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sleyvas
Skilled Spell Strategist
USA
12179 Posts |
 Posted - 17 Aug 2025 : 02:50:05
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quote:
Originally posted by AJA
Jorl Urlthask
"Wandering Word-Winder of The Lord of Glyphs". Youthful face, fading wispy hair, flourishing downdagger mustache of which he is inordinately proud. Faithful of Denier. Travels the trade-roads of the Western Heartlands collecting all manner of odd scroll or local folklore or forgotten history, and paying his way via work as a caravan guard or hired harpist. Better known in Candlekeep and Berdusk Hall as the author of Things Gathered and Given (1337DR), a collection of poems and told-tales (most notably And Not A Word Now Read, an ink-sorrow he penned in memory of the inhabitants of the fallen Denierrath monastery of Torren-Idle the source of whose horrors remains unknown, but whose ghastly hauntings still inhabit the ruined halls)
"and the ghosts now scream in their head,
on those shelves not a word now read,
for everyone now there is dead"
Kloevthra Callelkh
Diminutive, hawk-nosed. High cheeks and pointed chin. Black eyes. Grey hair kept carefully upswept and styled and and pointed forward into a mages' cowl. Not a spellcaster herself, but a strict disciplinarian of the highest order. Believes that The Weave Is The Way, but also that the Weave is the way of her students' heart, and thus requires the strictest discipline to safely blossom.
Kloevthra is Headmistress of Cold Caladath, the Eltorchul Academy ice-pit located in the highlands north-and-east of the city, in the foothills of Mount Sar. Formerly a hunting lodge called Shaelshar's Fang; now dug six cellars deep, every one furnished with giant copper-lined and sigil-inscribed sarcophagi. Elemental practice at the Caladath is periodically required of all Academy students, regardless of ranking or arcane specialization.
The best crystal-clear blocks formed here are, of course, kept in reserve for Eltorchul functions and for sale to other select noble houses. The lesser, cloudier, results are sold instead to high-coin eateries and merchant families and even to certain shaved-ice syrup-sellers across the city the most famous of the latter being Sholka's Ice-Spears, a frozen-treats vendor of many flavors*.
* of which pear liqour from the orchards of eastern Tethyr, mixed with the anise-flavored extract of the pressed seeds of the woelark (sweet-tuft or 'fog-and-smoke') then boiled down into a bronzed syrup and drizzled onto Cold Caladath ice shavings, are always listed among the very top of the visitor's guides to the city (especially the original editions of Volo's Guide to Waterdeep, which made claim that this particular flavor was introduced to the city from another world entire by the grand archmage Elminster several centuries ago)
Loresk Ilzimmer
A young noble of House Ilzimmer. Apprenticed at the Eltorchul mage academy. Was assigned in turn to Cold Caladath, the Eltorchul ice-pit in the foothills of Mount Sar, and died on patrol of the surrounding region, lost down into the stony tannins of Moander's Soakway*. The sword he carried was a +1 sword, which was also enchanted with some sort of recording instrument which could store and then repeat the last one-hundred-and-twenty words chosen for entry within it. He was granted this weapon by an aunt who married in from outside the House (and who also oversaw his early education and certainly preferred him over the other Ilzimmer of his age, especially his older brother Simon). The family is quite keen on collecting his blade, for it may hold a recording of his final words (it is again a +1 sword, and that alone justifies its' worth, and as so is also exactly the value that the Ilzimmer Patriarch Boroldan has placed upon the retrieval of it).
* a deceptively deep pit of watery gravel at the confluence of several weeping Sar streams, which also collects the random debris of those streams and surface rainwaters, and slowly sucks in and drowns any wildlife unaware to come in for a drink, or any humanoids who find themselves wavering on the untrustworthy banks, fascinated by the unnatural gradients of the stones shimmering only an arms-length down within. Enchantments designed to allow a caster to walk freely upon surfaces of liquid or stone also fail completely here, which is why this place is of particular interest to the masters of the Eltorchul Academy; and also why their young apprentices sometimes overestimate their abilities, and end up drowned and lost. The god Moander has never personally visited here, but their rottings of vegetation, of wildlife, of intelligent being they all lie thick here, deep down in the Soakway (it's also one of the prime spawning-pits for scum-creeper and wort-wailer and bog-snatcher, all of which then range out into the surrounding hills and streams, thus the need for frequent Eltorchul patrols)
Lunaven "Moonstar"
[b.912/d.1090] Half-elven cleric/mage. The founder of what is now the Waterdhavian noble House Moonstar. Married the half-elf Yhauldrae in 960DR. Three children Alaundae, Valadorn, Andvarran.
Adventurer and captain of a small Selūnite mercenary band. Distinguished himself in 942DR during Emurra's Raid (against the drow), which freed the Selūnite priestess Engalathae and other captives and carried them back to the surface world in triumph. During the Raid he also personally carried back with him the great black shield called Gleaming Night, in whose cursed ebon depths it is claimed a man can see nothing but doubt and despair and death (and in whose depths his grandson Vanrak later spent much of his childhood gazing intently into). After that he rose quickly in the lay ranks of the priesthood and became both financier and advisor to the senior priestess Engalathae, the Moonseer of Waterdeep. It was also during this time that he underwent a ritual to change his name in the stars from Neldeiran to Lunaven (a compound of the words "llunath" and "venderiel," from dialects of elven and Chondathan that together can be taken to mean, Moon-Star[red]).
With the passing of Engalathae in 985DR Lunaven and his wife Yhauldrae officially gathered the extant Waterdhavian faithful of Selūne around the altar he had built atop his tower. This became known as The Plinth of the Moon and Stars, the first open temple of Selūne in Waterdeep in over a century. Upon Yhauldrae's death in 1067DR he then hired at great expense a quartet of Gondan artificers to alter the celestial capstone, which still reads overhead today as The Plinth, "I have given here everything of which I am. Here nothing is asked of in return. Would you then do the same?"
Lunaven was ambushed and slain by Malarites in 1090DR during the course of a Great Hunt, who then used the magic they plundered from his body to burn and despoil the Selūnite temple (in which his white-feathered collection of the shadows of singing birds was also lost to the invaders something that the current bards of New Olamn and their previously-aligned predecessors have made it a mission to recover ever since). It should be noted that Lunaven at his death was of an extreme age for a half-elf, yet still relatively spry and healthy. The most obvious answer for this has been recorded as a few potions of longevity kept from his adventuring days, but longstanding House Moonstar legend has it that he was instead moon-stilled, meaning that he was one of those blessed individuals whose bodies did not age while under the light of Selūne. [ Source: Powers & Pantheons, p.154. Name/Description given. Additional detail by me. See also Prayers From The Faithful, p.63-64. ]
Yhauldrae
[b.933/d.1067]. A half elf of Orlenskor, on the outskirts of The Ardeep. Her father was Asklaer, captain of The Moon-Bright Shield, the last elven company still pledged to the ancient alliance of elves and men formerly known as The Realm of Three Crowns. Asklaer and his company met their end in 936DR at The Battle of Withered Fields, during the height of the Orcfastings War.
Upon adulthood Yhauldrae was charged to walk a Prominent Path to a holy site of the goddess, in this case The Moon Sphere of the City of Splendors, where she then joined the silver-and-black blazons of the Moon-Tiger, becoming one with 'those women made of night and stars' (the covert were- followers of the priestess Engalathae, Moonseer of Waterdeep). That station is where she met and fell in love with Lunaven "Moonstar", marrying him in 960DR and helping to manage his accounts until they owned a fleet of four fast caravels and a score more of rental properties to match.
Yhauldrae died of heartstop on one particularly cold Waterdhavian winter's day in 1067. Her continuing efforts to carry forth the legacy of The Moonseer still echo into the present day, in the silver-and-black dress of the Sisters of the Waxing and Waning Moons currently Elaundae of the Elves (09 FEB 2020) and Calashaera Vondryn (29 JAN 2020), caretakers of the House of the Moon chapels of the same name.
Three children Alaundae, Valadorn, Andvarran.
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Alsaerak Ruldegost [ Source: Ed Greenwood, Greenwood's Grotto, #q4ed, 07/24/25. Name/Description given ]
Brymorton Ruldegost [ Source: Ed Greenwood, Greenwood's Grotto, #q4ed, 07/24/25. Name/Description given ]
Dethnar Lyondar Hethan Ruldegost [ Source: Ed Greenwood, Greenwood's Grotto, #q4ed, 07/24/25. Name/Description given ]
Mhair Szeltune (NG HF W19) or (NG HF [Illuskan] W5/guild wizard of waterdeep10/archmage4) or (NG HF W20 at death)
PREVIOUS: [ Source: City of Splendors: Who's Who In Waterdeep, p.56 and p.83 and City of Splendors: Waterdeep, p.30 and Marco Volo: Departure, p.12 and A 08/09/17 Twitter reply to @TheEdVerse by Ed Greenwood. Name/Description/Stats given ]
ADDED: [ Source: Lost Lore of The Realms #14, Ed Greenwood, Patreon Post, 08/11/25. Name/Description/Stats given ]
"I was always quite fond of Jorl, though I only knew of him through his writing" said the feminine voice of the weaveghost detective, "The ink-sorrow called And Not A Word Now Read was the talk of the scrivenerium where I took my apprenticeship copying spellbooks before taking my vows to become a Deneirrath. My copy of Things Gathered and Given had been a nighttime reading in my teen years that I treasured, a gift from my brother that my mother had not approved of, for fear that it might give me night terrors. It had instead awoken a thirst in me to uncover the truth behind the mysteries of the world, hidden in the written word. The book had intrigued me so much that my master scribing that led to my graduation from acolyte to becoming a mage-priestess of Deneir was my personally made copy of Things Gathered and Given, complete with an addendum littered with footnotes and references to other works where I'd researched the sources for much of this work. It was this same personally scribed copy that I had used to gain the right of entry into the library of Candlekeep, though I'd already made a copy of the copy so that I wouldn't lose my references for myself."
