Stepchild of the Sun's page

From sunrise to sunset on a single day, Nethys crafted the very first Staff of the Magi and imbued it with utilitarian and protective magic. Once the sun sank below the horizon, Nethys’ destructive side took over, and added offensive spells to the artifact. As dawn approached, both aspects of Nethys’ psyche warred over the staff’s final power. The destructive aspect created the retributive strike ability that would demolish nearby opponents and destroy the user. At the last moment, Nethys’ benevolent aspect added a way for the wielder to escape the blast by shifting to another plane, but unfortunately the sun rose completely before Nethys was able to finish the rune. Thus, the wielder of the staff escapes its retributive strike only half the time.

Whether or not there’s any truth to these legends, ancient records suggest that the first verified owner of a Staff of the magi was an adviser to ta god king in ancient Osirion, nearly 7,000 years ago. With it, the advisor brought storms of fire and ice down on Osirion’s enemies and moved about enormous stone blocks to build palaces and statues for the glory of the kingdom. When the god king’s rule ended and the next pharaoh stepped up, the adviser and his staff disappeared from the pages of history. If these accounts contradict the legend of Nethys’ creating the first staff remains open to debate, but one possibility is that the stories are directly related. After all, it’s widely believed among religious scholars that Nethys began life as a god king of Osirion, and it’s entirely possible that the adviser mentioned in the histories was actually Nethys himself. In this case, the advisor’s disappearance is either representative of a period in which he faded from public view while gathering strength and knowledge, or else merely a poet’s way of saying that Nethys left his old life behind when he ascended the throne. When dealing with the histories of gods, little is ever certain.

Insp: staff of the magi write up in Classic Treasures Revisited

Far north, on the western edge of the Kodar Mountains lies a great peak known as Rimeskull. So named for the fearsome skull-shaped formation near its peak that can be seen for miles away on a clear day, this mountain has long been a landmark of the People. What fewer people know is that at the peak of the mountain exists an ancient circle of standing stones in the shape of heads that loom nearly 16,000 ft above the steaming and boiling Lake Stormunder. However, few that travel to examine this strange monument ever actually descend the mountain.

It is said that a great best, an old dragon with scales as white as snow and teeth like icicles made of steel lives there. The People call this beast Freezemaw while most others refer to it as Arkrhyst. For over four hundred years this monstrosity savaged the Shoanti, alternatively freezing entire quahs of hundreds of people into one giant block and picking off the strongest or youngest of a quah, just to laugh at their misfortune and enjoy a fresh snack. Every few decades some new warrior or mage would try their luck against the beast but all succumbed to its icy teeth, rending claws, or frigid breath before they could fell the dragon. While the names of most of these heroes are lost, some have been remembered.

The first of these heroes were the Kodar Scouts, good friends that encountered Freezemaw while exploring the Kodars:
• Akren Mage Blade (as skilled with a blade as with a spell, killed when Freezemaw snatched him off the mountain before dropping her to his death in Lake Stormunder),
• Cyla Earth Render (a terrifying warrior well known for her magical earthbreaker, beheaded by Freezemaw in one terrible bite),
• Kusa Spirit Dancer (a talented dancer and divine magic user, killed when the beast used it’s tail to push her down the mountain),
• and Nocad Adder Blood (a stealthy warrior with an affinity for snake poison, killed by Freezemaw’s claws)

The next was the Widow Warriors, an all-female group of monster hunters that sought to revenge for the deaths of their sons and husbands and brothers
• Yanve Spellstrike (a talented warrior that flawlessly blended arcane magic and melee, killed in the beast’s frost breath),
• Hekgan Deft Hand (a beautiful and cunning warrior that died when Freezemaw’s claws ripped through her armor like paper),
• Tanjeh Laughing Wolf (a fearsome axe-woman killed by Freezemaw’s frost breath when her heavy armor slowed her too much to escape),
• and Pulah Big Voice (a mother of ten sons with a voice more exquisite than all of Shelyn’s angels)

