Random hooks thread

[Zettaijin]

The A's continue with...

Abbas ibn Naddim (by virtue of Arabic naming conventions, Abbas is used for alphabetical sorting)

Edges

One day, a wise man came to the oasis. He had money with which to pay for a night's rest and perhaps more if needed. He had many tales and spoke to the other travelers about edges - the edge of a knife, the edge of a cliff, the edge of town.

All edges were dangerous, he said. Taking a stick, he began to draw lines in the sand and stuck a small twig at the edge of two squares he had drawn.

"This tree bears delicious fruits, however it stands at the edge of two domains. While it grows outward from the earth well within the borders of the first man's land, its opulent fruits hang from long branches which reach into the land of the second man.

Furthermore, were one to dig deeply enough, one could find that the roots of the tree are also showing little regards for the lines in the sand that man drew.

Were a fruit, heavy with juice, to fall from its branch and land in the territory of the second man, would the fruit belong to him?

The travelers argued until one, perhaps having drunk too much sweet wine, pushed another. Words were exchanged and soon they fought like beasts over a simple story with the edges of their knives brandished for all to see and the edges of their cuts and wounds bleeding into the midnight sand.

The man took what he could and left, satisfied with the discord he engineered.

"So, then, Abas ibn Naddim. Now that you have seen the extent of my prowess, perhaps you would like to discuss my fee..."

-------------------

Abbas ibn Naddim knows that the wise man is not what he seems. He does not bear the usual scent of man and besides, words alone never cause such chaos.

However, seeing his rival's growing boldness and hearing the snickering rumours among his men about his failure to do away with a self-created foe, Abbas is desperate and will pay any price to regain his former glory.

[Zettaijin]

The Critics

As of late, the more educated members of high society within the four towers have come to appreciate the venomous barb of a particularly virulent group of literary commentators.

Perpetually unsatisfied and often mystified by the sheer ineptitude of contemporary wordsmiths, these critics are savage and never spare anyone. More amusing still is their apparent mutual dislike of each other.

Needless to say authors have reacted in very different ways to this current wave of violent dissection of literary works with quite a few objecting to such forms of criticism. Chief among these is the ever frustrated Ralsalfas (see page 8) who fancies himself the greatest living writer and considers his near endless saga the last great masterpiece of storytelling.

Now usually Ralsalfas merely sends his brother to handle pesky critics but with the latter's mind occupied with matters of love, he has been unable to ascertain the location of even a single one of these secretive critics.

Well, that's Ralsalfas' excuse.

The truth is the critics have their own reasons for wanting to maintain anonymity - besides their shame at being failed authors and the obvious potential threats to their physical well being at the hands of hired goons. All of them share some manner of secret that prevents them from engaging with the world at large.


Madsapeth: The ghost of a woman in the middle of transpossession with a jealous succubus. In her former life as Madeleine Durocher, she was a noted author of relatively timid tales of romance. Perfect for women of modest virtue but ill suited for the younger, brasher generations to come. Hersapeth sought to hunt down a few rivals in the demiplane and was in the process of entering through the despairing Durocher when fiend hunters struck them both down. The trauma caused the two minds to merge into a single one and for them to rise as a ghost. She is aided by a growing number of ghost maidens who handle various chores such as stealing copies of manuscripts and distributing her tracts.


The oozing quill: Once a simple, petty man, Albert wanted nothing more than to impress local women with his lackluster prose. Lacking wit and charm, he was more often than not relegated to spending time with less desirable ladies many of which were either unimpressed by his attempts at writing or simply repulsed by his pettiness. It doesn't help that he had an inflated sense of self worth and drowned his misery in cheap whores. His baseness lead to a growing number of diseases finding a new home in his body. Unable to afford the services of qualified medical assistance, he turned to the experimental magics of a local so-called mage. His body has now more in common with the oozing, melting form of a lemure than a man, one that the said mage and his spouse find oddly alluring. They keep him alive in exchange for participating in their... "experiments" and he is rewarded with books when he performs well. He keeps his sanity by writing scathing criticisms. Interestingly enough, his new life has brought bountiful inspiration and he is now arguably one of the wittier (yet still petty) critics in the land.