"Which of course led to our meeting," piped in the floating sai, Lorey Hisstory, "when I found you deep in the lower levels of the library rather rudely reading the book that I was trying to read. But I rather magnanimously forgave you your transgressions of course, because I could see you were a fellow scholar. You know though, we never have visited Torren-Idle, despite the number of times we've discussed going there. Perhaps we should give it a go? I mean, just think how many works might be lost there just waiting to be uncovered again."
The flapping pages of the levitating book entitled The Red Book of Spell Strategy whipped to 'face' the floating sai, "Look, I'm not one to give a lot of credence to stories meant to frighten the young, but take it from someone who was once under the influence of Shar, and who has done some studying of this place. The Malarite who built the hunting lodge called Shaelshar's Fang, was said to be a lyncanthrope unlike other lyncanthropes, for it was said to be a weresnail who had once entered Mount Sar and travelled in the caves known as Shaelshar said to be never touched by light and which instilled individuals with madness. Its believed that when this Malarite returned from its depths, it had become inflicted with its curse, as well as a strange hunger. Gulyaikin Dzrund, "The Mad Dwarf," who is said to still "live" on Mount Sar [1] said that this Malarite met with the shadow reflection of the Fomorian named Sar who was believed to have been killed by Waterdhavian Warlords long ago [1]. According to the "Mad Dwarf of Mount Sar", he watched the Malarite in hybrid weresnail form [3] talking to the false reflection in a stream running through Shaelshar [2], and that he even fell through the stream to pass into the Shadowdark, a portion of the shadowfell said to be tied to cold, aberrations, and madness [4]. This Malarite, after returning from the Shadowdark seemed driven, gathering followers to himself, and even attacking a steadfast of Selune's power and taking control of the captured shadows of songbirds held there. Some say it was the mad twitterings of these songbirds arriving in Torren-Idle that drove the Deneirrath insane. Some say their ghosts are but mad reflections of their former intellects. Even Jorl's writings seemed to have little hard evidence of what occurred in the Monastery, but was more a lament on the loss of such grand knowledge. But I warn you, there is something more to the songbird shadows, and if you value your sanity, you won't tread there."
Lady Jillian Doncastle of Neverwinter
Lorey Hisstory, the psion sai cyclopedia
Sleyvas, "The Red Book of Spell Strategy"
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SOURCES
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[1] Ed Greenwood (December 1987). Welcome to Waterdeep. In Roger E. Moore ed. Dragon #128 (TSR, Inc.), pp. 814.,
Mount Sar and Mount Helimbrar are named for two great fomorian giants who lived in the mountains until they were slain by early Warlords of Waterdeep. These mountains are still said to harbor stone giants and more fearsome menaces, although travelers also report seeing sylphs on the high ledges and side peaks. Gulyaikin Dzrund, 'The Mad Dwarf,' also lived in a warren of caves somewhere high up in Mount Sar some 70 winters ago (and may yet live there, if travelers' tales are to be believed). Gulyaikin was said to possess rich treasures and was noted for his occasional fits of berserk glee. During these fits, Gulyaikin delighted in killing all sorts of passersby by rolling large rocks onto the roads below and by catapulting large boulders at fishing boats offshore.
Also, from Eric L. Boyd's
https://web.archive.org/web/20160816130823/http://www.wizards.com/dnd/files/WATERDEEP2CX.zip
Mount Sar, the second most southern peak, was named for Helimbrars twin.
[2] AJA - The Five NPCs You Meet in Waterdeep - 22nd of January 2020
Shaelshar
On the basilary slopes of Mount Sar, opened like an ulcer or abcess in the stone of the mountain itself, lies a cavern of deep gloom and oddly mobile echoes or, as is known to Selūnites and trail-wise bards, "Those protruding depths where no moonlight e'er stained." Said to have once been a gathering-place for worshipers of the Lady of Loss. Or worshipers of something else; chanting, malevolent menaces that were snail-eyed and frog-footed. Also said to have birthed a crawling night horror that devoured said worshipers to a man. Those who have since braved the glooms here say that there is an altar, horrid and stained, and that there is more to be found deeper in the depths, but it should be noted that the number of those who exit with such tales is far, far less than the number of those who enter in search thereof.
[3] Weresnail lore - originally Greenwood's Grotto and copied to Candlekeep Forums - Ed Greenwood 03/02/2023
http://candlekeep.com/forum/topic.asp?TOPIC_ID=24668
Paraphrasing for brevity but original source above
Weresnails are most common in the Shining South. They tend to be the size of large sea turtles, or smaller. Their shells are dark brown to slate gray. They taste good roasted. They are predominantly gnomes and halflings, but there are recorded cases of them being from some loxo and humans.
[4] Shadowdark - 4e Underdark - Chapter 5 - The Shadowdark
THE BLACK, the Deep Chill, the World Tomb, the Soul Cold-those who have walked its freezing halls struggle for words that define the Shadowdark. The place clings to the heart as icy bitterness and in the mind as a haunting pall. Its soul-chilling nature lingers deeper than the unwholesome coldness felt on the surface ofthe Shadowfell, and it translates into a true freezing of water and blood in its black tunnels.
The Shadowdark is an otherworldly realm of legend, a chilling grave that buries many alive, and a quiet darkness that snuffs all hope. The unending gloom of the Shadowdark entombs strange places. Some mirror the Underdark locations ofthe world, while others bring new evils into being.
also
HUNGRY VOID Some places in the unending night below sap existence as well as light and warmth. These hungry voids give creatures in them a disorienting feeling of falling away from their bodies. Light cannot dispel this effect because it is the area and not the shadows that unravel the threads of life. A creature in a hungry void is closer to death than elsewhere.
[5] Feydark contains Fomorians - 4e Underdark - Chapter 4 - The Feydark
Ifthe Feydark is an echo of the Underdark, it is a smaller and brighter echo. While the Shallows might have a dank and dismal fungal forest, the Feydark has innumerable smaller caverns lit by dozens of varieties of phosphorescent mushrooms and their incandescent spores. Where each expanse of living stone chronicles the Shallows' rasping assault upon the world above, the Feydark features hundreds of pocket·sized fomorian fiefdoms, each twisted by its own weird magic or insane monarch.
Just mentioning the feydark, as I "suspect" that the fomorians of Mount Sar and Mount Helimbrar may have come across via "reflections" of Toril's underdark into the feywild's Feydark near the top of one of these mountains, but still deep in the mountain (or alternatively, in the sword mountains where its rumored these fomorians came from). These same fomorians may have "disappeared" into the Shadowdark rather than being killed.
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Alavairthae, may your skill prevail
Phillip aka Sleyvas |
Edited by - sleyvas on 17 Aug 2025 17:49:01 |
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AJA
Senior Scribe
USA
814 Posts |
Posted - 17 Aug 2025 : 07:03:24
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quote:
Originally posted by sleyvas
"I was always quite fond of Jorl, though I only knew of him through his writing" said the feminine voice of the weaveghost detective, "The ink-sorrow called And Not A Word Now Read was the talk of the scrivenerium where I took my apprenticeship copying spellbooks before taking my vows to become a Deneirrath. My copy of Things Gathered and Given had been a nighttime reading in my teen years that I treasured, a gift from my brother that my mother had not approved of, for fear that it might give me night terrors. It had instead awoken a thirst in me to uncover the truth behind the mysteries of the world, hidden in the written word. The book had intrigued me so much that my master scribing that led to my graduation from acolyte to becoming a mage-priestess of Deneir was my personally made copy of Things Gathered and Given, complete with an addendum littered with footnotes and references to other works where I'd researched the sources for much of this work. It was this same personally scribed copy that I had used to gain the right of entry into the library of Candlekeep, though I'd already made a copy of the copy so that I wouldn't lose my references for myself."
Rather high praise, there. I can only imagine the conversations that would stem from back-and-forth sharing of footnotes and references of all manner.
I think, given his peripatetic nature and the obvious depths of Jillian's knowledge, that the Word-Winder would likely subvert the master-student relationship and instead follow along with her for a time, to see what instead her particular "education" (and all other good things ending in "-tion") might bring forth.
....except a lore-forth to Torren-Idle. No. Jorl went there once, at least so far as the outer grounds within the spread-open gates. He saw the things writhing within the circular clumps of elms there. He even walked close enough through the cold grey grounds to see firsthand the bluish lights through the great, bubbled panes of the arched windows looming up overhead. He sat there, coated with snow and hoar-frost and listened silently to the torments of three-score former scribes. What he wrote from that was all that needed to be said.
But if that mouthy floating dinner fork that the Lady Doncastle listens to does manage to talk her into delving further, Jorl will walk with them through the outer walls and the circular clumps of elms and the cold grounds. And there they will part ways.
Then he will sit again within sight of the great, bubbled panes of the arched windows. And subject himself once more to the torments of the three-score former scribes resident within. Some of them were once his oldest friends. He would hope that his new friend wouldn't then add her own life to their number.
