). They ruled over the community for forty years, a period of extended peace with their neighboring dales, nations, and the elven peoples. It was this very peace and power which made the Dale the target for attacks and sabotage for the Black Network (Zhentarim). They sought (and still seek) to control the trade from the Moonsea to the Sword Coast, and desired to make Shadowdale a vassal state of Zhentil Keep. Lord Aumry's rule ended tragically when he was assassinated by Zhentish agents.


Jyordhan the False Lord:

Lord Aumry was assassinated by Zhentarim agents, who in turn were captured and killed by the warrior Jyordhan. Jyordhan, with the Pendant of Ashaba in hand (the symbol of the lordship in the Dales), proceeded to present himself as the new lord, and was so acclaimed by the people. It was unknown to the people that Jyordhan was also an agent of the Zhentarim, and the entire proceeding had actually been a ruse.

Jyordhan abandoned the Twisted Tower, instead established himself in Castle Krag east of Shadowdale. His court was soon overrun by agents of the Black Network. When the people eventually revolted, Zhentil Keep sent peace-keeping forces to maintain Jyordhan's rule. Sylune, Lord Aumry's widow, now aware of the deception but a firm pacifist, did her best to keep the Dale healthy and intact during Jyordhan's evil rule.


Khelben Kills Jyordhan:

Lord Jyordhan's rule of Shadowdale ended when he encountered Khelben Arunsun, also called the Blackstaff. The story at that time was that Jyordhan accepted an invitation of Khelben to visit Waterdeep, and there took ill and died. In reality, Jyordhan ambushed Khelben as the mage was leaving Shadowdale, and the Blackstaff killed him. In either case, Khelben took hold of the Pendant of Ashaba (the symbol of the Lordship in the Dales) and returned to Waterdeep with it, promising to send a suitable candidate for lordship to the Dales. Jyordhan had ruled for five years, and without his advocacy, Castle Krag was abandoned and the Zhentil Keep troops routed. Jyordhan's previously chosen successor was a Melvauntan named Lyran, but without the Pendant this individual was considered a pretender to the throne.

Compiled Essays on Shadowdale vol II
by Jacho Bartholomay


Herein is a compilation of a number of Essays on Shadowdale. Transcribed by Jacho Bartholomay, 1357 D.R.


Lords Accepted by Acclamation:

This acclamation of the people has formed the basis for choosing the lord of Shadowdale since the routing of the evil Lord Jyordhan by Khelben Blackstaff. Usually a predecessor will step down as opposed to dying in office, and his chosen successor will be approved by the populace at large. This system has its drawbacks, as will be shown below, but in general it has served the independent, self-willed people of the Dale very well. They have avoided the "genetic lottery from which good bureaucracies and bad kingships are made" (a quote from the venerable Elminster). The symbol of the Lordship is the Pendant of Ashaba, a device owned by the original wizard, and used to determine the rightful lord of the Dale.

During the period when Khelben Blackstaff held the Pendant of Ashaba (the symbol of the lordship in the Dales) Sylune (widow of the murdered Lord Aumry) was the de facto ruler of Shadowdale; though these years were known as the Time of No Lords. Sylune and an adventuring company known as Mane’s Band were responsible for driving out the Zhentil Keep forces and keeping at bay the monsters in the area. The Twisted Tower, the natural seat of leadership, remained uninhabited following it’s abandonment by the evil Lord Jyordhan, and neither Sylune nor the companions of the Mane’s Band wished to assume the mantle of leader. With time, Mane’s Band passed on to other lands and adventures.


Doust Sulwood Becomes Lord of Shadowdale:

Three winters following his defeat of the evil Lord Jyordan, Khelben Blackstaff found a suitable candidate to assume the leadership of the Dales, or rather a group of candidates. They were the Knights of Myth Drannor, so named to show their interest in the elven territories and their connection with the elven people, and Khelben gave them the Pendant of Ashaba (the symbol of the Lordship) in return for their services rendered to himself and to Shadowdale. Their leader, the Ranger Florin Falconhand, refused the honor of the lordship. It was therefore passed to Doust Sulwood, who was made the new lord with the support of Florin and Sylune (wife of murdered Lord Amury), and apparently also the secret support of Khelben Blackstaff as well.

Doust reoccupied the Twisted Tower, driving out the last agents of the Black Network. He also reinstituted many of Ashaba’s democratic ideals, including the Lord’s Court where all citizen may speak freely and air their grievances without threat of reprisal. Doust ruled for five years and proved to be a capable leader, beloved by the people. The regular presence of the Knights of Myth Drannor did much to ensure the protection of the area, particularly against incursions by Lyran Nathar the Pretender. Lyran was to have been Jyordan’s named replacement, but with the Zhentarim routed there was little validity to the claim.


Elminster Moves to Shadowdale:

It is of note that during the time Doust Sulwood of the Knights of Myth Drannor assumed role of Lord of Shadowdale, Elminster took up residence in the area. A semi-regular visitor up to that time, he took possession of a low, abandoned tower at the foot of the Old Skull, and declared himself to be officially in retirement. The nature of that retirement varies from active involvement in local affairs to long-term vacations on other planes. The natives of the Dale have come to understanding that they cannot always count on the powerful mage being in residence in times of need and danger, but when he is present in these circumstances his aid is usually given.


Doust Chooses Mourngrym Amcathra to Succeed Him:

Doust Sulwood, recommended to the position by Khelben Blackstaff, ruled Shadowdale as lord for five years. "Seems like a millennium," he was oft known to have reported, and the tedium of court life and the lure of adventure eventually caused him to retire his position and rejoin the Knights of Myth Drannor in regular adventuring. He handled the Pendant of Ashaba (symbol of the Lordship) on to one of the younger Knights, a Waterdhavian noble named Mourngrym Amcathra. Mourngrym had been dispatched by Kehelben from Waterdeep for other purposes, but Doust liked both the young man's straightforward honesty and his willingness to shoulder the burden of protecting the small community from myriad dangers. Time has proven this choice a wise one.


Shaerl and Mourngrym Meet and Marry:

The implications of Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsen “choosing” the last two lords of Shadowdale (Doust Sulwood and Mourngrym Amcathra) were not lost on the Dale’s more powerful neighbor to the south, Cormyr. An agent was sent northward to divine Mourngrym’s true intentions and to guarantee the Dale’s good relationship with the throne of the Purple Dragon. The agent was a rogue named Shearl Rowanmantle, sent by Vanderdahast (though all paperwork on this matter has been curiously incinerated in Suzail, so all is hearsay and tale). Shaerl discovered more than she intended and fell in love with the young Morungrym. The two married and became lord and lady of Shadowdale. Shaerl’s loyalty is now to her husband and to the land they co-rule. This was probably not the intention of the Cormyrans.

Elven Peoples
by Buurk Gers

Elves are a magical people of otherworldly grace, living in the world but not entirely part of it. They live in places of ethereal beauty, in the midst of ancient forests or in silvery spires glittering with faerie light, where soft music drifts through the air and gentle fragrances waft on the breeze. Elves love nature and magic, art and artistry, music and poetry, and the good things of the world. With their unearthly grace and fine features, elves appear hauntingly beautiful to humans and members of many other races. They are slightly shorter than humans on average, ranging from well under 5 feet tall to just over 6 feet. They are more slender than humans, weighing only 100 to 145 pounds. Males and females are about the same height, and males are only marginally heavier than females. Elves coloration encompasses the normal human range and also includes skin in shades of copper, bronze, and almost bluish-white, hair of green or blue, and eyes like pools of liquid gold or silver. Elves have no facial and little body hair. They favor elegant clothing in bright colors, and they enjoy simple yet lovely jewelry. Most elves dwell in small forest villages hidden among the trees.
Elves hunt game, gather food, and grow vegetables, and their skill and magic allow them to support themselves without the need for clearing and plowing land. They are talented artisans, crafting finely worked clothes and art objects. Their contact with outsiders is usually limited, though a few elves make a good living by trading crafted items for metals. Elves encountered outside their own lands are commonly travelling minstrels, artists, or sages.
Human nobles compete for the services of elf instructors to teach swordplay or magic to their children.
Elves take up adventuring out of wanderlust. Since they are so long-lived, they can enjoy centuries of exploration and discovery. They dislike the pace of human society, which is regimented from day to day but constantly changing over decades, so they find careers that let them travel freely and set their own pace. Elves also enjoy exercising their martial prowess or gaining greater magical power, and adventuring allows them to do so. Some might join with rebels fighting against oppression, and others might become champions of moral causes. Like the branches of a young tree, elves are flexible in the face of danger. They trust in diplomacy and compromise to retreat from intrusions into their woodland homes, confident that they can simply wait the invaders out. But when the need arises, elves reveal a stern martial side, demonstrating skill with sword, bow and strategy. Elves cal live well over 700 years, giving them a broad perspective on events that might trouble the shorter-lived races more deeply. They are more often amused than excited, and more likely to be curious than greedy. They tend to remain aloof and unfazed by petty happenstance. When pursuing a goal, however, whether adventuring on a mission or learning a new skill or art, elves can be focused and relentless. They are slow to make friends and enemies, and even slower to forget them. They reply to petty insults with disdain and to serious insults with vengeance. This Buurk believes is the main cause of such hostilities against the race of orcs, half orcs, or any kin alike. The long years of life a elf is bestowed allows for a length of memory that races of a smaller span can never truly understand. To have better perspective, think of your own past and a specific peoples that have wronged you over and over. You have disdain for them yes? Now multiply those encounters by sixty, and try to comprehend how you would feel towards them.