The Rogue Pundit: Literally a thief, The Rogue Pundit amuses herself by writing short yet potent critics of what she deems to be more irresponsible and indulgent art. She favors a more realistic approach to art, one which has the pulse of the city and contemporary life at its core, yet she isn't afraid of profiting from the art she criticizes. Her lifestyle choices (e.g. robbing artists and selling back the art she took) means she needs to maintain her identity a secret. However she actually makes no effort to hide her activities within her writing, something which many find amusing and fresh. Far from a defender of the poor, The Rogue Pundit is more interested in name-calling and finger pointing. Her target of choice is Iberna De LaPlace (page 18) and the Imp which helps her channel her inspiration.


The Disgraced Pharaoh: Touting himself the last living member of a long lineage of exiled nobles from a faraway civilization he is the Moon God of Toth, the Nabob of the Nile, the well... you get the idea.

His people, he claims, invented art as we know it and he, unlike those amateurs, has the ability to properly understand "art".

In truth, his story has some measure of veracity. He does have royal blood from a distant foreign land, tracing his roots to ancient deposed kings. His family long believed in the tradition of embalming and keeping bodies intact following death, but he never truly believed any of this until a blow to the head somehow addled his brain and left him thinking he was the successor to the lineage of kings. Using his considerable finances, he hired "viziers" (mad scientists) to ensure that his body would transcend death. The process lead to the mummification of his physical shell, forever preserved.

Since the demiplane is full of individuals with too much time on their hands, he built a secret cult for fellow wealthy socialites looking to spice up their dreary lives with wild parties and exotic art.

Undeath isn't what it's cracked up to be for the Pharaoh and following a few unsuccessful coups against him by a local caped avenger and his boy apprentice, he went underground. Still fueled by a disdain of contemporary art which he deems vulgar and base, he secretly spends his time writing angry commentary.

[Brandi]

I see what you did there with the last critic.

[Zettaijin]

A mummified King Tut is something Ravenloft needs. That and vampires riding atop dinosaurs.

[The Lesser Evil]

Needless to say authors have reacted in very different ways to this current wave of violent dissection of literary works with quite a few objecting to such forms of criticism. Chief among these is the ever frustrated Ralsalfas (see page

This seems like the emoji got in the way of your page reference. You may wish to disable emojis for your post.

The Disgraced Pharaoh: Touting himself the last living member of a long lineage of exiled nobles from a faraway civilization he is the Moon God of Toth, the Nabob of the Nile, the well... you get the idea.

His people, he claims, invented art as we know it and he, unlike those amateurs, has the ability to properly understand "art".

In truth, his story has some measure of veracity. He does have royal blood from a distant foreign land, tracing his roots to ancient deposed kings. His family long believed in the tradition of embalming and keeping bodies intact following death, but he never truly believed any of this until a blow to the head somehow addled his brain and left him thinking he was the successor to the lineage of kings. Using his considerable finances, he hired "viziers" (mad scientists) to ensure that his body would transcend death. The process lead to the mummification of his physical shell, forever preserved.

Since the demiplane is full of individuals with too much time on their hands, he built a secret cult for fellow wealthy socialites looking to spice up their dreary lives with wild parties and exotic art.

Undeath isn't what it's cracked up to be for the Pharaoh and following a few unsuccessful coups against him by a local caped avenger and his boy apprentice, he went underground. Still fueled by a disdain of contemporary art which he deems vulgar and base, he secretly spends his time writing angry commentary.

It would be interesting if this guy was one of those Wild Children (whom are according to Children of the Night: Vampires the descendants of Black Land nobility) taken from Sebua by explorers and raised in a household in the Core or perhaps taken as a servant. Having somehow discovered his heritage (or perhaps he came of this opinion independent of discovering the truth but ironically being right), this has inculcated his resentment of society. Or maybe he's just some weird who discovered the Wild Children and claims heritage to ancient nobility. In any case, it might be interesting if he was connected to Jasper Molon and the Cult of Kepri (see Quote the Raven 5).

If you wanted a place to play up the Batman connection, Dungeon Magazine 137 has a high level adventure, Man Forever, where the local lord and his ward are something of a Batman and Robin takeoff, but not so much as it was recognized by the editors. As an aside, it's a Forgotten Realms adventure set in Impiltur, but it seems pretty appropriate for Ravenloft.

[Rock of the Fraternity]

The Critics

As of late, the more educated members of high society within the four towers have come to appreciate the venomous barb of a particularly virulent group of literary commentators.