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AJA
YAFRP
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Edited by - AJA on 17 Aug 2025 07:20:15 |
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sleyvas
Skilled Spell Strategist
USA
12179 Posts |
Posted - 17 Aug 2025 : 12:54:51
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The indignant tone in Lorey's voice was undeniable, "Floating dinner fork! Did he just call me a FLOATING DINNER FORK?!?!"
The bemusement of Sleyvas was obvious when he did respond, "Well, he's not wrong. How many times whilst she still had need to eat did she use you as a kabob for roasting rothe and peppers? I seem to remember you even feeling proud of AND EVEN LIKING the arrangement, claiming yourself to be more than just a tool meant for poking holes in things until they bled out.".
Jillian simply smiled at the subsequent sputtering and embarassment of her longtime friend, for Sleyvas was not wrong, and she rather enjoyed watching the two of them prattle on like old friends making jibes at one another. But then her thoughts turned instead to the meat of the matter being discussed. Of course, when she had been alive, she'd not had the time to chase down Jorl, for she'd been too busy following the gossip of Neverwinter and later Waterdeep. Then had come her children and the need to provide them nurture and structure. But her children were now long dead, followed on by generations of grandchildren that she'd barely met.
She had no doubt that the "Wandering Word-Winder" still lived, for the rumors held that his father had been a dwarf priest of Marthammor Duin who'd had a season's tryst with a dance hall girl of Waterdeep before going "A'venturing into Undermountain", and given up to be raised by the monks and scribes of Torren-Idle. It was said his youth had been filled with studying the books of their great library, and so had awakened a wanderlust in him similat to that of his father to find out more of these stories, returning to write of them and thus pass on his knowledge. Thankfully, it was this wanderlust which had saved him from the grief that come to his home, but it had unfortunately separated him from even his own works, for he had assumed the home of his youth would always be available. So it was that Things Gathered and Given had been rewritten from memory, some of which was misremembered, some of which was false for he could be gullible at times or the tellers did not know themselves that they lied. But Jorl had taken to heart what he'd learned from his mother, for he'd found her after becoming an adult living as an old curios shop owner. She'd told him of her heartbreak when his father had not returned from Undermountain, and how she begged him not to become an adventurer for she'd only just "found him", and she wanted to get to know the son that she'd been unable to raise because of her grief and inability to tend even to herself. After she'd passed, she left the shop and the apartments above to him, and he'd thereupon passed the stewardship of the shop on to his own wife and children, but he'd kept a small room on the third floor as a resting place for himself when he would return to visit. For with the passing of his wife, who had died of a mischance spell during the time of troubles, he'd decided he ought to go a'wandering again.
So it was that Jillian decided, perhaps it was time to peruse her old book and perchance find the man which had inspired her in her youth. After all, at his now advanced age, surely he was like as not to be found in his old apartment. Perhaps it was time to recover the lost lore of Torren-Idle.
In the blackened eaves outside their window, a shadow of a songbird suddenly separated itself from the darkness and took to wing, headed in the direction of Mount Sar. |
Alavairthae, may your skill prevail
Phillip aka Sleyvas |
Edited by - sleyvas on 17 Aug 2025 17:53:16 |
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sleyvas
Skilled Spell Strategist
USA
12179 Posts |
Posted - 17 Aug 2025 : 16:21:45
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| NOTE: on earlier response, gave some source notes for the "mad dwarf", the fomorians, shaelshar, shadowdark, feydark, etc... |
Alavairthae, may your skill prevail
Phillip aka Sleyvas |
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sleyvas
Skilled Spell Strategist
USA
12179 Posts |
Posted - 17 Aug 2025 : 21:39:37
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Ambralax, the shadow dracolich, cracked the skin of ice floating above the venomous, sludgy trickle of a stream that oozed through its lair. The water was polluted enough to kill a mortal man with a single swallow, but in droplet form it would bring upon fevered hallucinations and troubled dreams. Yet the dragon lapped at the water with no ill effects, and in fact seemed to draw strength from the moaning liquid, for it was rumored to be tainted by the spirits of those who had fallen in the shadowfell. Extending its tongue before its nostrils, it nestled a droplet of the liquid in a bowl made of its curved, black, shadowy muscle and looked at the shrunken flesh of the golden armored knight standing before him. Snorting abruptly, the droplet erupted into a spray that sizzled as it touched the engraved roses and suns etched into the plate armor of the man once known as Dahaerlin of the Burning Brand.
Once, long ago, the touch of the droplets would have brought forth at least whimpers of pain from the paladin of the Morninglord. But nearly five centuries of abuse had not only deadened his senses, it had deadened the man himself. He no longer breathed. His flesh lay as cold and clammy as that of a rotted fish. His mind had been corrupted through centuries of magical manipulation so that he no longer even recalled who he had once been. Now, he was simply a servant... a guardian... a weapon that would serve the mighty beast who had held him captive for longer than he had even lived.
But Ambralax had little interest in the necromantic servant, as he turned his attention once again to the heavy slab of smoky ice filled with a webwork of cracks and air bubbles that displayed a tiny world of caves. The icegloom chart was deceptively slow, but still one could see the alignment of the shadowdark caverns which stretched from the underside of the village of Hespheira were coming into alignment with the caverns of Shaelshar once again in perhaps another year or two. The great dragon hoped the batrachian horror in the cavern still slept, for as powerful as he was, the primordial-like being scared even him.
It had been nearly five centuries since the lichwyrm had discovered one of the fabled Obsidian Skins of the Dreaming Ophidian amongst the cursed treasures of Shaelshar's Pit and used its power to transfer the small village into the shadowfell.... only to have the mystical skin stolen by worshippers of a sun god mere months later, who absconded with the artifact and hid it away in the archival depths of a monastery in their world. A century later the shadow dragon had brought the village into alignment again, and the dragon had attempted to secure a foothold that it might recover the codex, but again the worshippers of the sun god had proven problematic and the dracolich had been forced into its phylactery again. Even worse, the body which it had prepared for such a contingency had been destroyed as well. Nearly a century had passed before a dragon-blooded orc [1] had stumbled into the shadowdark via Shaelshar, and the undead knight's mystical compulsions had forced Dahaerlin Blackbrand to capture it and offer its blood in sacrifice to free Ambralax from its mystical prison.
Since that time however, Ambralax's scryings revealed that the scholarly Vault of Torren-Idle in which he suspected the mystical tome had been taken had fallen. Whether it was due to the result of the actions of Shaelar, his servants, or some effect of the codex itself, Ambralax was unsure. Nevertheless, the undead dragon was determined that it would not let its next chance be a loss.
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SOURCES
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[1]Hespheira
Centuries ago, the village of Hespheira lay in the shadows of Mount Sar, but in the Year of Lathanders Light (1024 DR), unknown magics shifted the village and all its inhabitants to the Plane of Shadow. Many villagers were rescued by the paladin Dahaerlin of the Burning Brand and the Brotherhood of Light after fierce battles with a powerful shadow dracolich named Umbralax, who dwelt in one of that planes mysterious Darklands. The fact that Dahaerlin never returned leads many to believe that he won the groups escape at the cost of his own life.
In the Year of the Shadowkin Return (1136 DR), the ruined village of Hespheira returned to Faerūn, wrapped in a cloying cloud of blackness. Shadowy, wraithlike creatures began attacking inhabitants of the surrounding region, drawing out the Knights of the Aster. In the shadows of the village, members of the order battled Umbralax and the wraiths. But although the shadowy invaders were destroyed at great cost, thanks to the magic of the rod of Lathander (CoS:W), -- the dracolichs phylactery was never found.
In the years since the Battle of Hespheira, isolated reports of disappearances in the region have come to light, leading some to speculate that a portal to the Plane of Shadow remains active in the area. Some claim that the shadowy village still periodically returns to Faerūn, but if so, it has never returned long enough to threaten the surrounding region.
MELAIRRIN
High on the slopes of Mount Sar lies a warren of caves leading deep into the mountains heart. Gulyaikin Dzrund, the Mad Dwarf, dwelt therein nearly nine decades ago, and some believe that he lives there still. Gulyaikin was noted for fits of berserk glee during which
he delighted in killing all sorts of passersby by rolling large rocks onto the High Road below and catapulting boulders at fishing boats
offshore.
The warren of caves is now home to Harshnag the Grim (CoS:W), a frost giant and member of the Gray Hands. Harshnags caves are linked to Blackstaff Tower (C6) via a large-sized, two-way, keyed portal. The deepest caves of Harshnags lair lead down to a dwarf-built citadel in the heart of the mountain. Once known as Melairrin, the complex fell to the orcs of Uruth Ukrypt early in the history of that realm, giving them a secure base from which to dominate the southern Sword Mountains. In the Year of the Dracorage (1018 DR), the caverns of Melairrin were taken over by a black wyrm named Shammagar, who claimed it as his lair. The black dragon dwelt therein for several centuries before Asilther Graelor (CG female halfwood elf rogue 9), longtime companion of Mintiper Moonsilver, stole much of his hoard. Fearing further thefts, Shammagar abandoned Melairrin and relocated to an offshore island.
The caverns of Melairrin still retain traces of their various owners, but they are now home to a wide variety of monsters that have crept up from the depths below. Harshnag reports encountering small bands of half-black dragons of orcish ancestry from time to time, suggesting that Shammagars progeny may still dwell below. Older reports speak of a vampire lairing in the depths and a one-way portal linking the Sundered Throne (UM L1) to the dragons lair in the depths of Melairrin. The vampire Rorrina, dual, (daughter) of Tuvala of Clan Stoneshaft (CE female vampire [augmented shield dwarf] cleric 10 of Abbathor), does indeed exist and is a servitor of Artor Morlin (CoS:W and Dungeon #126-127).