The adventuring group that called themselves the Wrecking Crew that frequently hunted giants around Hook Mountain
• Kekal Bear Paw (a wise nature magic user, killed while in his bear form when Freezemaw dropped onto him from above and tore him apart with his terrible teeth),
• Repchos Four Claw (a hardy fighter that was killed by the fell beasts spells),
• Wagdar Black Hoof (a devout pilgrim of Erastil, killed by Freezemaw’s rending claws when the dragon ambushed them while invisible),
• and Tondaz Hare Foot (a quick, lightly armored knife fighter, who sacrificed himself to push Wagdar out of the way of Freezemaw’s icy breath)

Last is the Sisters of Conflict, a group of three sisters whose quah had long been tormented by Freezemaw
• Koha Dawn Child (a powerful fire mage, killed instantly by Freezemaw’s breath),
• Bolyin Wind Rider (a resourceful knight killed when Freezemaw dismissed the magic allowing her to fly),
• and Sefa Falling Eagle (a cunning druid known for taking the form of large birds that valiantly fought Freezemaw even as her sisters died beside her before Freezemaw ripped her throat out)

It has now been almost 200 years since Freezemaw has raided the People. Some say that an unknown group of heroes must have finally felled the beast. Others say that the creature grew powerful enough to travel to the planes, visiting his tyranny on the denizens there. Some however, like my mother and hers before me, believe the beast is merely sleeping, having grown bored with terrorizing and stealing from the realms of mortals.

Insp: Arkrhyst’s write up in Rise of the Runelords anniversary edition.

Preface
The Cinderlands play host to a desolate backdrop of scrubland and drought, famine and death. As hot as a forge and dry as a desert, the broken flats radiate a hazy, wavering heat so tangible that it robs the body of precious moisture in mere hours. What beasts make their home there are deceptive and violent, while what few plants claw their way through the cracked ground are as nourishing as rocks. It is the next best thing to Hell on Golarion. Gozreh swelters in this parched place, repeatedly venting his fury against the unsuspecting lands in cleansing baptisms of fire.

Chapter 2: The Blistering Wind
By far the most exasperating aspect of the badlands is the wind-ceaseless, unrelenting wind. To say it has played havoc with our research material is an understatement. Just yesterday, we lost an entire month’s worth of geological notes. If it were constant, the wind wouldn’t be quite as much of a nuisance, but the continuous pattern of extreme buffeting followed by a few seconds of stillness is maddening. The dust and ash get into everything: backpacks, canteens, boots, eyes, nostrils- you name it, sand gets into it.

Chapter 3: The Fields Will Burn
We have been experimenting with a deep crack in the ground that we located today. If you look at it from a certain angle, you can almost see invisible vapors emanating from it. After much debate over our next course of action, we agreed to set it on fire- in retrospect, this was not the wisest choice. Even our guide seemed shocked when it combusted with a loud popping sound, followed by an intense shaft of blue flame. All of our attempts at extinguishing it have been unsuccessful. Minch has been trying to come up with a proper term for this phenomenon. God’s Pyre, Tinderbox Geyser, and Cerulean Scorch (of which I was particularly fond) all met with playful derision and were vetoed by the majority. For lack of a better term, we have settled for calling this blue flame rockfire for the remainder of this research.

Chapter 4: Gozreh’s Wrath
This morning, we took turns counting lightning strikes, but we lost count around 50 or so. There are just too many to count effectively. Suffice to say, a good thunderstorm can produce strikes numbering in the hundreds. With all this activity, it still doesn’t seem to rain here. We see the dark clouds gathering in the mountains, and they produce fantastic lightning displays, but they never seem to progress down into the Cinderlands.

Chapter 5: Flowers in an Ashen Land
Devoid of foliage and permanently blackened by the barrage of flames, flask trees offer up one of the gloomiest sights in the Cinderlands. At dusk this evening, as we sat in hushed silence, their bloated, misshapen figured surrounded us on the orange-blasted horizon, creating an eerie landscape of squat, dejected husks reaching their withered branches toward the sky. We would have given the dismal trees a wide berth if it weren’t for our always resourceful Shoanti escort. To our astonishment, he pulled out a tap, promptly hammered it into the base of one of those charred stumps and proceeded to fill 20 of our canteens.