Perpetually unsatisfied and often mystified by the sheer ineptitude of contemporary wordsmiths, these critics are savage and never spare anyone. More amusing still is their apparent mutual dislike of each other.

Needless to say authors have reacted in very different ways to this current wave of violent dissection of literary works with quite a few objecting to such forms of criticism. Chief among these is the ever frustrated Ralsalfas (see page who fancies himself the greatest living writer and considers his near endless saga the last great masterpiece of storytelling.

Now usually Ralsalfas merely sends his brother to handle pesky critics but with the latter's mind occupied with matters of love, he has been unable to ascertain the location of even a single one of these secretive critics.

Well, that's Ralsalfas' excuse.

The truth is the critics have their own reasons for wanting to maintain anonymity - besides their shame at being failed authors and the obvious potential threats to their physical well being at the hands of hired goons. All of them share some manner of secret that prevents them from engaging with the world at large.


Madsapeth: The ghost of a woman in the middle of transpossession with a jealous succubus. In her former life as Madeleine Durocher, she was a noted author of relatively timid tales of romance. Perfect for women of modest virtue but ill suited for the younger, brasher generations to come. Hersapeth sought to hunt down a few rivals in the demiplane and was in the process of entering through the despairing Durocher when fiend hunters struck them both down. The trauma caused the two minds to merge into a single one and for them to rise as a ghost. She is aided by a growing number of ghost maidens who handle various chores such as stealing copies of manuscripts and distributing her tracts.


The oozing quill: Once a simple, petty man, Albert wanted nothing more than to impress local women with his lackluster prose. Lacking wit and charm, he was more often than not relegated to spending time with less desirable ladies many of which were either unimpressed by his attempts at writing or simply repulsed by his pettiness. It doesn't help that he had an inflated sense of self worth and drowned his misery in cheap whores. His baseness lead to a growing number of diseases finding a new home in his body. Unable to afford the services of qualified medical assistance, he turned to the experimental magics of a local so-called mage. His body has now more in common with the oozing, melting form of a lemure than a man, one that the said mage and his spouse find oddly alluring. They keep him alive in exchange for participating in their... "experiments" and he is rewarded with books when he performs well. He keeps his sanity by writing scathing criticisms. Interestingly enough, his new life has brought bountiful inspiration and he is now arguably one of the wittier (yet still petty) critics in the land.


The Rogue Pundit: Literally a thief, The Rogue Pundit amuses herself by writing short yet potent critics of what she deems to be more irresponsible and indulgent art. She favors a more realistic approach to art, one which has the pulse of the city and contemporary life at its core, yet she isn't afraid of profiting from the art she criticizes. Her lifestyle choices (e.g. robbing artists and selling back the art she took) means she needs to maintain her identity a secret. However she actually makes no effort to hide her activities within her writing, something which many find amusing and fresh. Far from a defender of the poor, The Rogue Pundit is more interested in name-calling and finger pointing. Her target of choice is Iberna De LaPlace (page 18) and the Imp which helps her channel her inspiration.


The Disgraced Pharaoh: Touting himself the last living member of a long lineage of exiled nobles from a faraway civilization he is the Moon God of Toth, the Nabob of the Nile, the well... you get the idea.

His people, he claims, invented art as we know it and he, unlike those amateurs, has the ability to properly understand "art".

In truth, his story has some measure of veracity. He does have royal blood from a distant foreign land, tracing his roots to ancient deposed kings. His family long believed in the tradition of embalming and keeping bodies intact following death, but he never truly believed any of this until a blow to the head somehow addled his brain and left him thinking he was the successor to the lineage of kings. Using his considerable finances, he hired "viziers" (mad scientists) to ensure that his body would transcend death. The process lead to the mummification of his physical shell, forever preserved.

Since the demiplane is full of individuals with too much time on their hands, he built a secret cult for fellow wealthy socialites looking to spice up their dreary lives with wild parties and exotic art.

Undeath isn't what it's cracked up to be for the Pharaoh and following a few unsuccessful coups against him by a local caped avenger and his boy apprentice, he went underground. Still fueled by a disdain of contemporary art which he deems vulgar and base, he secretly spends his time writing angry commentary.

Heh, this was highly amusing. Well done!
What might happen, I wonder, if these critics ever got their hands on the Tome of Strahd and published their opinions of it...?