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Alavairthae, may your skill prevail
Phillip aka Sleyvas |
Edited by - sleyvas on 17 Aug 2025 21:47:42 |
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Wooly Rupert
Master of Mischief
USA
36945 Posts |
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AJA
Senior Scribe
USA
814 Posts |
Posted - 18 Aug 2025 : 06:42:19
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quote:
Originally posted by Wooly Rupert
If I was Harshnag, I would move.
[Statler and Waldorf] If you were Harshnag, you'd be sixteen feet taller! Ho ho ho!   [/Statler and Waldorf]
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AJA
YAFRP
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sleyvas
Skilled Spell Strategist
USA
12179 Posts |
Posted - 20 Aug 2025 : 01:47:46
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quote:
Originally posted by Wooly Rupert
If I was Harshnag, I would move.
Yeah, I did find that piece very odd. |
Alavairthae, may your skill prevail
Phillip aka Sleyvas |
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AJA
Senior Scribe
USA
814 Posts |
Posted - 07 Sep 2025 : 02:46:18
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Hammaurth the Collector
"So, this man he met. Volo swore his name was Hammaurth the Collector. Unless it was Daurthos the Displayer. Although it was on occasion Balskar of Herrings.
Names can do things like that. Like humans, they are born and they die. 'The bugbears of the body' the dwarf Tarrbur always called them, although I can't imagine he ever met a bugbear. Or even quite understood what a human was. He always was difficult to explain to those who had never met him. But that is why true names are so important in this world. Ask Faithless Loebra, who walked for so long without one.
But again, this man Daurthos that Volo met. All of him, strange and thin and formed with large head and small shoulders. Dressed in horse-hair coat and bronze epaulettes, and silver spangles that jingle-jangled upon his fancy boots. To speak confidentially, those epaulettes had brushed the heads of a long list of lovers. Maybe not more heads than his spangles had counted, but then his spangles were ever said to have had the teeth of the hydra upon them.
And he had of course quite the remarkable and impressive collection of things of his kind. The prize of the costly nature of his dealings and the ultimate reason that any of us were ever involved with one of his names to begin with. And no one ever enjoyed this sort of thing more than he*.
There was a Rod of Lordly Embroidery and a Multifold Rack of Spinners and Spanners; a Casimir Goat and a Back-Parlor Lamia, and at least three Albums of Interesting Things the third one Volo said was made of vinyl, and was pressed with both sides of Traffic's The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys, which he knew of as did I because we had both snuck in independently to a private listening party held in the parlor of Queen Filfaeril of Cormyr in the summer of 1347DR, where such a thing was brought forth and sounded in its entireity.
And then there was his Ladle of Heavenly Sauceries which did not introduce the bechamel sauce to Faerûn, but said introduction did then challenge the collected deities of hearth and home to step up and provide a saucery of comparable culinary worth, and thus was the unfortunate condiment of chipotle introduced to the Realms. Which, if you ask me, proved right then and there that the gods are not near as infalliable as their priests like to loudly claim they are. Tarrbur the dwarf was quite stupidly enamored of the stuff. Queen Filfaeril of Cormyr too, something you would not have thought from knowing her otherwise.
For his part, that man Hammurth had no care for bechamel or chipotle or harelveauplum beside; he used the Ladle solely to make the marathanber green sauce of which he was so obsessed. Five times a day without fail he would prepare for himself the marathanber green sauce, to pour over some sort of steamed shellfish or poached egg. Everything in his collection had a price or promise of equal exchange, except for the Ladle I know because I tried to buy it from him once, long ago when I was Six-Hearth Chef of the Nevelrast of Orlo Jimdaar east of Saelmur. The Nevelress his wife kept me piled high in sapphires so long as I kept her husband satisfied in his dining chamber, and her in her dressing chamber.
I was hanged there once. In Orlo Jimdaar, not specifically in her dressing chamber. The Nevelrast didn't truly mean it though, and he quite happily ate the roast quallus I made for him as the main course later that day. And since I had those unspent sapphires I indulged myself instead on the purchase of a Calishite Pasha's used pleasure barge. The upholstry on the midnight viewing deck was especially lovely. After that I spent a few seasons idly drifting about the Lake of Steam. I took the Nevelress with me of course. That did mark the end of my employment as Six-Hearth Chef of the Nevelrast of Orlo Jimdaar, but it was not entirely the end of my association with the man called Balskar of Herrings.
After all, that man may have had his Ladle and his marathanber green sauce, but what he found himself lacking instead was someone to stand there and poach his eggs for him five times a day. And also someone to remove and rinse his names for him as they inevitably aged and died. And I was so very good at both. He never had anything but praise for my steamed shellfish and my poached eggs, but he also never once failed to whine and pout about my attempt to buy his Ladle and the upturned hat full of sapphires I had brought to him. 'Where is your hate-full of sapphires, shall I be forced to see it again today?' he would whine. The longer I endured this behavior the more there was a difficulty, though it became hard to say to others in any sort of reasonable manner in truth I began to see his face in every one of the eggs I poached for him, and thousand devils!** was first to my lips.
The worst part was, of those eggs, every last one of them had a name.
Promise me a hat full of sapphires instead, the dwarf Tarrbur said to me, one night in the company of the former Nevelress of Orlo Jimdaar. It was very much the same as 'peace is far from my heart, and what is desired shall be', as was swore by the servitor Athlaunae in 'The Celestial Lay of Rodanyy of Roabrûne'***. His meaning was murderous and clear. It seems that the dwarf had a better understanding of bugbears and bodies than I had ever given him credit for.
But then, I don't think I find myself concerned at this moment to enter down into written record a further discussion of such improper things."
(The Lives I've Lived and The Lies I've Loved; or, The Lies I've Lived and The Lives I've Loved || Morthonasz Thelmurra || Professional Chef, Scoundrel-for-Hire, and Decorated Armsmaster of Leira's Absolute Truths || Elminster's notes: formerly known as Dorthor, The Stealer of the Tarrven Roots. And also on occasion Balskar of Herrings)
* Pharrast, A Looking-Glass of Ghosts, Ch.6; and though they had all proved so terrible, no one ever enjoyed this sort of thing more than he
** 'Thousand Devils!' is a Waterdhavian epithet originated with the Guard units deployed to the field of battle at Dragonspear Castle (in particular those later self-titled as The Devil-Fellows and The Long Throats), popularized by many veterans returned to the city and then taken up among adventurers who frequented the same watering holes (notably the Dripping Dagger and the Yawning Portal); the hire-cook Brazaun of Baldur's Gate (cf. Volo's Guide to Waterdeep, p.88 footnote 19) later created a dressing for salads called Thousand Devils in direct reference, which caused enough of a sensation that it spread to eateries from Silverymoon to Athkatla, and Irieabor beside; the full original call-and-response, now largely lost, was;
Thousand Devils!
And ye never knowed?
Knowed what!?
(apparently an off-color joke about a trip to the regimental jakes and whatever horrors might be lurking within, entirely divorced from the infernal foes massed across the field of battle)
*** Athlaunae The Red Right Hand, Planetar and Keeper of The Blood Moon of the Goddess, who went to war on that day when the Celestial Fleet raised their sails, 'where over the city of Reema all the clouds were in the shape of greater famine and glittering mail and other terrible omens'. See also The Celestial Lay of Rodanyy of Roabrûne, Moon-Maiden of Selûne and War-Weaver of the Silver Traceries', MISC'LLANEA More Books for the Comfy Shelves of your Cottagecore Caster! Edition (03 APR 2023)
Jolophae jel Phandar
Dissolute Nimbralan ships-mage. Rebellious, rejected the ingrained Nimbralan dislike for facial hair of any kind, and while he never quite mastered his native lack of moustache or beard beyond the wispiest efforts he flourished his large darkened sideburns as a point of pride, extending and oiling and twirling them in ringlets. He also paid quite a significant amount of coin to have fashioned for him a furred were-suit in imitation of the pegasus, grey-winged harness included, a prize which did not quite endear him to his fellow ship-mates, but one that he greatly enjoyed wearing upon arrival in an accommodating foreign port.
Well. Unlike his personal eccentricities, Jolophae is now notorious for writing a fanciful travelogue of being sea-tossed and washed-upon 'the lands of Lorothara' an undiscovered realm some far way over The Dark Ocean of the South, to the south-and-west of Lantan. His writings ('amateurish, yet insistent and evocative'*) vividly describe a number of great lakes and swamps feeding a vast interior waterway of rivers and canals; of burning black-sand deserts; giant ivory plateaus and needle-sharp pinnacles thrust unnaturally upright from the land; and of the eerie scarlet stars and strange constellations that whirled overhead during the clear night-time skies.
In the course of these chapbook entries Jolophae made particular note of The Rasmah of Ut and The Rakah of Robli, sovereign rulers who quarreled endlessly over the eastern coast of Lorothara and erected legions of huge boulders, all carved in terrible effigy, to ward the lands between them and also, past a great belt of strange purple forest, that The Shorlo of Aanhan held sway over a vast section of the watery interior west of them, and commanded a mighty host of towering swamp-beasts which traversed the waterways and facilitated merchant traffic to all ends of the realm and beyond.