This is the reasoning behind the timeless hatred between elven blood and orcish, and unless a peace between the races lasted for more than one thousand years, it will remain the same. There will always be bad blood between me and elves, not because of what I have done, but because of what my ancestry has in the past hundreds of years before my existence. The only exception to this truth is in the youth of younger elves and even then recent events in orcish/elven history has stained our ties yet again with the Black Orc wars seven years ago. So perhaps when onlooking and judging an elf for a racist comment, think back to these pages and understand the countless times they are assaulted, attacked, and forced to pull up roots because of orcish blood and know though I wish it was not so, in many ways their hatred is justified by the past.

I would like to give a special thanks to Janice of the many books for helping to correct Buurk's words and errors throughout this book, and the many others that doubted my abilities to produce a coherent book, should it have not been for them I would not have had the strength to keep trying.

Ibrandul's Dogma
by Cinnamon
Copied by Edelgarde Spades, Scribe of Candlekeep.

Ibrandul effectively watches over Humans that traverse hostile Underground Environs. He aids those when they are in need, providing they serve him.

Supposedly, Nomadic Humans were abducted by Drow Raiders, these Humans served as the Slaves to Drow for Centuries, naturally, they were incapable of escaping the City because of their fear of the all-enveloping darkness, seeing as Humans's lack Night Vision.

Humans eventually escaped when a Monstrous Lizard emerged from the darkness, driving off the Drow Oversees, leading said Slaves into the surrounding Wilds of the Underdark. Some of the former Slaves actually returned to the Surface, and brought with them the Tales of Lord of the Dark Depths, to the surrounding Tribesmen of the Surface.

Others, however, remained in the dark tunnels, living in a small, nomadic band, and subsisting by raiding the farms and Caravans of the Drow and the Human's from the Surface. The subterranean Dwellers slowly evolved into skulks, a cowardly race of Humanoids with Chameleon like abilities. This is in part due to a side effect of a spell granted by the Skulking God.

Both the Humans of the Surface & The Skulks of the Underdark continue to worship Ibrandul, albeit with varying beliefs and representations. Ibrandul's Worship has slowly, yet surely, creeped it's way into many locations with access of some form to the Underdark.

Symbol of Worship: Four interlocking Circles, on a purple background.

Allies: Mask, Ilmater.
Enemies: Shar, Lathander, Lolth.

Dogma:

Followers of Ibrandul believe that the Underdark is every bit as vital as the Surface World, and, darkness is it's greatest redeeming quality. In a world without light, there is no tedious and inescapable march of day and night to command the lives of intelligent creatures and no end to the variety of shapes and textures to experience tactilely - Something which would be lost by merely looking upon them as Surface Dwellers do. Followers of Ibrandul believe that nothing is good or evil in the Dark unless you consider it so, and such value judgements are frivolous.

Initiates to the Enveloping Darkness, as the Faith is properly known, are charged:

"There is perfect freedom in perfect darkness: independence, individuality, liberty from the judgement of others. Ibrandul protects you and guides you in the dark ways. He drives away those who would do his Children harm, and from time to time, reveals great treasures to those who venture in the Depths. Remain steadfast to him, and he will stand by you"

Priests:

Many of Ibrandul's Clergy members wander in the Underdark as Adventurers or aides to them. Their mission is to persuade everyone they meet to remain below the Surface, and acknowledge Ibrandul as their Defender while below ground. Ibrandulin, the name of his Followers, tend to roam alone in the Underdark, celebrating the darkness, which leads to relatively high morality rate among the lower-ranking Priests. The smarter Ibrandulin stick with groups, until they develop their survival skills and Priestly powers a bit more.

Novice Ibrandulin are called Children of Ibrandul, and addressed as "Child" by Priests. When initiated into the Priesthood, they earn the title Lurker. Senior Priests are Mysterious Lurkers, and the Leader of a Temple is an Impenetrable Lurker. Priests often take distinctive personal titles, and the recognition of such title bu the Impenetrable Lurker of a Temple, is all that is required to make them Official.

Some Druids even follow Ibrandul, though it rare.

Priestly Vestments:

Priests of Ibrandul wear dark purple ceremonial robes, covered with a pattern of large, overlapping silver rings and belted with a black sash. The rings symbolize their interdependence (as fellow Children of Ibrandul), and also the protective scales of the Lord of the Dry Depths. The Holy Symbol of Ibrandul is usually carved into semiprecious stone and carried on a thong or chain, or sometimes formed symbolically from a puzzle ring of four interlinked silver ringer rings worn as one ring.

In general, followers of Ibrandul have a distinct predilection for black and dark purple clothing with silver ornamentation. One might often mistake them for Rogues (which they may be anyway), because they seem to dress as if to blend with darkness. When Adventuring, the Skulking God's Clergy members wear reasonable armor that protects them, yet enables them to move swiftly in the rough terrain of Subterranean Tunnels. Such armor is always tinted or dyed flat black or a deep purple, as not to reflect any light, and is usually crafted from metals or Lizard skins found in the Underdark. Ibrandulin wield whatever weapon are appropriate and available.

Those of more Chaotic natures, with disregard for Laws and Civilised method, are the prime followers Ibrandul has.

Ibrandul's Clerical Domain are as follows:

Cavern, Trickery, Darkness, Travel and Chaos.

Ibrandul resides in the Pandemonium Plane.

The Witch Bride
by Emrys Kerr


[This work is composed in two languages written side by side. Waelan on the left and a conformance translation in Common on the right]

A fair witch crept to a young man's side,
And he kiss'd her and took her for his bride.

But a Shape came in at the dead of the night,
And fill'd the room with snowy light.

And he saw how in his arms there lay
A thing more frightful than mouth may say.

And he rose in haste, and follow'd the Shape
Till morning crown'd an eastern cape.

And he girded himself and follow'd still,
When sunset sainted the western hil.

But, mocking and thwarting, clung to his side.
Weary day! The foul Witch-Bride.

Trielta Hills
by Jacho Bartholomay


In the rolling terrain of the Trielta Hills, scattered with small settlements of gnomes and halflings, life seems pastoral and idyllic. Halfling farmers tend to their plots, and gnome miners scrape out the interior of the hills seeking the bits of gold and silver they may find waiting there. No warlords threaten this land, no liches or dragons plot to seize it for themselves. There are no great castles to covet here, nor ruins to pillage. All told, the place seems dull and unremarkable.

That, of course, is just the way its residents like it. They enjoy their solitude, which is broken only rarely. The hills of Trielta do occasionally offer up some impressive bounty, in the form of heretofore undiscovered gold and silver. While such finds are usually small lodes that are played out almost before others become aware of them. Trielta has played host to full-on gold rushes from time to time. Someone stumbles on a particularly large vein of ore, and prospectors and fortune-seekers come pouring in by the dozens. Trieltan folk tend to see these occasional influxes of gold-hungry seekers the way other settlements look upon periodic plagues of locusts: aggravating, inevitable, and thoroughly disruptive, but also part of the natural order, and so nothing to get bothered about.

