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Originally posted by OMNISCIENT DM VOICE
As you are shouldering through traffic on the High Road or lifting a jack of zzar in your favorite tavern, you look over and see....

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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).

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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.

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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 Faerϋn, 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 Roabrϋne'***. 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 Roabrϋne, Moon-Maiden of Selϋne 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 Faerϋn 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 Θndakra, 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 Faerϋn 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 Faerϋn 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 Selϋne 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 Faerϋn. 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 Thelϋnndae, 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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Originally posted by AJA

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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.

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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 Faerϋn 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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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.

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Originally posted by AJA


And then there was his Ladle of Heavenly Sauceries – which did not introduce the bechamel sauce to Faerϋn, 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.

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Originally posted by Wooly Rupert

If I was Harshnag, I would move.

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Originally posted by Wooly Rupert
If I was Harshnag, I would move.

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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."

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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 Selϋnite mercenary band. Distinguished himself in 942DR during Emurra's Raid (against the drow), which freed the Selϋnite 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 Selϋne 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 Selϋne 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 Selϋnite 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 Selϋne. [ 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 ]

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Originally posted by AJA


The Horrid Ogres
A Dock Ward street-gang that would be more appropriately described as a gang of Dock Ward street-waifs. Beware the contents of your cobble-cart or your curbside produce stall! On some occasions you might even want to better guard a secret you let slip in a private conversation, lest there be an eager ear lying hidden in the nearest sacks of turnips. These Ogres may be Horrid, but they do have quite good hearing.
        The Horrid Ogres are led by the one they call The Noble Nog. They make their clubhouse lair in Ogre-Bottom, in an older section of the Warrens, now damp and wretched (as foul as the bottom of an ogre) and largely abandoned by the grown-up civilized folk.

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Originally posted by sleyvas
I like that you're now providing references to the previous entries. It makes me want to go back and read things that I may have glossed over before.

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Originally posted by sleyvas
Dude, its weird some of the odd things that you come up with that really inspire me.

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Originally posted by sleyvas
Love the myth revolving around the nature gods/goddesses.

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Originally posted on 22 OCT 2019
Common Silvanite religious myth speaks of elder times when Faerûn was young and there was only the Forest, and the animals and all others were in harmony and balance, gathered under the wise hand of Silvanus.

Then, at the first Dawn the sylvan elves came forth out of the golden morning mist, and they were in peace with their surroundings. Some unknown time after that the first gnomes poked their ruddy heads up above root and turf, and they too knew of the language and the ways of the Forest, and for untold ages they lived there in agreement under Silvanus as well.

But then to the wooded verge came the creature known as Man. And Man was unlike anything yet seen in the Forest, ignorant of the law and the language, and he was relentless, armed with fire and axe and bloodlust.

Man could not or would not learn to converse with the Forest, so as Man hewed down the trees and slaughtered the animals Silvanus called together the greatest and wisest of his champions and gave them the power to walk and talk like the humans, that they might travel forth and parlay with the invaders, and work to guide them in the ways of the Forest.

But as those chosen intermingled with Man one among their number fell in with the ways of the intruders, and he was corrupted by bloodlust and learned to revel in deceit and vice and barbarism. This evil being named Malar, later known as The Savage, The Black-Blooded, The Beast in the Rough Grass, took the gift of skin-changing given to him by Silvanus and taught it to men in return for obedience. And then he returned to the Forest and gathered animals loyal to him, and held court in secret, and did even worse, teaching them not only the ability to change their shape, but of the evil ways of Man as well.

When news of these dark deeds reached the ear of the Oakfather he was wroth and sought to punish Malar, but Malar fled from him and hid in darkness and underbrush, and so did the beasts that followed him and so ever-after their descendants. And through this base treachery Malar became a god, and the curse of beast-changing (lycanthropy) spread far and away throughout Faerûn (the goddess Selûne, ever overwatching, later battled with Malar and attempted to wrest control of his followers from him, which is how were-folk came to be partially bound by the moon, and why some even follow her willingly, but that is a tale for another time).

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Originally posted on 31 DEC 2023
"Do not misunderstand what Eldath is. The humans too often make this mistake. Eldath is a presence of the Forests of Old – the Forests of Faerie, before the Intrusions and the Invasions of Man. She walked proud alongside Silvanus in the time before The Oakfather chose to turn from her, to walk with The Wildmother instead. And those were the Younger Days, indeed, before The Wildmother then betrayed herself and set her mind to leave the Forest, to become the content and disgraced Chauntea of the Fields.
        Eldath is of peace, yes. But peace in human terms and peace in the Forest are very, very different things. The pools of the Forest, the pools of Eldath, are sacred and, as such, sometimes require sacrifice."
        Arvendhal Black-Browed, Uoryyndhal of the High Forest,
        in lecture to his apprentice, the Ostleress Ilnmarlûné
        Year of the Flying Serpent, 833DR

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Originally posted on 06 JAN 2021
Originally posted by Halfling Nonsense: Their Songs, Folk-Lore, and Other Divers Merriments (Agathorn of Elversult, 1011DR)

Long ago, in The Before Times, when Silvanus Oak-Father and Chauntea Wild-Mother were All of Faerûn, and Sister Shar and Sister Selûne fought endlessly and noisily in the Heavens Above and the sparks from the clashes of their blades came hurtling down to Faerûn Below in the form of great mountains of rubble and fiery balls of molten ore and magical chaos beyond compare, the Great Mother Yondalla roused herself from her far-away roaring hearth that Men now foolishly call The Red Star or The Red Hole In The Heavens, and she took up with her left hand the young hinling master Arvoreen and with her right she gathered to her the young hinling mistress Cyrrollalee, and she made the long trek to the wild lands of Faerûn with an intent to bring order and peace to those tumultuous lands below. And so the Great Mother Yondalla sat the quarreling sisters Shar and Selûne down at her table and chartered an orderly division of the heavens where Light and Dark would both coexist, and so the Great Mother spoke the truths of Farm and Field to the Wild-Mother who already yearned for them, and took her by the hand and led her out of the Wilds of Silvanus, and urged her to cast her blanket down upon the fields and furrows of civilization instead.

And thus Faerûn was brought to order, and the farms and the fields were opened for those of the Hin race, and the Great Mother Yondalla made ready to return to her neglected far-away hearth.

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