His writings also made brief mention of the lands southward, through a large plain of grasping waist-high grasses and burrowing man-sized and man-slaying beetles, where then over the course of terrible high mountains lay The Subtleties of Kesek, the strange and isolated desert-lands of the scaled folk, who crafted towering cities of glittering dark spires out of the black sands underneath, and whose society revolved entirely around subdued whispers and ornate displays of the bright flowers and vivid scents of the seasonal desert plants. And then, even further south beyond that, was said to be nothing but lands of black, featureless, cursed darkness where the sun did not reach, continuing on and on until the ground suddenly fell right out from under ones' feet entirely, dropping off the face of Faerûn and into the empty Void beyond.
So. While it is true that Jolophae was rostered on the Nimbralan merchantman Savva Andathjet ('Diviner of The Depths'), which disappeared while rounding the dark coastline of Chult en route to the halfling realm of Luiren, and also that he later suddenly and quite dramatically re-appeared in the Rauthaven festhall of The Purple Shandsharae (ed: the standards and proper practices of Candlekeep modesty require that we will not be translating that text here) waving his manuscript around and announcing loudly of his wild adventures and miraculous return to Nimbral, the rest of his tale remains highly suspect. Indeed, there are those who swear that he never even boarded the Andathjet, and that the entire time he was supposedly set adrift and desperately driven towards Lorothara he was actually sitting, stinking drunk, in the various dockside drinking holes of the city.
Tho. That still doesn't serve to explain where he suddenly acquired the services of the strange white coursers Softslow and Windwails, or Olorus and Èndakra, at one time the human scouts of Valkur the Wave-Wander, who vanguarded him on his Twelfth Voyage and were then transformed therein (The White Coursers of Valkur, 10 JUN 2024). Unless, that is, one were to believe Jolophae himself, who claims to have achieved his return over the seas to Faerûn proper by arranging an exchange of treasures most priceless the services of The White Coursers in return for gifting the Rasmah of Ut with his most prized furred pegasus were-suit
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Eh, I've heard worse tavern-tattle.
* so saith Eshanthur of the Strange Cavalcades, writing for the Naringan Woemmelusk ('The Well-Stocked Exchange') column on behalf of Tambal Tapal ('The Gilded Plume'), a foremost broadsheet of Sammaresh, Lapaliiya, 1349DR
Orolausk
A mage of Turmish. Slender, fussy, wheezing. Dark bronzed skin, wavy black shoulder-length hair and straight-wedged beard, 'moon-splashed' black eyes. Very fussy indeed, sometimes preferring the warmth of the day, sometimes the cool of the night, and very vocal about it either way. Employed in the entourage of the minor Amnian noble Maravhmorn and as so was part of the crew of the Dreaming Sun on its journey to The West Beyond The World.
Orolausk lost his shadow among the crumbling ruins of Oard Rost, under the persistent salmon-hued sun there in The Half-Way To Sun-Set*. And like the gnome Esksha he too was later lost overboard to The Waters at The End of The World but he found himself spat out instead, deep among the trees of the High Forest at the headwaters of the Unicorn Run, in a Faerûn that existed long before his birth.
It took him a few dedicated centuries of looking under rocks, along the verges of the forests, and suddenly around random street corners before he was reunited with his shade. He soon learned to regret this persistence though, as by then his shadow had a few centuries of its own adventures instead, and Orolausk came to regard many of those as most distasteful, and damning by association. It's because of this that he chose afterward to walk as much as possible on the shaded sides of streets and gardens, and to confine himself largely to the dimmed confines of his own quarters, so as to not to come in unpleasant contact with his own soiled shade. His shadow, for its own part, paid no attention to such things and instead continued to go on about its own business. It had even learned to wield the Art as a half-decent mage, and was supporting quite a fine shadow of its own.
Which is why, when the time arrived and the timelines realigned, it had attached itself instead to the entourage of the minor Amnian noble Maravhmorn, and as so was part of the crew of the Dreaming Sun on its journey to The West Beyond The World and so on and so on...
* halfway, that is, to The Ruins of Sunset, the ghostly, wan shorelands where lies the legendary lost treasure-houses of the Gods, the Netherese, the djinn, the Creator Races, etc., take your pick of fancy. These are also known instead as The Shores of Far Ruenthalaum, upon which stands the blood-red halls of Settingsun**. The crew of the Dreaming Sun never had the chance to find out the truth of such things, as their star-charts were so fouled that the unstable cosmos overhead spun them out instead straight into the endless glare of The Waters of The Midnight Sun (the madness-inducing precursor to The Waters at The End of The World)
** for more on Far Ruenthalaum and the blood-red halls of Settingsun, see the entry for Adbreth the Wanderer (26 Nov 2023)
Roscorl
A great black crow, the familiar of the magister (black-robe) Baerimn, The Mage of Many Staves (04 AUG 2019). Not that humans notice such things, but among his fellow crows he is regarded as having a bent back, and wrinkled face, and particularly brightened dark eyes. All of which afford him a place as an honored member of their race (a kuarqwhual, 'keen-eye', second in status only to a hwarklar, 'great elder'*).
In magical light or under the full brightness of Selûne overhead Roscorl's feathers display a shimmering red sheen. He calls this his battle-girdle, a special honor gifted to him by the Raven Lord, forged in the deep bond of their past adventures. Baerimn has seen the sheen, but has not yet noticed any blessings of this battle-girdle though he trusts in what his familiar tells him of it, nonetheless. The other crows nearby, well, they tend to remain skeptical (but then they might also be quite jealous of one both kuarqwhual and also personally blessed by their Lord, so).
* the corvids have a robust variety of languages, but most humans just hear caw caw! caw caw! in all things**. Elves and gnomes can be fluent, but heavily-accented in their response (the elves have the high pitch but they have no talent for the harsher consonants of crow-speak, while the gnomes are virtually the opposite), and a host of other forest denizens know enough to hear and respond in the basics and that is why, when the crows all suddenly start calling (caw caw!) in a particularly insistent manner, all those mentioned immediately vacate the area and/or run for concealment, for the corvids never lie to those who can hear them (not true, the magpies do, but they chatter so much that not even they know whether that which they speak of is true or false)
** there are exceptions; for discussion of such things see Where The Black Bird Roosts, Karaeli Swift, A Conversation on A Corvid, Thelli rae Vell quin Laerum (Master of A Million Soldiers), and Joffren's The Black Birds of Faerûn. Also worth consideration are the Raven Lord chapters of the original The Saga of the Cat Lord (I, ch.2; III and IV; VII, ch.6; and XI, footnote 26) and the later Letters of the northern ranger Duneldann (Lavenders, and Willing Hands, and Sour Pre-Occupations)
Torimmor the South Ward Faerie-Driver
'The Coach-Man Who Can Drive You to Faerie-Land'. Sells a variety of frowned-upon sensory delights such as The Far-Away and The Real Faery and The Shadow Nursery. For those of a more advanced temperment those who cannot fall asleep while knowing that 'no day in Waterdeep could be without its enchantments' he offers graduation into the advanced abyssal devolutions of The Fire-Goblins Dance and The Stellar Shift and The Bright Eyes of Children.
He has, of course, sampled all of his own wares. And also some of those that he dare not whisper of to even his most loyal customers (The Lords do have a limit on the blind eye they are willing to turn to such things). And he has survived to not only tell his tales but also sell those very same alterations to others! Sure, he now has a rather bulbous wart on his lower left jaw that sometimes speaks to him (when it isn't otherwise loudly snoring and drooling) and sleep is less a biological need then a lovely dream of a former life and his hands when doing anything other than measuring product or counting coin shake and clench like he's playing a variety of unseen musical instruments but these are all minor costs to pay, a mere pittance to be allowed entry into such unimagined horizons as that of where the fire-goblins dance. Wouldn't you agree?
The hollow shell of a being now called Torimmor was once known to the elves and the Ice Hunters instead as Toleskandro, The Wondrous Warmth or The Short Man of Many Colors, a powerful ancient eminence of Faerie (as described in a most imprecise translation by Arndelar, from broken runes found buried at Wags Rill; "Its carnation is blue, the color of its character; the head is surmounted by two large painted feathers of various colors; from the posterior of its hairstyle descends a long crimson strip; the strip is supported below the breasts by means of a girdle and also at the birth of the wrists") who danced in what are now Waterdeep and Neverwinter and The Ice Lakes, before civilization leapt upon those dwelling-places, and before the Ice Lakes were drained of color and left jangled and harsh, and the peoples who once lived there disappeared into the mists. The Wondrous Warmth was once a colleague of Aenroon (Warragh Bright-Spring, 25 SEP 2020 and also The Thelûnndae, 07 SEP 2023), identified by a love of faerie nodders* which it spread up and down the coastal regions of the Savage North and considered each one its children, to be encouraged and loved. They are rarely found in civilized regions now, cultivated only by those ancient forest gnomes who still find faith foremost in iridescence and intoxication, and in the queer, marred music of Faerie.
These days he largely slumbers in his pleasant and inoffensive haze and his delusion of Torimmor, although the possibility of a brief awakening always remains. Such an awakening can be intrusive and terrifying, such as The Arrival of The Time of Troubles in 1358DR, where the stars overhead suddenly withheld their silver glow and Toleskandro came forth violently to send half the residents of South Ward to the Roaring Myrtles in the Faerie Wilds** and half the denizens of the Undermountain to South Ward in their place and when they were all returned there was great confusion telling which was which but thankfully such events are rare. There are dragons living in Waterdeep that know of an elder presence when they feel one. Some of them have shared this wariness with a few of the archmages of the city that they are friendly with. None of them can say where in Waterdeep such a being is located, nor would any of them stop to consider such a sad individual as Torimmor as a suspect.