Indeed, even the largest of these discoveries isn't so lucrative as to be worth the construction of the full-scale mining operations that can be found in other lands. No large nations or trading consortiums are waiting in the wings to invade and take over the mines of Trielta. They are what a dwarf acquaintance of mine once referred to as "scratch mines" -- close-to-the-surface operations, with decent yield for a small amount of digging, but not worth the construction of "proper" (by which he of course meant dwarven) mines.

I was in Trielta resting after my escape from Najara when just such an outbreak of "gold on the brain" (as the locals term it) occurred. Though most of those who come at such times are honest prospectors seeking to make their fortunes, the sudden opportunity for wealth does attract less scrupulous sorts, including all manner of thieves, swindlers, and claims-jumpers -- not to mention monsters that prey on unlucky or ill-prepared miners who unknowingly invade their territory.

The most intense traveling I've done through these hills was in pursuit of a band of marauding lizardfolk. The head of the kindly gnome family I was staying with was taken prisoner, along with his oldest son. I helped the local halfling sheriff and the small band of militia he put together to track the band, and to do so quickly, rescuing the captives. I've been welcomed in this area ever since, and have gotten to know the goodly folk here well.

-Hardbuckler-
At the southern edge of the hills lies the walled settlement of Hardbuckler. It is a town of mostly gnomes, with the occasional human, halfling, or half-elf among their number. It is one of the best-defended towns I've visited, with several batteries of ballistae on impressive cog-run cranking mounts that allow for a nearly constant cycle of firing and reloading from any of the wall emplacements. Though the folk of Hardbuckler don't have cause to use them very often, these weapons usually discourage the bandits, raiders, and occasional orc bands that would lay claim to Hardbuckler's wealth.

The town eschews the sort of street network that tends to delineate most large settlements; instead it has a single street running inside the circular town wall, and another pair of straight roads crossing the town north-to-south and east-to-west that meet in the center of town in a crossroads marketplace. Many buildings structured for larger folk line these streets, for taller folk tend to prefer the comfortable familiarity they provide, but the rest of the town is made up of a series of narrow paths between the smaller-proportioned buildings that are the homes of the city's gnomes.

The first time I walked along these light lanes, I felt as though I was only seeing a small portion of the actual settlement, and I was right. Later I discovered that beneath the slate-roofed houses, with their modest little adjoining gardens behind blank fences or fieldstone walls are the tunnels that constitute the true thoroughfares of Hardbuckler.

Beneath each small dwelling is an extensive cellar, often three or more levels in depth. These spaces are where the industrious folk of Hardbuckler engage in their livelihoods. Some of the cellar spaces are shops or workspaces for artisans who sleep in the house above. Other of these croftholds rent out their extra space to travelers, setting aside a few rooms for rent, and using a single large space as an open taproom, serving the sort of fare one might find in an inn. The food in such an establishment is odd -- a great deal of mushrooms, potatoes, turnips, dense lichens, and stews made of shrews and voles -- but filling and tasty in its own way.

The chambers in these underground inns are well heated by generous hearths, and thus provide for very comfortable accommodations. More than a few merchants arrange their travels so as to be in Hardbuckler ere winter arrives, so that they can spend the cold months beside a hearth, with a slice of fried pie in one hand, and a tankard of bitter gnomish stout in the other.

Any cellar space not devoted to another purpose is used for storage rather than being left vacant. Almost every family in the town has some space that it uses for its own needs or rents out for use by others. Those who buy storage from a Hardbuckler must purchase their storage crates and other necessary goods from local artisans, who also make locks, latches waxy sealants for waterproofing crates and boxes, and the like. The crates are all built for specific sizes, with shelving and space in the cellars measured so that each container fits snugly and exactly.

Hardbuckler has a well-paid wizard who provides magical security for stored items, for those who wish it. Outlander wizards aren't permitted to lay wards or protections on goods destined for the cellars -- such must be applied by Daelia Inchtarwurn, the latest wizard in a long line of folk who have worked in Hardbuckler over the generations. She wears a set of magical bracers passed to her by her father.


-Rural Settlements-
Most of the outlying settlements in the Trielta Hills consist on a dozen or two dozen halfling or gnome families, living in homes molded gently into rolling hills. Relatively shallow valleys serve as agricultural land, while the slopes are used for growing vine crops (such as pumpkins and strawberries) or grazing small herds of the large-horned sheep many of the halfling families keep, or the ornery braid-bearded goats favored by gnome goatherds.

Most of these small communities aren't exclusively populated by halflings or gnomes, since such groups seem to prosper better when members of both races are in residence. Halfling families often focus on agricultural endeavors (aside from the small fungi gardens many gnomish households maintain in their cellars), while the area's miners are almost exclusively gnomes. Both folk work as herders, with halflings favoring sheep, and gnomes goats, as well as artisans of all sorts. Each community has a sheriff who maintains peace and leads defense -- a role most often fulfilled by a halfling, I've found, through gnomes will certainly rise up in defense of their homes and neighbors when called upon.

Some of the rural settlements mark the former locations of mines that have been played out. It isn't uncommon for halflings to move where a gnomish mine has been abandoned, fixing up the surface entrances into acceptable, comfortable homes, with built-in tunnels that worm through the settlement. These passages might be helpful for defense or escape, but they are most often used when it's raining out to reach a neighbor's door and borrow a cup of honey, so as not to get oneself wet or track mud everywhere.

On occasion, a community that sports large dwelling tunnels, with ample space for larger folk (or "big'uns," as the local gnomes say), turns its settlement into an establishment that caters to such clientele. The inns I know of are the Merry Mine-Lass, the Pipe and Heartstone, and the Giant's Respite, my favourite.

Each of these settlements is impressively self-sustaining. When official leadership is needed, the eldest halflings and gnomes are called upon to act in that capacity, but amity is the heart of community life in these hills. It is a shameful act among the Trieltans to refuse to reach a peaceable accord with one's fellows over some dispute. The folk here enjoy their simple lives, although I've come across a half-dozen or so young adventurers who hail from here, seeking out the newness of the world as a contrast to the familiarity of their homeland.

Few dangerous creatures lurk in the hills -- they are so densely settled (on and beneath the surface) that there is little space for monsters to lair. Cruel or ravenous creatures do occasionally creep into Trielta, mainly from the Forest of Wyrms, but such incursions don't last long -- after a few sheep (and possibly a shepherd or two) are eaten, the sheriffs waste no time in forming a posse to hunt down or to chase off the predators before they can do more harm.

Now, sad to say, this situation might be changing for the worse. According to recent letters I have received from my friends in these hills, parties of Najaran raiders have become more common and numerous. My friends fear that the threat from the Serpent Kingdom to the north will force Trieltans to seriously consider putting up active defense of their lands for the first time in generations.

Emmanuel's Poetry Vol I
by Emmanuel Venandi


The Look

A fleeting glance, a furtive look, a heart set on fire.
Walking on the terrestrial, but eyes like the stars.

A million dreams, a million looks, a million details to see.
A million moments, though still too short for me.

Fire burning, water rushing, wind blowing around.
A quiet whisper in the dark, barely making a sound.

The rush of wings, the sound of fate, a flurry of snowflakes.
The way a sip of ale one's day makes.

Breathing the air, singing a song, lighting the world aflame.
I took one look, and all I could say, "Wow, What a dame."


Scars

Visible or hidden. Seen or unseen. The things we wish didn't happen.
Whether through our own fault, or someone else's. Given by nature or man.
What we are. Who we are. Everything from behind lends to it.
Things that happened, long ago or yesterday. All led up to this minute.
Pain. Regret. A bad decision. A knife in someone's hand.
Everything in the past all leads now to where we stand.
Look to it. Learn from it. But dwell not on its sorrow.
Always looking towards what was keeps us from looking to tomorrow.
An open wound becomes a closed would. That wound becomes a scar.
But each one we have tells a story.
And are part of who we are.


Wolves

A wolf. Two wolves. The odds so great.
Somehow destined to meet; to become mates.

A growl, a snarl. The twain met head to head.
What seemed like a dance to the death... ended in bed.

Love, no love, then love again.
One sought freedom, the other gain.

Shackled together, but both now free,
Each one seeing what the other can't see.

One sees the other; she sees him, too.
He begins the dance; it's her he woos.

Finally a stillness, together in the night.
Where once was two, it's now one in the fight.

Running, leaping, hearts now aflame.
Two wolves now one, sharing a name.


Good and Bad

The good with the bad, the bad with the good.
Both come together, though not with glee.
Pleasant and rough, nice and the thought;
Both come together... in me.