Chapter 6: Shadows of the Past
For many years, we scholarly types assumed the crustaceous fossils found in the Cinderlands to be the remains of gigantic prehistoric crabs. Nevertheless, as I sit here in the shadow of one of those half-buried colossal beasts, I fear I can no longer say with any certainty that these were sea creatures. Minch was the first to point it out, but it looks rather like a giant insect. Yet if we were to propose that these remnants are, in fact, fossilized exoskeletons of some long-gone giant bug, we would be outright ridiculed.

Insp: Taken almost word for word from the flavor quotes in the Cinderlands write up Curse of the Crimson Throne 4: A History of Ashes.

A few centuries after Cayden Cailean’s ascension, a powerful Duke of Hell named Salicotal grew concerned with the young god’s popularity, especially as it threatened his own interests in the temptations of wine. A wise, cultured devil with interests in lore and alchemy, Salicotal challenged Cayden to a duel to the death to take place on neutral ground and be judged by Pharasma.

The god replied with a challenge of his own, a game of “dueling dares,” and if Cayden lost he would submit to Salicotal’s spear. The fiend agreed and the two met. One by one they escalated their dares, Salicotal’s clever and risky, Cayden’s courageous and subtly insulting, with the god taking a swig of his finest brew after each.

Eventually the devil grew so angry at the insults that he attacked. Thinking they were equally matched at fisticuffs, the fiend charged, but Cayden tore of Salicotal’s wings and beat him to death with them, sending the devil’s spirit back to Hell greatly diminished. Flushed from victory and drink, Cayden continued his rise in popularity and used the devil’s wings to create devil-slaying crossbow bolts for his greatest followers who on occasion still use these rare powerful weapons to defeat the fiend’s kin.

Insp: Taken almost word for word from Cayden Cailean’s write up in Second Darkness 2: Children of the Void.

Much of the early life of Tar-Baphon is shrouded in myth and mystery for he must have been born nearly four millennia ago. What is known for certain is that he lived in the 9th century AR and was widely known as a powerful necromancer, eventually attracting the attention of the god Aroden himself who killed the wizard-king, nearly 4,000 years ago, on the Isle of Terror at the center of Lake Encarthan in a mighty battle in 896 AR.

He did not stay in his grave however. He rose again in 3203 AR as a lich known as the Whispering Tyrant, uniting the orc tribes of Belzen and raising the corpses of both his allies and foes alike, and thus went on to rule central Avistan for 5 centuries from his doom-shrouded, haunted domain of Ustalav.

From all of Taldor’s provinces along the Inner Sea crusaders assembled, dedicated to destroying the lich king and his minions. Commandeering the Ustalavic town of Vellumis, the forces of Taldor, aided by the dwarven kingdom of Kraggodan (now known as the Five Kings Mountains) and the Knights of Ozem spent 26 brutal, bloody years hacking their way to the lich-king’s capital of Gallowspire in the ruined city of Ardorac.

Nine years before the end of the Crusade however, the Knights of Ozem, summoned their patron saint Arazni the Red Crusader, demigoddess and herald of Aroden, to lead them in battle. The lich proved to be more powerful than any had thought however and when he finally caught her he toyed with her for days before snuffing out her life and hurling her broken body into the opposing army. Demoralized, the Knights entombed her in their citadel. Decades later, after the Crusade had been won, the wizard king Geb would come to steal her corpse away to reanimate her as a lich, viewing her as the only creature worthy of serving as his bride.

Just outside the rotting city, the Shining Crusade met the forces of the Whispering Tyrant in a final titanic battle, achieving victory when Taldan General Arnisant, fought the Tyrant and using the artifact known as the Shield of Aroden was able to withstand the lich’s magic. When the shield eventually shattered, it burned the lich with holy fire, weakening the Tyrant enough that the crusaders were able to imprison him beneath Gallowspire, using a powerful magic ward trapping the lich beneath his own tower at the evil city’s heart.