Those who somehow stumble upon the secret of the South Ward Faerie-Driver and might seek his assistance in travel to and from the Feywild (or any other matter instead) would be better served to sit down with him and sample his wares first, open up to them and see how far they get you. Torimmor loves nothing more than to dance and share warmth with a kindred spirit. And the growing wart on his lower left jaw does so love an inspired conversation.
* faerie nodders: grow to a height of about three feet; their variously-colored lowered heads bob and nod gently in an invisible wind; the flowers are green, blue, white and crimson, all favorable tints in the faerie realm; the bright purple root bulb is high in vitamin C, also tasty when sliced and fried in butter (pairs well with a green salad or a variety of livers); for gnomes, when the root is boiled in a tea it is effective against fevers and joint-ache and aids well in recovery from all sort of sensory spell-sickness; for all others it just tastes slightly citrusy and slightly earthy, and leads to nothing but bad breath and slight repeating regret
** where the suffocating azure stars hang their many sharp lances just above the tree-tops, and the frost-fairies dash and dance their way over the immense ebony bears that curl in their maintained slumber and resemble nothing so much as shining black boulders.
These are not the green and stony silences of the The Skin Betwixt the Stones, off in the distance, where the elder giants and their elderflowers sit and contemplate eternity that eternity which is past, and that eternity which is to come and move about as pieces on their chessboards just so often; the faeries of The Roaring Myrtles actually serve a purpose, for if the immense ebony bears in their slumber were to ever awaken, then the star-topped myrtles and the azure stars and the elder giants and everyone else beside would truly come to understand the meaning of a Roaring among the Places of Faerie
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AJA
YAFRP
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Edited by - AJA on 12 Sep 2025 06:04:51 |
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sleyvas
Skilled Spell Strategist
USA
12179 Posts |
Posted - 11 Sep 2025 : 13:30:26
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quote:
Originally posted by AJA
And then there was his Ladle of Heavenly Sauceries which did not introduce the bechamel sauce to Faerūn, but said introduction did then challenge the collected deities of hearth and home to step up and provide a saucery of comparable culinary worth, and thus was the unfortunate condiment of chipotle introduced to the Realms. Which, if you ask me, proved right then and there that the gods are not near as infalliable as their priests like to loudly claim they are. Tarrbur the dwarf was quite stupidly enamored of the stuff. Queen Filfaeril of Cormyr too, something you would not have thought from knowing her otherwise.
Sorry, have to stop right here to go to work, but just had to thank you for the laugh here. Well done, goodsir. |
Alavairthae, may your skill prevail
Phillip aka Sleyvas |
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AJA
Senior Scribe
USA
814 Posts |
Posted - 12 Sep 2025 : 06:11:47
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quote:
Originally posted by sleyvas
Sorry, have to stop right here to go to work, but just had to thank you for the laugh here. Well done, goodsir.
Look, I would just like to make it known right here that I, a simple scribe of Candlekeep, only write of what I am told from residents of Faerûn who may or may not have agendas of their own. I personally have no thoughts on the Dragon Queen of Cormyr nor on her tastes in any manner of condiment, sauce, flavoring or marinade, whatsoever. I have never personally besmirched any of the crown residents of the state, nor have I any wish towards being mind-read and mind-reamed by the perfectly just and well-reasoned Wizards of War.
(even if I do think that laying down with a dozen or more kobolds would do just as much for her taste buds as even a tea-spoon of that horrendous dragon-diahorrea. Seriously, has the woman never even considered just any sort of salsa, instead?)
....aww, naeth
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AJA
YAFRP
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Edited by - AJA on 12 Sep 2025 06:20:15 |
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sleyvas
Skilled Spell Strategist
USA
12179 Posts |
Posted - 12 Sep 2025 : 13:08:14
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quote:
Originally posted by AJA
quote:
Originally posted by sleyvas
Sorry, have to stop right here to go to work, but just had to thank you for the laugh here. Well done, goodsir.
Look, I would just like to make it known right here that I, a simple scribe of Candlekeep, only write of what I am told from residents of Faerūn who may or may not have agendas of their own. I personally have no thoughts on the Dragon Queen of Cormyr nor on her tastes in any manner of condiment, sauce, flavoring or marinade, whatsoever. I have never personally besmirched any of the crown residents of the state, nor have I any wish towards being mind-read and mind-reamed by the perfectly just and well-reasoned Wizards of War.
(even if I do think that laying down with a dozen or more kobolds would do just as much for her taste buds as even a tea-spoon of that horrendous dragon-diahorrea. Seriously, has the woman never even considered just any sort of salsa, instead?)
....aww, naeth
(Wait, are you saying those rumors about her and the tribe of urds that I heard in a bar might be true?) |
Alavairthae, may your skill prevail
Phillip aka Sleyvas |
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sleyvas
Skilled Spell Strategist
USA
12179 Posts |
Posted - 12 Sep 2025 : 14:40:50
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quote:
Originally posted by AJA
Hammaurth the Collector
"So, this man he met. Volo swore his name was Hammaurth the Collector. Unless it was Daurthos the Displayer. Although it was on occasion Balskar of Herrings.
Names can do things like that. Like humans, they are born and they die. 'The bugbears of the body' the dwarf Tarrbur always called them, although I can't imagine he ever met a bugbear. Or even quite understood what a human was. He always was difficult to explain to those who had never met him. But that is why true names are so important in this world. Ask Faithless Loebra, who walked for so long without one.
But again, this man Daurthos that Volo met. All of him, strange and thin and formed with large head and small shoulders. Dressed in horse-hair coat and bronze epaulettes, and silver spangles that jingle-jangled upon his fancy boots. To speak confidentially, those epaulettes had brushed the heads of a long list of lovers. Maybe not more heads than his spangles had counted, but then his spangles were ever said to have had the teeth of the hydra upon them.
And he had of course quite the remarkable and impressive collection of things of his kind. The prize of the costly nature of his dealings and the ultimate reason that any of us were ever involved with one of his names to begin with. And no one ever enjoyed this sort of thing more than he*.
There was a Rod of Lordly Embroidery and a Multifold Rack of Spinners and Spanners; a Casimir Goat and a Back-Parlor Lamia, and at least three Albums of Interesting Things the third one Volo said was made of vinyl, and was pressed with both sides of Traffic's The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys, which he knew of as did I because we had both snuck in independently to a private listening party held in the parlor of Queen Filfaeril of Cormyr in the summer of 1347DR, where such a thing was brought forth and sounded in its entireity.
And then there was his Ladle of Heavenly Sauceries which did not introduce the bechamel sauce to Faerūn, but said introduction did then challenge the collected deities of hearth and home to step up and provide a saucery of comparable culinary worth, and thus was the unfortunate condiment of chipotle introduced to the Realms. Which, if you ask me, proved right then and there that the gods are not near as infalliable as their priests like to loudly claim they are. Tarrbur the dwarf was quite stupidly enamored of the stuff. Queen Filfaeril of Cormyr too, something you would not have thought from knowing her otherwise.
For his part, that man Hammurth had no care for bechamel or chipotle or harelveauplum beside; he used the Ladle solely to make the marathanber green sauce of which he was so obsessed. Five times a day without fail he would prepare for himself the marathanber green sauce, to pour over some sort of steamed shellfish or poached egg. Everything in his collection had a price or promise of equal exchange, except for the Ladle I know because I tried to buy it from him once, long ago when I was Six-Hearth Chef of the Nevelrast of Orlo Jimdaar east of Saelmur. The Nevelress his wife kept me piled high in sapphires so long as I kept her husband satisfied in his dining chamber, and her in her dressing chamber.
I was hanged there once. In Orlo Jimdaar, not specifically in her dressing chamber. The Nevelrast didn't truly mean it though, and he quite happily ate the roast quallus I made for him as the main course later that day. And since I had those unspent sapphires I indulged myself instead on the purchase of a Calishite Pasha's used pleasure barge. The upholstry on the midnight viewing deck was especially lovely. After that I spent a few seasons idly drifting about the Lake of Steam. I took the Nevelress with me of course. That did mark the end of my employment as Six-Hearth Chef of the Nevelrast of Orlo Jimdaar, but it was not entirely the end of my association with the man called Balskar of Herrings.
After all, that man may have had his Ladle and his marathanber green sauce, but what he found himself lacking instead was someone to stand there and poach his eggs for him five times a day. And also someone to remove and rinse his names for him as they inevitably aged and died. And I was so very good at both. He never had anything but praise for my steamed shellfish and my poached eggs, but he also never once failed to whine and pout about my attempt to buy his Ladle and the upturned hat full of sapphires I had brought to him. 'Where is your hate-full of sapphires, shall I be forced to see it again today?' he would whine. The longer I endured this behavior the more there was a difficulty, though it became hard to say to others in any sort of reasonable manner in truth I began to see his face in every one of the eggs I poached for him, and thousand devils!** was first to my lips.
The worst part was, of those eggs, every last one of them had a name.
Promise me a hat full of sapphires instead, the dwarf Tarrbur said to me, one night in the company of the former Nevelress of Orlo Jimdaar. It was very much the same as 'peace is far from my heart, and what is desired shall be', as was swore by the servitor Athlaunae in 'The Celestial Lay of Rodanyy of Roabrūne'***. His meaning was murderous and clear. It seems that the dwarf had a better understanding of bugbears and bodies than I had ever given him credit for.
But then, I don't think I find myself concerned at this moment to enter down into written record a further discussion of such improper things."