[Zettaijin]

The Vanguard of Civilization

The flow of time and history never stops. What was once vibrant and full of life will inevitably wilt and decay. Entropy is inevitable and does not end with life, as even the greatest of civilizations face a gradual erosion through the succession of changes, be they minor or significant, to its ways and ideas.

All about the land lay ruins of times forgotten, histories put to waste by war and the horrors that inhabit this cursed world. Once mighty fortresses now empty and entire villages where hundreds lived silenced by the passage of a crazed fiend.

In those locales one may find refuge for a night or two. Bandits are known to establish their base of operation in these places as they are not above taking what others toiled for to satisfy their own needs and wants. Travelers caught unaware by the whims of nature seek shelter from heavy rain and ill-tempered winds within the abandoned walls of homes and huts.

But be careful not to overstay your welcome.

Local superstitions in numerous places suggest that it is wise to pay tribute to the former inhabitants of these places, lest the ghosts of history haunt your sleep. While the proper methods may vary from one area to the next, and sometimes even one expert to the next, there is a common thread: in the land of dread, even history has found a way to exhume itself and return from death.

In a flash of lightning or the corner of your eye you might see their silhouette - right before you yourself become lost to history.

Death at the hands of these vanguards of times past is more dreadful than one might imagine for even the memories of your life will fade from the minds of those you loved. It is said that even if you were to escape and live, the curse of history may take hold and you will find yourself a stranger among friends and that you now are the sole possessor of what were once shared memories. You too will be forgotten, just as the vanguards.

-----------------

The vanguards are an odd form of vengeful ghost which, for now, inhabit ruins and other desolate areas where life once flourished. They represent the shared resentment over being forgotten - a combination of residual mental processes, memories, emotions, dreams, and hopes, along with the demiplane's tendency to give shape and "(un)life" to what may have never truly existed.

They appear as stalwart warriors or guards wearing the appropriate garb for their place and time, yet their faces remain covered if only by shadows. Were one to somehow reveal their visage, they would see nothing but inky blackness with swirling banks of mist.

Some rituals may be employed in order to ward off their advances. In truth, showing proper respect or at least mourning the end of history in the locale will suffice. Although particularly important areas say the site of a great battle or a once powerful fortress may produce stronger, more ardent vanguards.

Stories abound of such vanguards now appearing in cities to defend those lingering strands of history which risk being forgotten. Moreover, while vanguards tend to be simple instruments of history's jealousy and anger, some have shown signs of intelligence - planning, plotting and - yes - even trying to unearth what has been buried by the passage of time. They have largely outgrown their roles as mere defenders and become far more active in the effort to revive dead history.

Such vanguards perhaps even entering into a conflict with other vanguards over a shared historical site is a dread possibility worth exploring.

[Zettaijin]

Heh, this was highly amusing. Well done!
What might happen, I wonder, if these critics ever got their hands on the Tome of Strahd and published their opinions of it...?

"Whine, pout, whine... A poor little rich boy lamenting his broken toys and throwing tantrums. His vitriol and pompousness hide a profound fear of the grumbling masses that bear his weight."

"Perhaps the single greatest comedy I've ever read - oh, was I to take this fool seriously? 'I sold my soul to the eternal evils in return for the love of a beautiful woman' One would imagine that this lady's grip is quite firm indeed."

"A rather dull account of undeath plagued by interminable internal monologues and insufferably long accounts of military campaigns. No sense of grandeur to be felt here. Not unlike staring at some nouveau riche's garish tapestry collection."

[Zettaijin]

I wrote this some years back in another thread. I thought I'd preserve it here. I'm not one to flaunt my work but I'm rather pleased with this one. I hope you folks enjoy it, too.

-----------

Some years ago, an accident occurred. However, only recently have its consequences been clear to me.

I swallowed my pride one day and consulted the local Vistana seer. And to think I used to believe that her presence was merely an atmospheric trope added by the local powers that be. The old woman, wise beyond any mortal years, was right: I had caught a glimpse of what no man can truly see, and my mind, ever fortified by educated thought, merely swept the anomaly under the proverbial memory rug.

It is on that day that I began collecting my thoughts. It was the style of the time, I told myself, but it was more than that. I needed a safety net or some manner of method to ensure myself that this was not a feverish dream induced by some exotic toxins furtively pumped into my bloodstream by a shadowy would-be assassin with a twisted sense of humour.