Stay with me now, promise to be here.
I cannot forever good time promise.
But if you'll always be by my side,
Happiness cannot avoid us.

So I'll take the bad with the good,
And never let it get me sour.
For it is just a part of life;
Living the ups and the downs.


Ashling

Words often get in the way of things I mean to say.
My thought I hold in my head never make it to my mouth.
Otherwise you'd hear the sweetest things every day.
If I said what's in my head, it'd be pleasant to us both.

I want to say things that sound romantic and suave.
Like, "My every waking thought is of you and you alone."
But when my mouth tries to tell you the thoughts I've thought of,
I say simple things like, "You make me feel snow."

My heart pounds to see you smile when it's you I greet.
I think, "I want to shout my love from the mountains tall!"
But when I look at you and smile as our eyes meet,
I say, "You make me feel waterfall."

I know I'm not a bard, and my words oft fall short.
But in my mind I love that you understand everything.
So maybe I can't say everything that I ought.
So I'll just speak my heart. "You make me feel Ashling."


Beauty

What is beauty to someone like me?
One who can't even grasp the edge of eternity?
One who doesn't yet know how to become what I want?
What is beauty, that I can behold? Is it a tale that can ever be told?
That it escapes my mind is something I lament.

What is beauty, is it only grace? Is it fashion, best bordered by lace?
Can it be confined to only one thing?
What is beauty, is it a woman? Or is it something greater, like the stars beyond?
The only way I can describe beauty. It is Ashling.


Selune's Gaze

What does Selune see as she looks down upon us? Is her gaze ever looking down?
Does her watchful eye ever crown us? Does her sight always us adorn?

To see the world as she can see it. So high above all the conflict.
Looking at Toril, and all that are in it. Watching, no plan to interdict.

But I finally see why Selune's tears follow her; why they are ever in her wake.
It's because I and not her get to see you first thing, every time I awake.

Rural Architecture
compiled by Genevieve'Riset Bjorlund (original text by Ed Greenwood.)


In settlements anywhere in Faerûn, local materials predominate, because they're easiest and cheapest for builders to get. Anyone standing on a street in most cities can see a wide variety of buildings. This variety of building styles is due to long-established overland trade: Merchants and pilgrims see things they like elsewhere and bring the ideas home, or relocate to distant places and want to dwell in "what they're used to." Moreover, buildings are almost always raised individually: Except in rare instances of royal or temple architecture, there's no such thing in the Realms as identical buildings standing side-by-side.

In rural (to most Realms speakers, "backland" or "upcountry") areas buildings tend to be simpler and more alike, thanks to a limited array of building materials and fewer builders. These builders often cling to what they know or copy what they can see locally.

In the countryside of the Sword Coast North and the Moonsea North, log buildings are the norm. If space permits (in other words, in almost every isolated farmhouse, or "steading" in Realms-speak), these homes are dug into hillsides or protected from prevailing winter winds by "stormshields" (berms) of sheltering earth planted with strong, squat sorts of trees. Trees are usually planted to protect entrances (to keep dwellers from being entombed alive by huge snowdrifts), and roofs are steeply pitched to prevent too much snow from building up and causing a collapse that crushes, suffocates, or buries the folk inside.

Barns are similarly protected when possible, and root cellars are dug into hillsides where stones are available to line them, which helps keep entrances secure against digging animals. Sometimes the cellars are dug right into the dirt floors of homes where stone isn't so handy or easily won.

A mud or mud-mixed-with-pebbles "slather" (stucco) is usually used to seal all gaps between the logs. In many places, local saps or boiled-leaf distillates are added to slather to make it more glue-like and slower to dry, crack, and crumble away; slather must usually be reapplied in at least one place in every building, each autumn. Where there are professional builders (those who take coin to raise buildings for others, as opposed to building their own structures and just hiring others to help), the precise mix of slathers tend to be jealously guarded secrets. Building timbers are usually squared, rather than left round, to minimize gaps that let cold breezes in -- unless a builder is in a hurry, or lacks help enough, and just wants to get the walls up now. "Shieldwalls" (stockades of logs) are common where wolf packs, goblinkin warbands, and other predators are a problem (in other words, in most rural northland areas), and short walls of this sort are also built to serve as windbreaks where natural topography doesn't provide one.

Window glass (made from fine sand) is widely known in the Realms, but expensive. In Calimshan and Tethyr (and less prevalently elsewhere, as ideas spread from the Sword Coast), windows tend to be rectangular, with rough-cast metal frames crossed diagonally by three or four bars, with small panes of glass leaded into place between the bars.

Where metal is dear but wood plentiful, "layer" windows are made by carving out a "tray" of precise shapes to hold available pieces of glass (loosely, to allow for the wood to expand and contract with the seasons). The pieces are held in by an overlapping-their-edges layer of wood scraps, or even a "sheet" of wood precisely carved.

So glass pieces and fragments of all sizes are sold in markets all across the Realms. Merchants transport these wrapped in oilcloth or scraps of old clothing and laid in layers in wood "presses" of boards bound tightly together with leather straps. Merchants often sell them in "tomes" (named for the large books they resemble): two pieces of wood, one hollowed out with chisels to form a cavity before the second piece is fastened over it to form a pocket, for carrying to the building where it will be used. Large panes of glass are rare and expensive luxuries to most rural folk, and even urban windows tend to have long narrow panes (vertical, diagonal, or horizontal) with large expanses of glass reserved for palaces and the mansions of the very wealthy, or for a single "grand window" in slightly less luxurious residences.

Mica can be gleaned in some areas (notably near Loudwater and Secomber, and in the Vilhon and the Vast) for use in windows, but most poor rural folk have windows that are simply holes in the wall covered with shutters: stout winter shutters on the outside, and louvered shutters on the inside. To keep out dust and insects, old clothing is wetted down and hung over the louvers, stretched tight and overlapped to prevent gaps.

Adventurers often seem to find themselves chasing across roofs, hiding on roofs, or jumping onto adjacent roofs. It helps to know if leaping onto a roof is going to plunge you right through it - or send you sliding helplessly down it, and thence into the street below.

Many roofs have hatches (usually very securely fastened on the inside -- with crossbars slid into wooden or metal sockets, chains, or even turn-wheels governing large screws through crossbraces -- against intrusion from above, by anyone who isn't using an axe or a meteor swarm), connecting attics to the rooftop slopes. These allow access for roof and chimney repairs, and they also allow inhabitants to reach hiding spots for valuables.

In the Realms, putting caches of coins in metal coffers that are then hidden in rooftop chimney niches (often concealed behind loose stones), is a favorite ploy, second in popularity to putting valuables under one's floorboards or buried in a dirt floor or the cellar, but more popular than burying a coffer in nearby woods (or pasture, along a fenceline).

A few old, massive buildings have roof-beams or braces large enough to permit hidden cavities to be situated within them: Seekers are advised to look for doubled construction (posts side by side or touching). One will be unbroken and do the structural work, and the other will contain the hiding-places, often under a removable "false front" slice.

Roofs of rural log steadings are framed with wooden trusses (rows of triangles with internal braces) that rest on the log sidewalls, and the treetrunk posts in the center of the rooms hold them up. These posts are often shimmed, as the building settles, with wooden wedges hammered in between post-top and truss-beam.

Roofs are covered either with logs sealed with moss and slather, or logs (sometimes sawn in half lengthwise, into "half-round" form) used as a base, covered with slather, and then covered again with wood shingles or shakes. Slates and tiles are so heavy and expensive that their use is almost entirely urban, except as threshold-stones or the tops of farmhouse cutting-tables -- or on the sturdiest buildings (such as temples or keeps, where warding off the effects of fiery missiles may be a concern) in areas very near slate quarries.

Severe windstorms can wreak havoc with almost any sort of roof, but slate and tile roofs can shed deadly missiles when the wooden pegs that hold individual slates and tiles rot or lose the battle against gales. Veteran battle-mages have been known to use explosive spells to deliberately shower groups of foes with most of a roof-worth of heavy, razor-edged slates, or daggerlike shards of tile.

Thatch roofs are common only where nearby marshes can provide the necessary reeds. Where skilled thatchers are absent, extensive mud slather keeps poorly constructed thatch from blowing off or copiously leaking in every rainstorm.