(The Lives I've Lived and The Lies I've Loved; or, The Lies I've Lived and The Lives I've Loved || Morthonasz Thelmurra || Professional Chef, Scoundrel-for-Hire, and Decorated Armsmaster of Leira's Absolute Truths || Elminster's notes: formerly known as Dorthor, The Stealer of the Tarrven Roots. And also on occasion Balskar of Herrings)
* Pharrast, A Looking-Glass of Ghosts, Ch.6; and though they had all proved so terrible, no one ever enjoyed this sort of thing more than he
** 'Thousand Devils!' is a Waterdhavian epithet originated with the Guard units deployed to the field of battle at Dragonspear Castle (in particular those later self-titled as The Devil-Fellows and The Long Throats), popularized by many veterans returned to the city and then taken up among adventurers who frequented the same watering holes (notably the Dripping Dagger and the Yawning Portal); the hire-cook Brazaun of Baldur's Gate (cf. Volo's Guide to Waterdeep, p.88 footnote 19) later created a dressing for salads called Thousand Devils in direct reference, which caused enough of a sensation that it spread to eateries from Silverymoon to Athkatla, and Irieabor beside; the full original call-and-response, now largely lost, was;
Thousand Devils!
And ye never knowed?
Knowed what!?
(apparently an off-color joke about a trip to the regimental jakes and whatever horrors might be lurking within, entirely divorced from the infernal foes massed across the field of battle)
*** Athlaunae The Red Right Hand, Planetar and Keeper of The Blood Moon of the Goddess, who went to war on that day when the Celestial Fleet raised their sails, 'where over the city of Reema all the clouds were in the shape of greater famine and glittering mail and other terrible omens'. See also The Celestial Lay of Rodanyy of Roabrūne, Moon-Maiden of Selūne and War-Weaver of the Silver Traceries', MISC'LLANEA More Books for the Comfy Shelves of your Cottagecore Caster! Edition (03 APR 2023)
Jolophae jel Phandar
Dissolute Nimbralan ships-mage. Rebellious, rejected the ingrained Nimbralan dislike for facial hair of any kind, and while he never quite mastered his native lack of moustache or beard beyond the wispiest efforts he flourished his large darkened sideburns as a point of pride, extending and oiling and twirling them in ringlets. He also paid quite a significant amount of coin to have fashioned for him a furred were-suit in imitation of the pegasus, grey-winged harness included, a prize which did not quite endear him to his fellow ship-mates, but one that he greatly enjoyed wearing upon arrival in an accommodating foreign port.
Well. Unlike his personal eccentricities, Jolophae is now notorious for writing a fanciful travelogue of being sea-tossed and washed-upon 'the lands of Lorothara' an undiscovered realm some far way over The Dark Ocean of the South, to the south-and-west of Lantan. His writings ('amateurish, yet insistent and evocative'*) vividly describe a number of great lakes and swamps feeding a vast interior waterway of rivers and canals; of burning black-sand deserts; giant ivory plateaus and needle-sharp pinnacles thrust unnaturally upright from the land; and of the eerie scarlet stars and strange constellations that whirled overhead during the clear night-time skies.
In the course of these chapbook entries Jolophae made particular note of The Rasmah of Ut and The Rakah of Robli, sovereign rulers who quarreled endlessly over the eastern coast of Lorothara and erected legions of huge boulders, all carved in terrible effigy, to ward the lands between them and also, past a great belt of strange purple forest, that The Shorlo of Aanhan held sway over a vast section of the watery interior west of them, and commanded a mighty host of towering swamp-beasts which traversed the waterways and facilitated merchant traffic to all ends of the realm and beyond.
His writings also made brief mention of the lands southward, through a large plain of grasping waist-high grasses and burrowing man-sized and man-slaying beetles, where then over the course of terrible high mountains lay The Subtleties of Kesek, the strange and isolated desert-lands of the scaled folk, who crafted towering cities of glittering dark spires out of the black sands underneath, and whose society revolved entirely around subdued whispers and ornate displays of the bright flowers and vivid scents of the seasonal desert plants. And then, even further south beyond that, was said to be nothing but lands of black, featureless, cursed darkness where the sun did not reach, continuing on and on until the ground suddenly fell right out from under ones' feet entirely, dropping off the face of Faerūn and into the empty Void beyond.
So. While it is true that Jolophae was rostered on the Nimbralan merchantman Savva Andathjet ('Diviner of The Depths'), which disappeared while rounding the dark coastline of Chult en route to the halfling realm of Luiren, and also that he later suddenly and quite dramatically re-appeared in the Rauthaven festhall of The Purple Shandsharae (ed: the standards and proper practices of Candlekeep modesty require that we will not be translating that text here) waving his manuscript around and announcing loudly of his wild adventures and miraculous return to Nimbral, the rest of his tale remains highly suspect. Indeed, there are those who swear that he never even boarded the Andathjet, and that the entire time he was supposedly set adrift and desperately driven towards Lorothara he was actually sitting, stinking drunk, in the various dockside drinking holes of the city.
Tho. That still doesn't serve to explain where he suddenly acquired the services of the strange white coursers Softslow and Windwails, or Olorus and Čndakra, at one time the human scouts of Valkur the Wave-Wander, who vanguarded him on his Twelfth Voyage and were then transformed therein (The White Coursers of Valkur, 10 JUN 2024). Unless, that is, one were to believe Jolophae himself, who claims to have achieved his return over the seas to Faerūn proper by arranging an exchange of treasures most priceless the services of The White Coursers in return for gifting the Rasmah of Ut with his most prized furred pegasus were-suit
.
Eh, I've heard worse tavern-tattle.
* so saith Eshanthur of the Strange Cavalcades, writing for the Naringan Woemmelusk ('The Well-Stocked Exchange') column on behalf of Tambal Tapal ('The Gilded Plume'), a foremost broadsheet of Sammaresh, Lapaliiya, 1349DR
Orolausk
A mage of Turmish. Slender, fussy, wheezing. Dark bronzed skin, wavy black shoulder-length hair and straight-wedged beard, 'moon-splashed' black eyes. Very fussy indeed, sometimes preferring the warmth of the day, sometimes the cool of the night, and very vocal about it either way. Employed in the entourage of the minor Amnian noble Maravhmorn and as so was part of the crew of the Dreaming Sun on its journey to The West Beyond The World.
Orolausk lost his shadow among the crumbling ruins of Oard Rost, under the persistent salmon-hued sun there in The Half-Way To Sun-Set*. And like the gnome Esksha he too was later lost overboard to The Waters at The End of The World but he found himself spat out instead, deep among the trees of the High Forest at the headwaters of the Unicorn Run, in a Faerūn that existed long before his birth.
It took him a few dedicated centuries of looking under rocks, along the verges of the forests, and suddenly around random street corners before he was reunited with his shade. He soon learned to regret this persistence though, as by then his shadow had a few centuries of its own adventures instead, and Orolausk came to regard many of those as most distasteful, and damning by association. It's because of this that he chose afterward to walk as much as possible on the shaded sides of streets and gardens, and to confine himself largely to the dimmed confines of his own quarters, so as to not to come in unpleasant contact with his own soiled shade. His shadow, for its own part, paid no attention to such things and instead continued to go on about its own business. It had even learned to wield the Art as a half-decent mage, and was supporting quite a fine shadow of its own.
Which is why, when the time arrived and the timelines realigned, it had attached itself instead to the entourage of the minor Amnian noble Maravhmorn, and as so was part of the crew of the Dreaming Sun on its journey to The West Beyond The World and so on and so on...
* halfway, that is, to The Ruins of Sunset, the ghostly, wan shorelands where lies the legendary lost treasure-houses of the Gods, the Netherese, the djinn, the Creator Races, etc., take your pick of fancy. These are also known instead as The Shores of Far Ruenthalaum, upon which stands the blood-red halls of Settingsun**. The crew of the Dreaming Sun never had the chance to find out the truth of such things, as their star-charts were so fouled that the unstable cosmos overhead spun them out instead straight into the endless glare of The Waters of The Midnight Sun (the madness-inducing precursor to The Waters at The End of The World)
** for more on Far Ruenthalaum and the blood-red halls of Settingsun, see the entry for Adbreth the Wanderer (26 Nov 2023)
Roscorl
A great black crow, the familiar of the magister (black-robe) Baerimn, The Mage of Many Staves (04 AUG 2019). Not that humans notice such things, but among his fellow crows he is regarded as having a bent back, and wrinkled face, and particularly brightened dark eyes. All of which afford him a place as an honored member of their race (a kuarqwhual, 'keen-eye', second in status only to a hwarklar, 'great elder'*).
In magical light or under the full brightness of Selūne overhead Roscorl's feathers display a shimmering red sheen. He calls this his battle-girdle, a special honor gifted to him by the Raven Lord, forged in the deep bond of their past adventures. Baerimn has seen the sheen, but has not yet noticed any blessings of this battle-girdle though he trusts in what his familiar tells him of it, nonetheless. The other crows nearby, well, they tend to remain skeptical (but then they might also be quite jealous of one both kuarqwhual and also personally blessed by their Lord, so).