It took years. I'm patient - we all are in our field - but years, for this? Fortunately, yesterday was that fateful day. There really isn't any way to put into words what you feel when you look into a mirror when not looking into a mirror.

I arrived at the small cottage where it had laid hidden for some time. It stood in the middle of a small community somewhere in Kartakass, small enough that no one bothers them. Kartakan forests always make me uneasy, and I find it hard to imagine that anyone could feel in any way safe while living so far from larger agglomerations. Do these people ever fear that someone would come over and blow their fragile-looking houses down? The cottage was surrounded by a small garden and a hen house from which infernal clucking could be heard.

I can't believe I forgot to hide myself from the locals. The looks given to me as I passed by should have been enough to rouse me from my single minded pursuit, yet I did not stop. I rushed over to the doorstep, never once considering the impact my presence might have. I'm known to be bold, but this was inexcusable.

He was expecting me. Perhaps not on that very day nor at that precise hour, but he knew I'd come. He had to know the forest would make me uneasy. And all that clucking from the coop behind the house. Delicious as they may be - his wife had a recipe which I just had to learn - they were preventing me from concentrating. Before the accident, such things had nary an effect on my mind, now however...

He greeted me with a smile and a handshake. I can't believe I refused it. Father would have had a word with me had he seen my uncouth behaviour; "no seconds for this rude boy!" he'd have likely said. During the course of my research into this matter, I read many a tale of unfortunate men and women in my field who experienced similar issues following what appeared to be a slight miscalculation.

Some were amusing and lighthearted, others depressing, grim or downright grisly in their nauseating details. Arun of Karina found a new calling in life following a particularly uplifting experience, while a self centred Darkonian bard known as Lerin of the Golden Flute married the young woman he met at the end of his own journey, and Malorunestrith Acable the Thrice Bonded son of Malorunestrith Afering the Thrice Baptized and Nurmathry the Twice Bathed (people in my field tend to be on the eccentric side) hung himself upon learning of the atrocities committed in his name.

Most of these stories ended in tears and death, as no one believed that such tales could ever have a happy denouement. I also promised myself that I would find out if there ever was a Lerin of the Golden Flute and if his wife is truly who the stories claim she is.

For my part, I was treated to a fine meal and much hospitality. My urging was met with a patient smile and careful words, many of which sounded far too familiar for comfort. The short sentences, the sudden outbursts of stream-of-consciousness recollection, the tangential comments... This was no careful ploy to mimic me.

I explained as thoroughly as I could why my position would benefit everyone. I kept repeating to him that "the world needs me... that is to say it needs people like me, like I used to be..." As if trying to convince him, to convince myself of my worth.

"So, you'll kill me?" he said, his voice dipping a few octaves down. Those very same octaves that dip whenever I being serious. Deep voices, people respect that. It's (one of) the oldest trick in the book. He had to know right then, he just had to. He could read me. Problem is even though I could read him as well, I still went through the motions.

"You won't, you can't. I know you, I know we're not like that. But you don't know that I won't. I chose a simple life to avoid you, to avoid the trouble you attract. It wasn't an easy choice - there are strategic advantages to having an ally working the same style in the same field. A mirror image, if you will, but only better. No one needs to know, just our little secret. But... no... It took me some time, but this... this is where I belong, where I do the most good."

I might be paraphrasing, embellishing or somehow rewording here, but it wasn't so much what he said nor the way he said it that mattered, but that vague hint of mistrust in my eyes reflected back at me.

I couldn't tell whose voice belonged to whom anymore. Then the coup de grace: a small lad, maybe 5 at the most, stumbled into the kitchen to clutch his father's leg all the while flashing a wide grin of delightful contentedness.

"Base emotional manipulation," I thought, "the nerve of him!"

Who cares about wards and traps when you have the greatest natural defence of all!

I distinctly remember sighing and placing my face between my palms before thanking the man before me for his hospitality. I went to see his wife before leaving, taking down the recipe for that wonderful meal, and resisting the urge to kiss her. For a moment I had almost forgotten who I was, or rather who I was supposed to be. It must have been hard for her to accept that her husband had a long lost twin brother.

She took my hand and looked at the nasty scar on my forearm, a burn mark, a souvenir from a burning orphanage I helped evacuate. A number of local men and women came together to try and save as many of the kids and adult caretakers as they could. I couldn't just stand idly by as these people risked their lives for others. In other times though, this would have been much easier; before, I could have done it on my own, or at the very least more could have been done. No lives were lost, but at least the orphanage would have survived as well had I been able to intervene as I would have wanted.