The poorest dwellings have sod roofs, often planted with clinging, thorny vines to hold the soil against being blown away in high winds when dry, and to discourage animals from burrowing into it. Aside from a low-headroom loft created by laying boards across the cross-beams of the roof trusses, and subfloors created when a house is built on sloping ground, farmhouses almost always have just a ground floor, never any sort of habitable "aloft" (we would say "upstairs").

By contrast, most taverns and inns have extensive attics, used for storage of travel chests, excess and in-need-of-repair furniture, and for servants to sleep in (those who don't sleep in the kitchens or stable lofts), just because their trusses are so much larger. These large trusses allow folk to stand up in rooms "within the trusses" since the area has enough height.

Roofs exist to keep what's under them sheltered from rain, snow, and dew, from the worst of the wind and cold, and to keep out climbing (and, in jungles, slithering) vermin and birds. Most roofs in Faerûn leak, some of them copiously and in many places, so either shedding or gathering rainwater is a very real concern.

Water is collected in downspout barrels, "plungepours" (ponds dug where roofs drain off to), or even (in many urban settings where buildings can be made strong enough to support the great weight of stored water) in rooftop cisterns. Waterdeep is about the most northerly city where cisterns can be seen; the long frozen months, and the problems they bring of having huge, heavy blocks of ice up on roofs, prevent cisterns being popular farther north. Collected rainwater is used for washing, cooking, or even drinking.

The Moonsea and Sword Coast North log steadings and holds usually lack downspouts, though they may have either barrels or plungepours. At the lowest points of their roofs (the "downward" corners, plus sometimes in the middle of a roof, added when age has caused the roof to sag in the middle), they have "tongues." Tongues (usually called "corner tongues" because of their location) are projecting wooden logs with shallow channels carved down their upper surfaces, that serve to carry water away from buildings, in attempts to prevent flooding inside. Where leaking or overflowing rainbarrels would cause such dampness, crude troughs made of hollowed-out logs are often rigged up to drain away excess water from the barrels.

In cities, grander stone buildings usually have roofs of tile, tar-sealed slate, or even metal-plate-over-log (plates that overlap like scale mail, and are sealed with pitch), descending to metal gutters that channel water to lower roof corners. There, ornate stone "gargoyles" (spouts) project water out from the building like the aforementioned tongues, or spit water directly into drainpipes. Such stout, elaborate stone structures are almost unknown outside cities, except in large, long-established temples and abbeys (or in buildings erected very near quarries).

Where hard freezes are rare or unknown, in the warm South of Faerûn, drainpipes tend to be sections of cylindrical tile made with a flaring flange at one end so the section "above" can slide into it. Each joint where these drain-tiles meet is sealed with a mud and lime mix (cement) to keep it from leaking; it's not uncommon to have to reseal such joints annually.

In castles all across Faerûn, drainpipes tend to be very large stone-lined shafts, made waterproof with pitch or cement. The large size of the shafts prevents ice from blocking them entirely or at least gives workers with scraping-rods room to chip at ice that does threaten to choke off a pipe.

Buildings in cities have drainpipes and gutters made of either cast iron, hollowed-out stone sections sealed with cement, or (on the most cheaply made buildings) hollowed-out logs or bound-together log sections (sealed with cement or pitch). Wooden pipes seldom last more than a single season without preservative spells, no matter how thickly they're tarred.

The grand dwellings of nobility and the wealthiest merchants have drainpipes either of sculpted stone, or more often, of ornately cast, fanciful metal pipes, shaped on their outsides to resemble giant scaled serpents, dragons, rows of dolphins swallowing each other's tails, and the like. The pipes, either of iron or most often of various colorfully hued alloys, are actually lengths that bolt together and are sealed with pitch or cement inside. They tend to rust quickly, and they get very brittle in winter cold, but they can be resealed for some years by means of long daubing-paddles reached up or down them from a removed section.

Tavern-tales and adventurers' lurid yarns to the contrary, very few external drainpipes are strong enough to take the weight of climbing thieves, lovers, eloping or fleeing folk, servants bearing secret messages, or eavesdropping kings.

Chimneys in the Realms are almost always of fieldstone, mortared to prevent high windows toppling or collapsing them. In some Southern lands (such as the Tashalar), chimneys are built first, before a building is erected around them, and made of stones that partially melt into a glassy, sealed surface on the inside when subjected to very high temperatures. So the chimney is raised, a fire is built in its hearth that's carefully tended to slowly rise to very high temperatures, and then just as slowly brought back down again (to avoid cracking). The result is a self-sealed chimney not very susceptible to the "chimney fires" (where accumulated soot takes light and burns very hot) that often consume wooden dwellings in the Northlands. Please note that many drafty buildings in the North that have dirt or cobblestone floors (such as most warehouses) lack proper chimneys entirely; if warmth or cooking-heat is needed, metal braziers are set up and charcoal and kindling are burned, with doors and hatches being opened if the smoke gets too bad.

Only the largest "grand hearths" in the kitchens of great castles and palaces have chimneys large enough inside for an adult human to climb or fall down.

Farm fences at their crudest are simply stumps and stones gathered and heaped in a line. Often such barriers go wild with neglect (into a hedge of scrub trees and tangled shrubs), or they are encouraged to grow into tall, nigh-impenetrable hedges by planting thornbushes, especially edible berry-bushes, along them. "Sword-sag" fences are also common timbers placed in zig-zag fashion, ends overlapping like interwoven fingers, so posts aren't necessary.

Most realms in Faerûn have wild ("wilderland" in Realms parlance) areas, often mountainous or at least hilly, and heavily wooded. Wilderland dwellings are few, isolated, and home to hardy, self-sufficient folk used to battling monsters without aid, and providing for themselves.

In slightly less wild areas, as one moves from the frontiers toward larger settlements, "holds" (ranches with subsistence crop planting) and farms become common. In such rural country, villages, hamlets, or thorps usually develop around a temple or shrine, waymoot, waystop (inn), or mill (hence, a stream). Such settlements usually have an open-air market where local farmers sell their produce (at least once a tenday), a public well or horsepond or both, a tavern, and one or more local shops and services. Typically, an "anchor" business will be a smithy or the workshop of a carpenter, cooper (barrel-maker), or wagon-maker.

If the settlement or its temple is large or important enough, or strategically located along a trade route that is either sufficiently popular or sufficiently perilous or lacking in shelter, there will be an inn.

Typical farm-country villages and hamlets are a mix of fieldstone and log dwellings (called "steads" rather than "cottages" or "cabins," though a "steading" refers to a house and its outbuildings, gardens, and other cleared land). Most steads have shingle or board roofs (sometimes covered with earth where gardens of vine-edibles are grown), and a kitchen garden "out back," between the dwelling and its "jakes" (outhouse or privy).

Most buildings front along the roads or tracks of the settlement, and occasional steads may have walls of clay brick or wattle-and-daub. Dwellings of more than a single floor in height are rarities; the exceptions are usually the grand homes of local lords, wizards, community leaders, or priests.

Many rural settlements have woodlots and pastures among the homes, and there may be communal outdoor ovens or roasting-hearths, a "midden."

Most settlements have a lookout, either a tower or more often just a hilltop (with a signal beacon bonfire laid ready for lighting, to warn of an approaching army or orc horde). Roads are usually hard-packed bare earth except in swampy areas Only the best roads have ditches.

In almost all cities and towns, and wherever cheap and plentiful stone of the right hardness can be quarried, earth roads soon give way to a road made of cobblestones, which provide a hard surface vastly preferable to rutted, frozen winter mud or soft, sucking spring mud. Where cobbles can't be had, but small stones are available, roads will be made of gravel, sometimes laid over logs or culverts in areas prone to being washed away (not just where streams or springs cross, but also on or at the bottom of steep hillsides, where fierce storm rain can do damage).

Gnomes and halflings prefer to tunnel into hillsides to fashion their dwellings, lining excavated caverns with stone and roofing them with stone lintel arches. Where stone is locally handy and plentiful, they prefer to quarry and cut precisely fitted blocks, and most building they do for human clients is of this sort. Typical gnome-work is of rectangular stone blocks carved with a slight ridge or spine along their tops, and a corresponding trough or indentation on their bottoms. Blocks then bind together when placed atop each other, preventing the passage of most winds and making a wall stable against side pressure (such as from earth heaped up against it). In the crudest gnome- and halfling-work, walls are reinforced by simply building a second wall against the first, and if still more strength is required, they construct buttresses (short sloping "feet" of wall built perpendicular to the main wall).