* the corvids have a robust variety of languages, but most humans just hear caw caw! caw caw! in all things**. Elves and gnomes can be fluent, but heavily-accented in their response (the elves have the high pitch but they have no talent for the harsher consonants of crow-speak, while the gnomes are virtually the opposite), and a host of other forest denizens know enough to hear and respond in the basics and that is why, when the crows all suddenly start calling (caw caw!) in a particularly insistent manner, all those mentioned immediately vacate the area and/or run for concealment, for the corvids never lie to those who can hear them (not true, the magpies do, but they chatter so much that not even they know whether that which they speak of is true or false)
** there are exceptions; for discussion of such things see Where The Black Bird Roosts, Karaeli Swift, A Conversation on A Corvid, Thelli rae Vell quin Laerum (Master of A Million Soldiers), and Joffren's The Black Birds of Faerūn. Also worth consideration are the Raven Lord chapters of the original The Saga of the Cat Lord (I, ch.2; III and IV; VII, ch.6; and XI, footnote 26) and the later Letters of the northern ranger Duneldann (Lavenders, and Willing Hands, and Sour Pre-Occupations)
Torimmor the South Ward Faerie-Driver
'The Coach-Man Who Can Drive You to Faerie-Land'. Sells a variety of frowned-upon sensory delights such as The Far-Away and The Real Faery and The Shadow Nursery. For those of a more advanced temperment those who cannot fall asleep while knowing that 'no day in Waterdeep could be without its enchantments' he offers graduation into the advanced abyssal devolutions of The Fire-Goblins Dance and The Stellar Shift and The Bright Eyes of Children.
He has, of course, sampled all of his own wares. And also some of those that he dare not whisper of to even his most loyal customers (The Lords do have a limit on the blind eye they are willing to turn to such things). And he has survived to not only tell his tales but also sell those very same alterations to others! Sure, he now has a rather bulbous wart on his lower left jaw that sometimes speaks to him (when it isn't otherwise loudly snoring and drooling) and sleep is less a biological need then a lovely dream of a former life and his hands when doing anything other than measuring product or counting coin shake and clench like he's playing a variety of unseen musical instruments but these are all minor costs to pay, a mere pittance to be allowed entry into such unimagined horizons as that of where the fire-goblins dance. Wouldn't you agree?
The hollow shell of a being now called Torimmor was once known to the elves and the Ice Hunters instead as Toleskandro, The Wondrous Warmth or The Short Man of Many Colors, a powerful ancient eminence of Faerie (as described in a most imprecise translation by Arndelar, from broken runes found buried at Wags Rill; "Its carnation is blue, the color of its character; the head is surmounted by two large painted feathers of various colors; from the posterior of its hairstyle descends a long crimson strip; the strip is supported below the breasts by means of a girdle and also at the birth of the wrists") who danced in what are now Waterdeep and Neverwinter and The Ice Lakes, before civilization leapt upon those dwelling-places, and before the Ice Lakes were drained of color and left jangled and harsh, and the peoples who once lived there disappeared into the mists. The Wondrous Warmth was once a colleague of Aenroon (Warragh Bright-Spring, 25 SEP 2020 and also The Thelūnndae, 07 SEP 2023), identified by a love of faerie nodders* which it spread up and down the coastal regions of the Savage North and considered each one its children, to be encouraged and loved. They are rarely found in civilized regions now, cultivated only by those ancient forest gnomes who still find faith foremost in iridescence and intoxication, and in the queer, marred music of Faerie.
These days he largely slumbers in his pleasant and inoffensive haze and his delusion of Torimmor, although the possibility of a brief awakening always remains. Such an awakening can be intrusive and terrifying, such as The Arrival of The Time of Troubles in 1358DR, where the stars overhead suddenly withheld their silver glow and Toleskandro came forth violently to send half the residents of South Ward to the Roaring Myrtles in the Faerie Wilds** and half the denizens of the Undermountain to South Ward in their place and when they were all returned there was great confusion telling which was which but thankfully such events are rare. There are dragons living in Waterdeep that know of an elder presence when they feel one. Some of them have shared this wariness with a few of the archmages of the city that they are friendly with. None of them can say where in Waterdeep such a being is located, nor would any of them stop to consider such a sad individual as Torimmor as a suspect.
Those who somehow stumble upon the secret of the South Ward Faerie-Driver and might seek his assistance in travel to and from the Feywild (or any other matter instead) would be better served to sit down with him and sample his wares first, open up to them and see how far they get you. Torimmor loves nothing more than to dance and share warmth with a kindred spirit. And the growing wart on his lower left jaw does so love an inspired conversation.
* faerie nodders: grow to a height of about three feet; their variously-colored lowered heads bob and nod gently in an invisible wind; the flowers are green, blue, white and crimson, all favorable tints in the faerie realm; the bright purple root bulb is high in vitamin C, also tasty when sliced and fried in butter (pairs well with a green salad or a variety of livers); for gnomes, when the root is boiled in a tea it is effective against fevers and joint-ache and aids well in recovery from all sort of sensory spell-sickness; for all others it just tastes slightly citrusy and slightly earthy, and leads to nothing but bad breath and slight repeating regret
** where the suffocating azure stars hang their many sharp lances just above the tree-tops, and the frost-fairies dash and dance their way over the immense ebony bears that curl in their maintained slumber and resemble nothing so much as shining black boulders.
These are not the green and stony silences of the The Skin Betwixt the Stones, off in the distance, where the elder giants and their elderflowers sit and contemplate eternity that eternity which is past, and that eternity which is to come and move about as pieces on their chessboards just so often; the faeries of The Roaring Myrtles actually serve a purpose, for if the immense ebony bears in their slumber were to ever awaken, then the star-topped myrtles and the azure stars and the elder giants and everyone else beside would truly come to understand the meaning of a Roaring among the Places of Faerie
Also love the reference to the Thousand Devils ... seems a great thing for soldiers to bring home as a reference (and the salad dressing twist is cute as well).
Of Jolophae and his stories, correct me if I'm wrong, but I've heard tell of a land known as Lorothara, but 'twas on the surface of Selune and not well documented. It is said though that outside its borders lie a land of blackened "sand", which is valued and traded to off-worlders who don't know of its origins for its flammable qualities when alchemically combined with the blood of hell hounds or perhaps it was fire beetles. There is also said to be a purple leaved forest near there as well, which the inhabitants are said to make an excellet purple dye from. One would almost think he took (as in stole) passage upon a vessel which flew to the moon and then promptly booted him upon its surface unceremoniously when he was discovered eating their foodstores, especially the psilomuscara mushrooms which they had intended for trade at huge profit with other worlds.
Of Orolausk and his shadow.... I LOVE THIS ... I daren't touch it for its greatness, but I teeter on "what involvement has his shadow had with things". This may lead to some tinkering. I do wonder at how his shadow had hidden in the cargo of The Dreaming Sun until they reached the crumbling ruins of Oard Rost and then set forth the motions that led to "freeing its past self" from his bindings to Orolausk.
I loved the entry as well on Torimmor, what a great idea to take a fairly ancient fey being and turn him into a purveyor of such wares, and have their effects providing him traumatic results after such misuse over time.
By the way, love the links to the prior entries. Its fun to go back and reread them in relation to the new lore. In particular The Thelūnndae would fit well in my book alongside my Metahel pantheon in Anchorome (not as "the same people", but more as who this pantheon may have interacted with/against previously like the Aesir and the Vanir... or the Faernir in my documentation) |
Alavairthae, may your skill prevail
Phillip aka Sleyvas |
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AJA
Senior Scribe
USA
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Posted - 13 Sep 2025 : 07:15:35
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quote:
Originally posted by sleyvas
Also love the reference to the Thousand Devils ... seems a great thing for soldiers to bring home as a reference (and the salad dressing twist is cute as well).
For the dressing, start with the whites of eggs whipped with that 'faerie vinegar' that only the gnomes in their ancient craft know how to produce those fermented grains which come out only when clarified over their sparkling faerie-stones; the result is then briskly combined with the ripe pulps of sweet summer tomatoes and the shavings of the abyssal gleecra root (otherwise known by the unlovely name of Myrkul's Spit*). Lightly chill over ice for two or three bells and then use to dress immediately. IMPORTANT: combine and serve within the same day; delaying otherwise may lead to various unpleasant internal sensations or even spontaneous combustion on the part of those so served.
(note: this was Brazaun's original recipie, and caused quite the sensation indeed and, though it does somewhat mellow over the course of a serving, one can truly see why Thousand Devils! would be the first response towards having a taste. And why many chefs later substituted common horseradish or wild garlic or the ground seeds of the stoneflame, instead**)
* For more information on Myrkul's Spit see MISC'LLANEA (That's a fancy name for 'random nonsense'), 05 MAR 2020
** Also note that sea-captains returned from across the sea from the Far-Lands of Maztica have said that the four-flower flame or the jallo-pine fruit serve as a welcome substitute instead, but I cannot help to wonder why one would travel so far just to find an alternate spice for a simple dressing. I mean, Thousand Devils is good, but I do not find it near enough as worthy a dressing as Blue Death Cheese, or even just a fresh basil-firefruit slather instead
quote:
Originally posted by sleyvas
Of Jolophae and his stories, correct me if I'm wrong, but I've heard tell of a land known as Lorothara, but 'twas on the surface of Selûne and not well documented.
Could be. We all know that the elves broke The World when they pulled down Faerie into Faerûn, and that The Waters of the West were ground zero for that event. Sometimes out in the Trackless Sea a new land is a new world instead, and vice versa. Would certainly make more sense that way, for one walking ever further south on the moon to drop off eventually into the terrors of an empty void.
(....we are all in agreement here that the thing sages call 'The Orb of Selûne' is in reality just a flat disc instead, yes? Yes?)
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AJA
YAFRP
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The Five NPCs You Meet In Waterdeep