I hated her for bringing these memories back. A portion of me blamed her, accusing the woman of conspiring with this person to manipulate me. In time, and with a clearer mind, I've come to realize that neither of them could have known as this occurred well after the initial accident.

I've also come to realize that I thought I'd come into the house, mumble under my breath, wave my hands and dispel him from my memory, from everyone's memories just as quickly as he came into this world. I could smell it, reeking from him! He was full of it! He was hoarding it! Maybe he told me the truth and never asked for this to happen. Maybe it's just me. Then again, maybe the chicken was poisoned and he's just waiting for me to die before taking everything for himself.

So that's everything I can tell you for now, dearest Emilie. I hope you understand that me baring my soul like this isn't some sly tactic to get you to forgive me for my previous actions. We should meet again, soon, to discuss my predicament. I'll be in Port-a-Lucine before the month is over, just look for me at the usual places. But before I end this letter, please be aware that I contacted a few specialists to help me. You see, I couldn't decide anymore, my mind is clouded with doubt, so I did what we humans always do in such cases: I let others decide my fate for me.

They know as much as you do, perhaps a bit more, as the version of the events I sent them were recorded at a different period of my "healing process" if you will. So if I'm absent, I hope you'll forgive me.

Much love,

Martin

[Rock of the Fraternity]

This sounds intriguing... but what is actually happening?

[Zettaijin]

The original thread made it clearer, this is a mage who is confronting a mirror image spell gone awry. The mirror image gained sentience and didn't dissipate as such a creation should. Its continued existence relies partly on the "magic energy" within the caster meaning the latter is no longer as potent as he was.

[Zettaijin]

The story of Vir'ava

The Vistani have many tales which shape their beliefs and world views. Having lived within the demiplane since its inception and wandered the land for so long, the number of such tales along with their variants have grown steadily.

One of these is the tale of the Vir'ava, or Forest Mother, a creature who acted as a mother and protector for the elves and feys of the woods.

Long ago, the Visatni say, lived an ancient creature who saw the birth of elves and feys and the forest itself. So ancient she was, that all that dwelled in the woods called her mother. And every month they would gather within a sacred grove to pay tribute to her.

One day, a caravan passed through the woods, unknowingly trespassing on elven territory. The taciturn elves were upset and requested tribute in return for the perceived arrogance of the Vistani. The latter had little to give and certainly could not hope to match the asking price of the elves, so they did as Vistani do and offered to repay the elves with songs and dance.

The elves, being fond of such things, agreed to let the Vistani host a celebration in honor of the elves and the woods as a tribute.

However, the elves were greedy. No sooner had the celebration ended that they asked for more. You see, the elves are long lived creatures - a single night in the eyes of a human is a mere instant for them. No, the celebrations would continue for a month at least!

The caravan's Raunie and Captain pleaded in turn with the elder elves - they had been true to their words and simply wished to be on their way.

The elders called upon the Vir'ava to act as an arbiter for this conflict. The Vir'ava was clever and as fond of tricks as the many inhabitants of the woods. Touched with magic and birthed under the light of the stars, the ancient forest mother had a strong bias toward her children, the elves. Yet, she was proud and wished to see her children best the human outsiders so as to prove the superiority of the forest dwellers.

Most versions of the story agree that the Vir'ava organized a series of games or tasks in which the Vistani would compete with the elves. The nature of these varies from one version to the next but in all cases the Vistani easily outclass and outwit the elves. Example of contests include hunting, archery, stealth, scavenging, song, dance, and even drinking. Some say the Vistani were even tasked with weaving a tall tale or riddle that could fool or otherwise befuddle the Vir'ava's children.

Again, what follows will vary by tribe. Some say the Vir'ava was so ashamed of seeing the elves bested by humans that she cast out the elves into a diaspora and hid within the depths of a cavern in a faraway mountain never to be seen again, explaining the scarcity of elves in the lands of the mist. Others claim the Vistani cursed her for attempting to cheat on behalf of the elves, thus leading to her being banished from the forests. Given the apparent power of the Vir'ava, this would be no small feat. Yet, another version suggests that the Vir'ava herself offered to forever leave the woods were the elves to lose to the Vistani.