Tragically, the shattering of the shield also had another, less triumphant result- the shards of the shield pierced General Arnisant so deeply that in his haste to complete the ward, he bled out. Today, in honor of his sacrifice, the wooden shards are kept on a large black silk pillow and although if they assembled, the shield would still bear Aroden’s holy symbol- a winged eye in a circle, most today call it by a new name- the Shattered Shield of Arnisant.

Insp: mostly taken from The Inner sea world guide Lastwall and Shield of Aroden write ups.

In the final centuries of the Age of Destiny, nearly 8,000 years ago, two immortal wizard kings named Nex and Geb engaged in a legendary arcane struggle that engulfed the east coast of Garund in a millennium of magical warfare. The southern sovereign, Geb, a wicked Osirian necromancer from an exiled noble house vowed to survive until the battle was finally won.

At the climax of their conflict, Geb used potent wish-magic to draw the life from his foe’s land, turning that country into a barren wasteland outside a few magically protected cities. Nex responded by calling down a series of cataclysms upon Geb, killing tens of thousands of people. Geb rose from the devastation by animating the bodies of all his slain subjects, sending them north in vast legions of the walking dead.

In 576 AR, Geb besieged the Nexian capital, Quantium, with banks of bilious yellow fog meant to murder Nex and his eccentric court. Although thousands died in the attack, Nex was not among them; instead, he had with drawn into his palatial fortress, the Bandeshar, never to be seen again. Uncertain of his triumph, Geb lived the next several decades in bitter anguish, robbed of the victory he so greatly desired. By 632 AR, his uncertainty had grown too intense, and the immortal necromancer ended his life in an act of ritual suicide.

But death offered no respite from Geb’s torment. Convinced that Nex had somehow escaped his vengeance, Geb returned to Golarion as a ghost, chained to the world until he could be sure of his ultimate triumph. Thereafter, necromancy took a prominent role in all of Gebbite society. Neighboring nations swiftly took action, launching raids, naval blockages, and assaults that have plagued Geb for millennia. Even foes from distant Avistan have gotten in on the action, seeking to earn a hero’s legend by striking at the “undead kingdom” on the periphery of the known world.

They badly overmatched remnants of the Knights of Ozem conducted on such failed assault in the century following the end of the Shining Crusade. The grandchildren of the heroes of Lastwall responsibly for imprisoning the lich-king Tar-Baphon below the shadowed tower of Gallowspire sought to further their legend by defeating another of Golarion’s undead tyrants, the ghost-king Geb. In return for their hubristic miscalculation, Geb reanimated the seven would-be assassins as grave knights, ordering them to travel north to Avistan and bring hi8m the corpse of Arazni, the knight’s demigoddess patron, slain at the height of the crusade and venerated as a former herald of the god Aroden. Geb reanimated Arazni’s corpse as a lich and took her as his Harlot Queen. Over the centuries, his poisoned whispers turned her against the Knights of Ozem and her successor Iomedae, and today the undead Arazni willingly sits enthroned in the city of Mechitar, ruling with cruelty at Geb’s side as she has for the last 800 years.

Insp: Taken pretty much word for word from Geb’s write up in the Inner Sea World Guide.

Much less common in modern Varisian cities thanks mostly to the influence of the church of Iomedae, most Varisians with permanent dwellings no longer remember, let alone celebrate the Feast of Urgathoa. Held on the third of Kuthona, the festivities begin the night before, when parents dress their children up as various undead and occasionally as orcs, evil cultists, and other monsters. The children then go to every home with a light on in the window and ask for food. Traditionally the item given is about a pound of food but richer families often give out much more. Once the children have gathered all the food, they bring it to the town square where either the churches of Desna or Pharasma or the town officials collect and store it for the next day. At the crack of dawn, the food is prepared and by noon a large table overflowing with food is set in the middle of town (or town hall or temple in inclement weather). All those who donated food to the festival are invited to come and eat. It is a wonderful time for many small towns, allowing townsfolk to reconnect with neighbors and enjoy a good meal. The leftovers are traditionally give to the poor or local orphans.