In cold climates, such stonework is kept simple, oversized, massive, and durable, and they make it with "expansion joints" to withstand the shattering forces of cold, ice, and chilling winds. Windbreaks (known in the Realms as "cloak walls") shelter most entrances; at their simplest, these are simply walls that thrust out from an outer wall beside a door, and then turn to parallel that outer wall at about the distance of a stout man, and run along it for a dozen feet or so before ending. (When looked at from above, this sort of cloak wall forms a long-stemmed capital letter "L.") Cloak walls shield the most frequently opened doors, and climbing vines with edible vegetables often cover them. Small niches in their blocks, often hidden by the leaves of the vines, allow folk to leave messages or other small items (such as keys or payments).

Building in the Realms is almost always the work of a single overseer directing family and/or paid laborers (professional roofers, glaziers and tilers, or carpenters, and casual "harhands" who fetch, hammer, and carry). A farmer, small merchant, or retired soldier usually serves as his own overseer and will be the owner of the land being built on. Wealthy merchants and nobles hire an overseer or order their own stewards to serve in such a capacity for them. Only in rare cases do landowners, even if planning to derive income from rents as landlords, hire builders to erect more than one building at a time.

"Master builders" are very rarely used, and then only by royalty, nobility, or the wealthiest private clients; for everyone else, carpenters, in consultation with patrons, "design" buildings. The work of a master builder is usually necessary to build multiple identical buildings (or buildings in the same style). Most organized priesthoods have their own master builders who are members of the faith or even ordained priests.

Crier Steve's Sketch
by Crier Steve


This sketch depicts a tanned female accepting salted meat by a short statured lizardfolk. The drawing captures the emotion of the exchange, the women appears happy, gracious even, and the lizardfolk stands merely three feet high offering the food up above its bowing head willingly, the lizardfolk pose strikes a resemblance to that of a offering you would see to a temple shrine, though it is hard to understand the intention behind the lizardfolks facial expression, its body language suggests friendship.

Below the sketch are written a few words.

Prejudice is a burden that confuses the past, threatens the future, and renders the present inaccessible, for it isn’t enough to talk about peace. One must believe in it. And it isn’t enough to believe in it. One must work at it. I believe it's our responsibility to show our communities the value of all people, to celebrate difference, and to take a stand for acceptance and inclusion. These lizardfolk come with offers of peace! they come when bellies are empty, to steal? I think not, but with bounties to feed our children in a hard time. If we are to meet such kindness with hatred and intolerance based on a primitive ideology that many bestow, does that not make us the true monster? after all, the scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls, and you cannot shake hands with a clenched fist.

*Signed, Crier Steve of the east commons*

Heretic wrote: ↑Sat Feb 19, 2022 2:59 pm

Dress to Impress:
The Art and Science of Proper Wardrobe Selection
Lady Netanya d’Abdelledion’dy’Quellium
Matron House Divine
Presented on the 13th of Alturiak 1358, Candlekeep

Selecting appropriate attire is as much an art as it is a science. As a wise person once remarked: “Never fail to make a first impression”. The first impression you impart upon someone can remain forever etched in their memory and often forever dictates how they engage you especially if your interaction with them is limited. It’s this reason first impressions are important should you find yourself in the presence of a dignitary, official of state, or even a romantic interest. First impressions aren’t opportunities to be needlessly and recklessly squandered.

Wardrobe selection is a key determinate in the first impression others forge of you as is the demeanor you project. Much can be inferred from an individual based on their choice of attire - justified or naught.

For those who have attained a certain societal station and rank there is no harm in dressing to reflect your status provided it isn’t done in a tasteless and flamboyant manner. Presenting yourself in a tasteless manner conveys the impression of a shameless individual consumed by vanity and narcissism: Certainly not someone worth the time and effort to engage in conversation.

Dress in manner that exhumes dignity and self-respect and respect towards your profession or trade. Others of sensible mind and taste will naught hesitate to approach you for conversation and a glass of wine, should they feel compelled to do so.

Now we delve into the art of wardrobe selection. Note that these recommendations are predicated against the cultural norms of western urban centers.

Colors: The selection of colors is foremost in your decision to properly dress yourself. When selecting hues avoid the natural hue of primary colors as your base hue - as they tend to strain the eye of the observer. Consider muted hues of these colors and pair them with trims of complimentary colors. Never pair red and blue, orange and pink; or two vibrant hues least you wish to induce seizures. By all that is good and holy please avoid pastels. Should you find your eye flinching at the sight of any hue pairing consider it an omen to avoid these parings for your attire.

Jewelry: An excess display of jewelry is considered tasteless and gauche. Excess displays jewelry present a needless distraction and only serve to garner you unflattering impressions for the reasons I cited earlier. A modest display of jewelry is acceptable however one should limit their jewelry selection to as few grand pieces as possible. Consider jewelry the garnish to your attire; you need only one grand piece to serve as the primary accent to your ensemble, whether a stylish amulet or bracelet. Select jewelry incased with gemstones that complement the primary hue of your garment: Safire for indigo hues, ruby for crimson hues, emerald for woodland green hues, and so forth.

Embroidery: When selecting attire take note of the embroidery etched in the attire. Ensure the imagery or pattern is acceptable in the forum you wish to present yourself. Embroidery imbued your garments with a subtle flair that can often permit the casual observer to make more informed inferences about you as embroidery can represent something you cherish or value. Know your audience: Perhaps embroidery representing skeletal remains or the nude human form isn’t something that would be looked favorably upon in a Ducal or Royal Court.

Skin: Maidens and Ladies have to prudently decide how much skin is acceptable to display in a formal forum. There are refined and tasteless ways to display your flesh and much if it is contingent on the selection of attire. If the garments are formal in cut then it acceptable to perhaps display your, hopefully, shaven legs and arms, cleavage, and bare back. Such garments tend to be designed to display flesh in a graceful manner while strategically leaving all else to the imagination while other, more tactless designs, befitting a trollop, leave absolutely nothing to the imagination avoided as formal wear.

Simply ask yourself ladies: “Would a reasonable person mistake for a strumpet?” Should you elect to reveal skin please ensure any exposed skin is groomed, and free of unsightly scars, or unflattering tattoos and body ink. And let’s be honest ladies, should your body mass vastly exceed that of a healthy person you might want to reconsider bearing skin least you find yourself the victim of unflattering punchbowl gossip.

Gentlemen, beyond your forearms, head and neck, there is absolutely no reason to display skin beyond those regions. It is simply not accepted decorum to display any section of your bear chest in a formal setting regardless of how well-groomed it is. Beyond long established cultural or traditional reasons, such displays are reserved for the tavern or wharf in your pursuit to impress patrons of the fairer sex, or in more intimate settings.

Garments: Your garments you present yourself in should be free of wrinkles, excess rips and tears, stains, and fowl stenches. They should conform to your body; ensure your garments aren’t needlessly tight or loose – granted many garments are designed with a loose train of fabric to enhance aesthetics.

You need not pointlessly constrict your agility or blood flow; moreover, my dear Ladies in specific, the garments you don yourself in should adequately secure your intimate areas least you find yourself the victim of an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction and the subsequent butt of endless ridicule in the middle of Baroness Dawncaster’s Riverside Soirée because the angel sleeve of your sun dress snagged on the head of a nail extruding from a post in the portico, as you mindlessly sashayed passed it, savagely ripping the upper torso of your garments clean off your body leaving you helplessly exposed before king and nation. Seriously - who in the bloody hells left that nail protruding in that matter?! But I digress.

Headdress: Headdresses come in various makes and designs. Headdresses designed with brims should not extend beyond the reach of your shoulders least you to incur into the personal space of others at your side. A suitable headdress at the very least should not obstruct the view of your eyes or any orifice on your face, least an injury requires such shielding. Often it is fashionable to apply décor to a headdress, whatever décor you settle upon it should not resemble a vulture’s nest, fruit stand, or the crown of a bone king if you to endeavor to wear said headdress in a formal venue.

In closing I wish to confer this upon my dear Gentlewoman: The corset and heels is your ally, embrace them, but not in excess. Heels provide stature, both physically and metaphorically, while conferring an aura of confidence about you. Corsets give you form while enhancing the presentation of your feminine assets.