Obviously, dutiful scholars may find some odd similarities to other popular myths and tales - the disgraced noble; the arrogant and haughty natives; the pure and honest outsiders; the contest between these two; and so on. Some may also note some similarities with elven myths, among others.

While most Vistani tribes will agree on the basic structure of the tale, it should be noted that those who were outcast by the wandering folks have come to add a few caveats to it. For one thing, the Vistani are no longer mere victims of elven arrogance and avarice. On the contrary, they had far more agency in their own plight with the more controversial accounts going as far as accusing the Vistani of lying, stealing, or otherwise betraying the trust of the elves. One such variant has a trio of inebriated male Vistani infringing upon a sacred rite to Vir'ava with uncouth behavior the degree of which will obviously vary according to whom is telling the tale.

To this day, the Vistani traveling through the mountains are wary of a gaunt, lithe figure with pale skin who may beckon the wandering Vistani for help, claiming the Vir'ava still seeks revenge for her embarrassment at the hands of their people. And those wandering the forest paths tend to keep one eye open for feys and elves whose memories never faded.

Truth be told, the land has only few elves and of these rare are those who know of this tale. It is possible that, if the accounts of the Visatani are to be believed, the elves would rather forget this rather embarrassing series of events. On the other hand, the motives of the Vistani, especially Zarovan Vistani, can be rather mysterious and hard to understand.

It should also be noted that a few elven scholars have pondered whether the Vir'ava ever existed or if the Vistani are referring to something entirely different and perhaps far more symbolic. However, if this is the case, then why do Visrtani act as if the Vir'ava truly exists(ed)?

Furthermore, it is interesting that the Vistani have shown little interest in discussing the fate of the elves following the Vir'ava's exile. One must assume that the "curse", if there was one, did not impact the elves directly and in all likelihood only targeted a specific group as the Sithican elves were clearly not affected (or for that matter have any awareness of such tales). Rumors about small families of elves living within the various caves and caverns found on the numerous peaks of the core have been known to circulate through the stories and songs of Vistani storytellers.

They reveal little save for the fact they bear little resemblance to their former elegant selves. Their beauty and splendor now dulled from living far away from the trees and plants. These followers of the Vir'ava refused to live on the periphery of human civilization as many of their brethren did preferring to follow their "mother" in exile.

The story certainly raises numerous questions and the Vistani are short on answers for many of these but quick to defend their veracity.

[Zettaijin]

The tome of arcane symmetry

Hailing from lands unknown, the fabled tome is said to be able to bring even the most powerful man to his knees by crushing his spirit with misfortune. Unfortunate accidents, lost fortunes, and betrayal will follow him until he bends the knees to the heavens and repents.

Conversely, the tome can bring about great fortune and boundless riches to those who comprehend the complex equations found within, albeit at the price of constant vigilance for one small shift in an angle or measurement could bring forth a sudden reversal.

Its contents remained hopelessly incomprehensible until a particularly curious woman with a penchant for numbers and the arcane found ways to translate its contents into the local vernacular. This was not without some trial and error and countless lives would be sacrificed in the process of translating the tome, but such is the price of knowledge.

Such a cursed thing would of course find its way into the Realms of Dread and into the hands of the Woodcroft Guild of architects, masons, and builders. Helmed by the aging Henryk Alcast and his wife, Marguerite Dubreuil, the guild has been experimenting with the complex arcane architectural treatise with hopes of shaping the political landscape through the land's structures. Spires and towers, homes and forts serving as unseen agents of change and power.

Their understanding of the tome is incomplete owning to the fact that it is after (at least) a third translation and some content may have been misread a number of times resulting in misleading passages.

More sinister still is the possibility of inadvertently opening gates to the lower planes and beyond, allowing ancient terrors passage into the land of mists.

[The Lesser Evil]

You've done a fairly prodigious amount of high quality work here, Zettaijin. Enough to fill a whole netbook by itself.

[Zettaijin]

I'm not as prolific as I used to be and I kind of gave up on the "ABCs of Mistipedia" idea (names are ordered by first name, plus I said I'd stick to canon material), but I want to try to keep this thread up on the first page as much as possible.

Maybe one day I'll organize all my ideas into something more coherent than a series of posts on a message board. You know, something you could search through or organized by content type.

Anyways, thanks for the nod of appreciation. I hope folks enjoy my ideas.