A tradition heavily associated with the Feast is that of the Geoffry Melon, which involves a large melon that has been hollowed out, had a faced carved into it, and a lit candle placed inside. The Geoffry Melon traces its origin back to an old myth concerning Urgathoa and a lazy, greedy melon farmer named Geoffry the Lesser and because of its similarities with the Feast of Urgathoa, the two stories were connected. Geoffry was said to have lived in a small Ustalav town whose name is lost to antiquity. Geoffry constantly begged, borrowed, and stole food from his neighbors until he drove all his friends and neighbors away. He was ultimately left with only melons to eat. Geoffry had inherited his farm from his father and most of his melons rotted on the vine as Geoffry only harvested those he needed for food. He quickly grew to hate the taste of melons.

One night, when he had grown sick at the thought of another meal of melons, he saw a procession of pilgrims carrying food for a holy feast. Geoffry followed them, hoping to steal some of their food. He continued to follow despite the realization that they were headed into a graveyard. As he watched from the shadows, he was horrified to discover the pilgrims were worshipers of Urgathoa who had summoned an army of undead to create a feast for their dark goddess. Despite his fear, Geoffry’s greed and hunger overrode his common sense. He painted his face up like a ghoul, walked past the undead guarding the food, and managed to steal a large ham meant for the feast. Geoffry made his way home with the ham and was about to eat it when he heard a knock at his door. He looked out the window to see none other than the Pallid Princess herself standing outside his door.

“Come out and show yourself!” Urgathoa snarled. “Show me the fool who dares to steal from my children.” Were Geoffry a wiser man, he would have returned the stolen food and begged for Urgathoa’s mercy. But Geoffry was not wise and thought to swindle the goddess.
“I have taken no ham, milady.” Geoffry said as he brought an old, spoiled melon with him to the door. “I am afraid this is all the food I have in the world.”
Urgathoa considered the melon. “Is this true? This is the only food you have?”
“Indeed it is.” Geoffry lied. “This melon is all the food I have for an entire month.”
The Pallid Princess smiled, amused by the melon farmer’s gall and foolishness. “Do not fret, little mortal. Although I am renowned for my gluttony, I would not take the last scrap of food from a starving farmer. Instead, I shall take something else from you?”
“What will you take, Oh Pallid Princess?” Geoffry asked, convinced he had tricked the goddess with his lies.
“YOUR HEAD!” And with a single cut of her scythe, Urgathoa beheaded Geoffry. Then she left, taking the ham, the melon and his head with her.

It is said that Urgathoa still has his head in her collection and poor Geoffry is doubly cursed, to exist as both a head who can eat endlessly but never fill the stomach he no longer has, and as a headless body who is endlessly hungry but has no mouth with which to eat. The headless body is said to still wander Ustalav while carrying a melon lantern on an eternal search for his head. Today, families put carved melons on their doorsteps or in the windows on the eve of the feast to invite children to visit their house. It is believe that these melons ward off or confuse Geoffry since they remind him of that terrible night when Urgathoa took his head.

The feast traces its roots back to the reign of the Whispering Tyrant, once known as Tar-Baphon. In early winter months, he would send his undead minions to the homes of frightened townsfolk to slaughter them and bolster the undead army against the forces of the Shining Crusade. After entire towns were emptied or every edible thing, orcs and other servants of the whispering Tyrant would hold a massive feast in honor of the Whispering Way’s patron, Urgathoa, gorging themselves on their pillaged food. When the Shining Crusade finally defeated the Whispering Tyrant, the churches of Desna and Pharasma sought to both heal the scars left by the Whispering Tyrant’s reign and thumb their noses at Urgathoa. They actively worked together to replace memories of the annual slaughter with a night of fun and togetherness.

