Café de Nuit

Vistani tradesman [Denizens of Dread, etc.]

I told him his price is ridiculous and past ridiculous. I could buy five master-forged swords in the Rue des Armes for that price. I could buy a songforged blade for that price!

"True," the Vistani smith replied, turning the long dagger in his fire-scarred hands so that the light played along the silver edge. "But we are not in Port-a-Lucine, nor Kartakass. Best of luck finding another here in Verbrek who will sell you a silvered blade, Master Weathermay."

Private journal of George Weathermay

Vistani captain [Denizens of Dread, etc.]

The Vistani captain is a diplomat who must represent his caravan to the giorgios (and vice-versa), a servant who must heed the raunie, a master who must direct the caravan, a businessman who must manage trade and handle money, a warrior whose caravan is his to protect. We who are not of their society are, perhaps, overly influenced by the raunie's extraordinary gifts in our depictions of Vistani society and culture; he leadership of the caravan captain is probably of even greater importance in their day-to-day life than the more exotic abilities of the raunie.

working notes to Van Richten's Guide to the Vistani

VIRUS, PHAGIAN, PARANOIA

Something is very wrong in her dreaming. It is not a presence, not a consciousness, not so much as a pale morph. It is an imperceptible weight, a silent gnawing, nothing so articulate as the hunger of a wolf, rather an unconscious, better perhaps, a proto-conscious lust and menace. And what is more, I am beginning to know it well, for it now plagues my dreams.

-Note of Doctor Gregorian Illhousen

VORLOG

The ranger screamed, as he stepped towards the woman whom we had so desperately striven to save, “I know a wolf in sheep’s clothing!” Blood covered her neck and face. And more damning still, she caressed in her lap, between great shuddering sobs, the monster’s severed head. To have shown her mercy would have been wrong. Yet to feel not so much as a sliver of compassion in the presence of tragedy? I concur that she had to be destroyed. But what was in George’s head as he made that decision? I still wonder what he believed himself to be killing that day.

-Journal of Tara Kolyana

Vilewight [Book of Vile Darkness]

Patient J.S: Suffers paranoid delusions and psychosomatic blindness to persons (and other living things). Patient is generally lucid and attributes her blindness to the curse of an undead; no reason not to credit this. I must disagree regarding her description of the creature (humanoid, corporeal, employing magic, "flailing tentacles from its belly"); weird though it may be, this indicates only that it is not a standard "type" (vampire, ghost, ghoul, etc.), not that it is figmentary. Patient could probably be discharged if blindness overcome. No progress with hypnotism. Rest cure among Ezrans?

from case file on Joan Sexton, Soulbridge Sanitarium

Vine horror [Fiend Folio]

Eat your vegetables, my mother said. But this plant--greenmen, vine horrors--will eat you, if you let it. Sometimes I wonder about that; maybe the Boglands grow these things up because of all the people who died there. The plants live on their bodies, see, and then they grow up into that shape themselves. After all, you are what you eat. My mother said that, too.

I dunno, maybe that's stupid. The Doctor could tell you more about how these things are made in the first place, I'll bet. But there sure are an awful lot of plants that seem to think they're people up in that neck of the woods.

Geddar Ironheart

Voidmind creature [Monster Manual III]

"They've--I mean, I've changed my mind about them. I think they want to help us," Isodoris said. As he spoked he ran his finger along his forehead at his hairline; looking closely, I could see a fine line of black--stitches?--there which disappeared into his hair on either side. "After all, what do we know about these Ildi'Thaan anyway? Why should we take their side?"

journal of Jack Desmond, adventurer

Vorlog [Denizens of Dread]

"She's mine," the gleeman said, his mouth dripping red. In his arms Cassandra stirred, as if waking from slumber; I could see the blood from her neck staining the breast of her nightgown. "You killed my lover because you couldn't bear to see us together, happy. I would have been her slave forever. That's what I wanted." His voice rising to a hoarse scream, he grated out, "Don't you understand? I can't be alone. I need her."

I did not know which woman--the blood-mistress who had been slain, or the innocent in his arms--he referred to. I doubt he did either.

The Seal of Blood, Jean Lafolie, Twelve Tales of the Macabre