Heels should not exceed 5cm in height above the ground, scaled down to 1.3 cm if you’re a Halfling, and complimented with adequate frontal base support. Heels in excess of these heights are of no friend to your talus (that’s the bone in her foot)

Ladies, do naught shy away from using the assets nature bestowed upon you. Remember they have utility beyond child rearing, they are yours to exploit to garner the attention you richly deserve - but as I emphasized earlier such presentations should be done in a tasteful and subtle manner. Leave as much to imagination as permissible.

And here I conclude my lecture and thank you for your time and interest on this critically important topic.

Teris and the Masturful Bake
A Tall Tale, by S. Ravenpath

"Ohhh and some flour, some cocoa... I-I hope everyone likes it... mmmmmmmmm" The hooded genasi said to himself as he gripped the wood tighter, twisting it this way, that way, up, and down, left and right. Swirling here and a bit of movement there. "Almost there" He said aloud again as the motion quickened pace. A few beads of sweat sliding down his reddish skin.

"T-there it is." The fire genasi's grip loosened as he saw the dough had been successfully mixed before him.
"T-these will be cookies... t-the best cookies, if my name isn't T-Teris, the Masterbaker"

It wasn't known by all quite yet but perhaps one day it would be. Teris would show them, show all the Sword Coast who the most dedicated Masterbaker was. It was not only his hobby, but his passion.

This however, was a very special batch of cookies, he had come across a very rare type of cocoa that was said to only be found on a single secluded island far, far into an area known as the Seas of Moving Ice. There, on this frozen island, the one seeking this cocoa would have to chizel deep through several layers of frost and frozen ground. Only then would the harvester find the cocoa pods, frozen in time and ice, a treasure more valuable than gold. And of course, far more delicious.
Teris could not wait for his very best friends to try this wonderous, incredibly rare cocoa made into only the finest sugar-dough that could possibly be made. The sweetness would of course, offset whatever mild bitterness is contained in the dark, chocolatey treasure.

Teris grabbed hold of a nearby wooden spoon with his unusually strong grip. Teris after all, has had a lot of practice gripping a shaft just like this. He reached over then, sliding a metal pan toward the edge of the mixing bowl. Scoop by scoop, Teris began to craft the dough, swirled with chocolatey goodness, into perfect round cookies. He was, he thought to himself, getting even better at this than he ever thought possible.
Twelve. This was the number of cookies he could muster from this particularly rare treasure from the far north. He smiled as he slid the pan into the freshly lit oven, pushing the thick iron door shut. "N-now to wait" He said as he set a mental timer in his mind, an ability only a Masterbaker such as himself could ever do accurately, for when Masterbaking, timing and a watchful eye on the prize means everything.

Ten minutes pass, but to Teris, it feels like an eternity. His excitement for this special good is palpable and visible on his features, even despite the hood. He opens the oven, a wave of heat followed by a scent one could only describe as orgasmic flowed over his senses. "O-oh my..." Teris exclaimed as he grabbed a towel quickly to pull her tray out of the oven. Finally, they were complete.

Round, plump, a perfect spiral of dark cocoa accenting the whiteness of the sugar dough. This was going to be it. This would be the Masterbaking session he would remember forever, always going back to it years from now he was certain, to remember i fondly on future evenings.

Teris, overjoyed with his creation, speedily wrapped his twelve godlike creations in a towel, placing them carefully into a basket before making his way to the door. From here he left the safety of Ulgoth's Beard, heading to his other home, the most famous brothel in all of Baldur's Gate: the Lewd Lyre. The fire genasi's travel was uneventful save for the expedience of his movement. Through the trails and the forest, through the Northern Farmlands, and straight past the gatehouse. He barely even noticed the Palace District or its denizens as he powered his way through to his destination.

Pushing open the double-doors of the brothel, his appearance was immediately announced by the unusually strong, freshly baked chocolate scent. Strong enough to overpower the brothel's usual scent of alcohol and satisfied men.

"What is that wonderous smell?" Exclaimed Nathan, the Lewd Lyre's purveyor, and also its most prized prostitute.

"I-I made cookies. Would you like some?" Teris blushed, as Nathan stood up from a side-room filled entirely with sofa's, sliding his clothes back on and brimming with the sweat of a recent exertion, to greet his genasi friend. "Of course I do, I love cookies" The blonde haired man said, striding over to meet the basket that smelled so amazing. It was here that the other regulars also took notice, a woman named Carah, and a strange, efeminite elf named Oth entered the main hall from the bar, practically slathering as they got closer to the scent.

"D-Don't worry, there's enough for everyone!" Teris explained as he pulled back the towel, revealing his production of his Masterbaking session. "It's so warm!" Nathan said as he took two, biting into one, and then the other. "And so sticky!" Exclaimed Carah, as she too began to taste her first bite. Oth though, just moaned as he somehow managed to eclipse them both, by fitting two in his mouth at once. "Mrrhmmmrhhmmm" Was all that could escape his lips.

It was then, after swallowing his second cookie that Nathan suddenly cried out, his eyes wide. "W... what is this feeling?"
His pupils, you see, began to dilate. Teris, eating his own cookie looked on as Nathan began to shiver, his eyes looking at far off things. "I can taste the sky!" Carah exclaimed as she began to climb a table, extending her unusually long tongue upward to lick the ceiling.

Oth, having swallowed more cookies than them all, simply shook, staring forward "I can feel time and space". He said aloud. It was then, Teris realized, as he looked toward the bar, just in time to see the Troll and the Red Dragon, Klauth sit down together to share tea, that perhaps this rare cocoa was more than he had bargained for...

And so they had, the group of them, the greatest Masterbaking experience of all, perhaps even, a once and life-time experience that they all would remember for the rest of their lives. It only served of course, to bring their friendship ever-closer.

In the minds of all present though, one thing was certain: Teris was the greatest Masterbaker of them all.

-END-

Emrys and the Fearsome Dance
A Tall Tale, by S. Ravenpath


"We have to prepare, they're coming!" The gate guard shouted back, fear barely contained behind a quivering voice.

"Dun yeeeeeeee worry laddie, I've got a special treat fer em" The man drawlled as he sat at the table in the barracks within Baldur's Gate, several bowls of a blueish powder before him.
"But... what could you do alone, to this entire legion of Undead! They will ravage our poor farmers, one man cannot possibly stop them, there are just too many!" The gate guard said again, as he looked on, gripping his halberd tightly, as if it would somehow save him from the impending danger.
Undeterred, Emrys stood erect, unbuttoning his coat, button by button. Then his gloves, one by one, sliding from his hands. His sword belt and blade, dropping to the floor with a clang. His eyes, filled with determination looked upon the gate guard and his fellows standing near, and in one motion of his hand, his pants too were gone.

Emrys stood, erect in the dim light of the guardhouse, the woad-paint still sitting before him. Strong hands reach forward, penetrating the depths of the blue paint he begins to smear it in a ritual manner across his rippling muscles and bare form. The entire guard house - nay, the entirety of the Flaming Fist look on, the sheer bravery of the man giving them hope. The warning alarm bells rang through the gate then, a piercing dong cutting through the air. Emrys stepped forward through the door of the gatehouse, warpaint now streaked across his fearless form.

Naked, bare feet smacked against cobblestone as Emrys stepped out into the outer city, he could already hear the snarl of the undead, zombies, skeletons, vampires? Who knows what else, but he knew none of it mattered. The bare man only marched on towards danger, as the farmers and traders fled for the safety of the gate, was he truly going to face these creatures alone? "Face me! Yeeee foul creatures!" Emrys yelled out into the venerable army of undead as it slogged its way over the fences from the direction of the Fields of the Dead.
"Face meeeeeee!" The man drawled loudly in confirmation. In a flash of dark, foul magics ahead of the force then, appeared the Lich. It's skeletal, rotting eyes staring out at her challenger. The brave, painted man in woad could tell the lich were once a woman by her clearly femenine dress attire, oddly fanciful for such a thing as this.

"Who dares challenge Adartha, Lich of the North!?" The creature snaps, almost with laughter in her voice as her eyes rested on the man's lean, musclepacked form in the distance. "It be I, who challenge yeeeeeee witch!" Bellowed Emrys as he stepped forward closer to the necromantic witch of undeath.

Adartha, stepping forward brazenly to meet him, a haughtiness to her movement, an assurance. How could this man possibly think to take her and her entire army on? Alone?