Despite the transformation of the holiday into something far more positive, the church of Iomedae yet frowns upon it. They believe it glorifies the undead and insults the memory of those that died in the Shining Crusade. The feast is outlawed in cities where Iomedae’s church has large influence and elsewhere, Iomedae’s worshipers usually refuse to participate in the festivities and sometimes even protest them. In Varisia, this ritual is mostly carried out by nomads who celebrate the festival in whichever place they find themselves. Mistrust and prejudice sometimes stymie their efforts but celebrants are also sometimes rewarded with a warm welcome from locals that join in the festivities out of respect for the darker times of the land or merely for the pleasure of a festival. The ritual is also celebrated in Geb as well, but there is a sincere tribute to the Pallid Princess, where the ritual is performed much the same as in Ustalav but undead children mingle with those in costume and because those who participate aren’t always alive, items collected by the children also include barrels of human blood, corpses, and even live slaves to be added to the grisly menu. Regardless of where and how it is celebrated, the feast of Urgathoa is steeped in the history of the land and is certainly an event that will not be easily forgotten.

Insp: The Feast of Urgathoa in Wayfinder 13

The Bag of Holding is one of the bestselling magical items in the entire Inner Sea, accounting for 5% of all sales of magical items in most port city markets (including Magnimar, Corentyn, Absalom, Sothis, Katapesh, and Korvosa), the best seller compared to potions of cure disease and cure light wounds at 2 and 3% respectively. Local variant bags often look vastly different but generally operate on the same principles. A favorite among thieves and smugglers, the Bag of Concealment is keyed to a single owner and will only reveal its contents to that owner (or the next person to open it if owner is dead) and the corpse-ferrying bag is also very popular, particularly among pessimistic adventurers and clerics and can easily hold one medium sized corpse, protecting it from rot. Far more popular among the common and less wealthy folk is the minor bag of holding which costs and holds less than half of what a normal one does.

From adventurers to hunters to shop keeps and smiths, the bag of holding is an amazingly versatile and convenient item. However despite their prevalence, stories of how such items came to be. In Cheliax, bags are frequently made of the tanned skin of convicts or dissidents and then given to faithful servants as a constant reminder of the price of negligence. Some Chelaxians whisper that the very first bag of holding was owned by Asmodeus himself and contains a collection of hand-picked souls. The legend also speaks of three children who outsmarted the Archfiend and stole the bag from him, trapping within his own bag for ages. However in the elven kingdom of Kyonin, bags are often decorated with elven runes detailing the achievements of the bearer. Many elves steadfastly believe that their people were granted the first bag of holding by Desna herself. The story goes that in the distant past, a rare disease struck an elven village, leaving only the druidic matron untouched. Old and feeble though she was, she still went forth to retrieve the necessary herbs to fight the plague, twig by twig if she had to. Desna, passing by, saw her plight and gave her a small pouch with no limit as to what it could hold, allowing her to carry her burden. From this bag the woman learned to craft similar bags for her people lest such an event happen again and the elves came to call these bags “lythiara” which roughly translates to “load bearer”. Some covetous folk whisper that to this day, the elves hold this original, all-encompassing pouch secreted away deep below the illusion-cloaked capital of Iadara.

The best detailed of these myths however, is Taldor’s Tale of Two Wizards. Once upon a time, there were two wizard brothers who lived in two towers. All their lives they quarreled but as old men they decided to prove once and for all who was superior. Contests of words and magical duels both came out draws, and physical combat was out of the question because of their advanced years. In the end, they decided to settle their dispute through a contest of craftsmanship. But who could arbitrate such a contest? They sought out the wise woman of the nearest village.

“I will judge this contest,” she said. “But there shall be no more magic involved than is needed in the crafting. If you wish to be judged by us, you must sweat like us.”
The brothers agreed and a festival was held. But as the brothers met on the field, ready to summon their equipment from their towers, the old woman glared and reminded them of their promise: the equipment must be carried down by hand.

Being feeble and –above all- lazy old men, the brothers spent the day thinking about how to carry all their items down. A bag, they decided, would be simplest- a bag whose inside was larger than the outside and never weighted more than they could carry. The villagers used bags- surely the old lady wouldn’t’ argue. For another day the brothers worked together, and then the bag was completed and put to work. The brothers brought their equipment down and began to create marvels for the villagers’ delight: flaming butterflies that lived for a day, spoons that made the meanest food sumptuous, clockwork bird that cavorted in the air.

The old woman saw all that the brothers made and scoffed. Then she looked upon the discarded bag they’d fashioned; upon reaching inside and finding it vast, she declared it was the best and most useful of their creations.
“But we both worked to make that bag!” the brothers cried. “Who is the winner?”
“If you worked in equal measure, then you are both the winner.” The woman responded.
“But we can’t both be the winner!” they cried.
“Very well,” said the old woman with a smile, “then you are both the loser.” And she walked away with her new magic bag.

Insp: bag of holding write up in Classic Treasures Revisited

Despite its rarity and dangers, Decks of Many Things have made numerous, powerful marks on the history of dozens of nations, cultures, and organizations of Golarion. Followers of Desna often possess a strong fascination with the deck, believing that the original deck descended from Cynosure, the dwelling place of the Song of Spheres. Yet others say that the first deck rose from a twisted shard of power that fell to the world during a clash between Desna and Rovagug as part of the battle that ended in the imprisonment of the Rough Beast and, as such, the chaos of each deck is every bit as tainted with evil as it is favored with capacity for good. In Cheliax, possession of a deck of many things is prohibited by law and rigorously enforced. Rumors hold that the Infernal Majestrix herself decreed the ban after a minor noble’s encounter with the Flames card (one that causes instant enmity with an outsider) caused a temporary redrawing of alliances between parts of Hell and House Thrune.

Along with the number of legends and ghost stories that surround the deck of many things, the deck has left several tangible monuments as reminders that both its existence and power are very real. One such monument is Castle Everstand. When Lastwall’s Hordeline crumbled in 4515 AR (189 yrs ago) and the orcs of Belkzen forced Lastwall’s defenders into retreat, three desperate patriots of Lastwall held an urgent meeting in secrecy. The first, Sergeant Strom, had secured a deck of many things from his Taldan cousin to the south, a foppish merchant who lived off the gems gained from a lucky pull in his youth. The three soldiers agreed to each make two draws from the deck, hoping to obtain the Throne card to build an instant keep for Lastwall’s army to rally behind. They further swore that as soon as they had their fortress, they would stop the draws and never speak of how the keep came to be.

As promised, Strom himself drew first. Luck was with him that day, and he drew the Moon card, securing a single wish spell. He expended his wish wisely, asking that his second and final draw be the Throne Card. His wish came to pass, and moments later Castle Everstand was founded, a bristling bulwark of defense designed as the ideal bastion to fend off the orcs. Strom was able to rally some of Lastwall’s battered forces to Castle Everstand and help redraw Lastwall’s borderline, holding firm against the orcs. Castle Everstand remains to this day, maintained by Strom’s great grandson, and although Lastwall’s engineers have expanded the castle three times in its history, adding additional wings and outer walls, the initial core created by the deck of many things remains intact.

Insp: deck of many things write up in Classic Treasures Revisited

Several myths are shared among the giants and giant-kin of the Varisian lands, from hill giants to Kreeg ogres, to stone giants. One of these myths is that of the Fey Princess Myriana and her sisters. Princess Myriana of the Shimmerglens was a heartbreakingly beautiful creature, able to inspire the hearts of men with a single strand of hair or blind them for eternity with a coy smile. She frolicked and dance and sang all through the glens, avoiding giants easily and healing the plants and beasts of the earth with a touch. She touched those who visited her realm lightly and kindly and chased away all who would hunt in her domain and eventually, after countless years of chasing men and elves and giants away, she turned her heart cold and hid herself and her subjects away from the eyes of men.