It was then, as Emrys steps from the shadow of the Northern Gate, that his full magnificence suddenly on display. The lich stopped cold in her tracks - was it possible for a lich, in their state of undeath, to blush with arousal? Onlookers could have swore they saw it, her undead legion stopping in their tracks along with her. "Yeeeeeeeeee face tha' might o' Emrys woad-knight!" The man bellowed, his hand reaching forward, palm upward. "An' here be me challenge... an' combat dance!"

Unable to help herself, as if under some strange spell upon seeing Emrys in all his bare, painted glory, she reaches out a skeletal hand, taking his offered.

With a strong grip in hers, Emrys pulled Adartha forward, his free hand about the skeletal waist of her dress. Their eyes lock. She seems to shudder at his touch.

Spinning, spiraling, stepping and swirling, the dance begins. Onlookers from the gatehouse watching on in awe, jaws agape as they watch the dangerous dance of battle, one and then the other leadin in turn, back and forth, in and out they moved across the bare earth in a special combat the likes of which none had ever seen before. The dance carried on for what seemed like forever, but bit by bit, it seemed the undead army began to fall. First a zombie, here and there a skeleton, then a spectre vanishes... a vampire crumbles to dust. What was this? How... how was this possible?

With one, final turn, Emrys spun like a tornado of warpaint and muscle, a sudden dust kicking up around them, obscuring the two combatants in its fury.

Slowly the dust cleared, and all that remained was Emrys, The Woad-Knight! In his hand, nothing but dust, in his shadow? No undead legion remained. The muscled hero then closed his hand, the dust dispersing what remained of Agartha. He had won. The city of Baldur's Gate, was saved.

Forever more, the gate would mimic this dance the best they could, a spin, a two step, a spin, a twirl, and striking a pose, hand turned. A tribute passed down that would surely last for generations, the "Emrys Thrust" they called it, in his honour.

End.

A Most Dangerous Meal
A Tall Tale, by S. Ravenpath

Dear readers this one comes as a cautionary tale, no, perhaps... a warning! What happens when one tastes and hunger becomes... too extravagant?

Dorvan, was his name, a stout, strong bearded dwarf of muscle and fortitude. Well known he was, across all the lands, but especially in Kraak Helzak. His ferocity as a warrior, you see, was only matched by his taste for a good meal. There was nothing in all the land that Dorvan loved more than enjoying a warm meal and a mug of strong honey mead.

This of course is what caused our hero to take to adventuring, not for treasure, not for the love and admiration of his bretheren, but to experience the cuisines of the world! Aye, a man whose heart really were his stomach.
"Dorvan my man!" Greeted Bentley Mirrorshade, the proprieter of the famous Friendly Arm's Inn. A smile slid across the gnome's features as he went, immediately to grab the dwarf a mug of his favourite mead. Clearly, Dorvan was a regular here. "I've heard a rumour from a group of adventurers in the area, one I know yer gonna love!" He beamed at the husky, round form of Dorvan as the mighty dwarf took a seat, the stool beneath him creeking with the effort of holding such a mighty, girthy man.

"Ohh, Bentley, ye got somethin' fer me? Treasure? A new recipe?" The dwarf's tongue licked his lips as Bentley slammed down a full mug of mead. "Oh, even betta!" Bentley said enthusiastically. "A very rare, and said to be delicious meat!" The gnome glowed, seemingly excited to deliver this particular piece of news.
Dorvan, having downed half the mug of mead in one gulp, stopped suddenly, his great brown eyes widening as they met Bentley's look. "A rare meat... ohh... how rare!?" The excitement was palatable. "Well, Dorvan" Bentley spoke, pouring a bit more mead into the mug. "Nae certain the type of animal myself see, but they said out there beyond the Woods o' Sharpteeth be an animal, one in a... in a billion! It's meat, likely the most delicious and juicy one could ever have!"

Dorvan looked overjoyed at this news. "This be what I live for!" He shouted with excitement, downing the refilled mug of mead and tossing coin toward the gnome, with interest, and a tip. Bentley smiled "Aye, an here, I'll give ya a general direction too!" The heart dwarf, all too eager to pull out his map of the area and get to work. The next day, Dorvan gathered his provisions and headed off from the Friendly Arm, sweeping out to the direction of the woods of Sharp Teeth. Axe in one hand, hefty shield in the other the mighty her worked his way into the woods, deeper, and further than any known adventurer has ever dared to delve. Orcs and goblins, the occasional gnoll, nothing in the face of strength of a dwarven war axe combined with Dorvan's need to feed.

Eventually, deep within the forest, the birds grew silent, the restlessness of the more fierce denizens seemed to disappear, the swing of his axe no longer necessary. Climbing up a narrow ridge, Dorvan squeezed his stout frame through one narrow pass between a particularly thick knot of large, old trees. It was here he saw it, a calm pool of water, sun and light piercing the canopy above as if a signal from Hansheath himself. A horse...? A demon? ...An angel? ...No...a unicorn!

Dorvan's eyes widened as the majestic creature drank from the pool, the light from the canopy dancing across its white, pure hair.

Of course, this must be it! The dwarf thought to himself. Who was ever in their lives, seen, let alone tasted a unicorn! Dorvan pulled out his enchanted short bow and knocked an arrow, taking aim. He was not going to let this once in a generation prize slip by!

With a twang of the bowstring, Dorvan's bow let loose its arrow. A loud THWAK! sounded then, as the missile struck true. Right in the head! A perfect shot for a perfect prize. The Unicorn reeled, letting out a cry as the dwarf, quickly as not to let his prey escape, slid down the ravine, axe in hand. With one swift swing then, off came the Unicorn's proud, majestic head!

Dorvan, headed then out of the woods, freshly cleaned and packed meat in hand. He had to of course, make the journey to Kraak Helzak, for nearby its home, was the great tavern known only as Cookshollow, for it had the most incredible kitchen in the entire Sword Coast.

It was here, through trials and tribulation that Dorvan arrived, his prize in hand he immediately stormed into the kitchen. His kinsman looking on, knew only one thing got the mighty Dorvan this excited! It had to be a new food... a new recipe! And he was known to share!

The master warrior, and master cook, spices and knives in hand, pans on the fire, went to work. Expert hands worked as if a legendary bard playing their magnum opus! Spices, mushrooms, garlic! A pinch of pepper, distill the fats for the gravy... and here it was! Unicorn steak! The hunger on the kinsmen eyes as Dorvan stepped out, a cart of steaks ahead was ravenous. They'd the lot of them, never in their lives smelled something so unique, so absolute divine! "What is this, what incredible feast have ye brought us? It be unlike anything I've ever smelled... or tasted!" One of his kinsmen commented as he took a slice, and a bite, of a thick chop of unicorn hide. "Why me friends, me fellows, it be none other... than unicorn steak!" A gasp was universally let out. Incredible.

Dorvan took his seat and began his meal, the meat juicy, delicious perfect, godly... so many descriptors were apt for this legendary cuisine. It took an hour or so, but all the lot of them, ate the entire unicorn all! Nothing left but a horn as a trophy.

Satisfied, Dorvan and his kinsmen sat and told stories, and drank their mead. It was about oh... an hour or so after the meal that Dorvan and his fellows began to feel it... at first a rumble in their stomach, then a grumble, then a topsy turvy twist. Oh no... The master cook looked out over his fellows as he held his stomach, they too he could see, were experiencing the same.

One of his kinsmen turned then, his fortitude no longer holding true BLARRGGG!! echo'd through the Cookshollow Tavern as the old dwarf slips partnet, but it were not the expected chunks of meat and fungus that came out, but... a RAINBOW! Firing out from the dwarves face it came, bellowing outward like a blast from Elminster himself, it plowed straight through one of the far walls, destroying tables, chairs and even a dwarf on its way!

"Oh by Hansheath what have I done!" Shouted Dorvan, but it was too late, for he pulled down his pants in sudden agony, and from his rear fired another colorful blast, this time destroying the front of the poor Cookshollow tavern!

This went on and on, each of the kinsman letting loose, blast after blast! Shimmer colours filled the sky, folks as far as Soubar could see it! And in the end well...

Have you, fair reader, even heard of the Cookshollow Tavern? The greatest, most legendary kitchen of all?

No?

Well now you know why. For here, none survived... not even the tavern. But at least here, on these pages survives a warning to any, be it dwarf, elf, man, hin or gnome! To those may desire to covert the most dangerous meal of all. The Unicorn.

-End-