Myriana also had three sisters, the triplets Briselda, Grelthaga, and Larastine, each younger and less beautiful than she. For many years they loyally followed Myriana’s lead, drawing intruders away from the glens and tending the plants and animals of their domain. They hated that with a quiet word and a soft touch, Myriana could do more than they could with every spell and song and dance they knew. They grew closer together and ever more bitter.

What the sisters lacked in kindness and beauty, they made up for in jealousy, wrath, and cruelty. While Myriana took no joy from misleading and charming those who wandered into her domain, her sisters delighted in it, cackling in joy ot hear the terrified screams of their quarry, ravenously feeding on the flesh of their kills. The only thing they enjoyed more than stealthily hunting terrified prey was cloaking themselves in magical disguises of lost travelers and old women to lure their victims close before ripping their throats open.

After many years marinating in their hatred and jealousy, the sisters devised a ritual to enhance their beauty and power such that they could overthrow Myriana. They boiled and stirred and distilled a potion clear and sweet as could be but the moment it touched their lips it turned to poison, polluted by their envy and jelousy, twisting them into repulsive crones with terrible strength and jagged claws. Briselda warped into a hulking humpbacked creature with oversized talons sprouting from stumpy arms. Grelthaga’s form twisted her into a tall thin monstrosity like a skeleton wrapped in ugly purple flesh and sagging white robes. Larastine’s face erupted into a mass of pustules and warts the size of coins and craters that weep ooze while her body ballooned into a bulbous wobbling form. Each of them saw themselves as even more stunningly beautiful than Myriana but saw each other for the horrors they truly were.

When they revealed their transformations to Myriana, she recoiled in horror, knowing their forms would have never taken on such an appearance if it were not reflecting the wickedness in their hearts. Heartbroken at the loss of her sisters, Myriana turned them away, into the world beyond the Shimmerglens to live among men and elves and giants. The sisters soon found they took nicely to the giants, who shared their monstrous hunger and terrible cruelty. Even today it is said that the Sisters of the Hook, as they’re called, are still close allies to the giants of the land and strive to make Myriana miserable whenever possible.

Insp: wholesale by this one throwaway line in Hook Mountain Massacre, Part 5: Harrowing the Hook: “Kreeg lore holds that these three annis hags were once related to Princess Myriana before envy and jealousy polluted them and they engaged in monstrous acts and vile rites in hopes of improving their beauty to outshine their sister.”

It was nearly three centuries ago that one of Shelyn’s divine servitors, Naderi learned of a pair of lovers in Taldor who had long entreated Shelyn for protection were quickly losing hope. Naderi appeared before them in person, floating just above a waterfall’s precipice, the mist swirling all around them. She affirmed love’s transcendence over mortal obstacles and explained that love is one of the few bonds that sometimes endures beyond the end of mortal life, drawing souls together, even in the afterlife.

To her shock, the young lovers took her words more literally than she might have expected, embraced one another and threw themselves over the falls, thanking her on the way down for showing them a way to truly be together at last. Naderi was dismayed –she had never intended to drive them to their deaths- and even as she searched the river bed for them, she felt something within her welling. Their sacrifice propelled Naderi into godhood as the patron of suicide, drowning, and romantic tragedy.

Tragically, her ascension burned away those elements of her nature more closely aligned with Shelyn leaving her unable to be touched as before by most forms of beauty and destroying much of her capacity for true happiness, leaving her able to experience only bittersweet joy. Terrified of the changes she felt within herself, and believing she had betrayed Shelyn by accidentally turning two of her followers to her own worship and simultaneously driving them to suicide, Naderi fled Shelyn’s realm.

Shelyn pursed, not out of anger, but out of concern but Naderi eluded her. Over the centuries, the Eternal Rose has repeatedly attempted to reach Naderi for she feels the Lost Maiden’s nature gradually taking on a darker cast and is determined no to lose another loved one the way she lost her brother Zon-Kithon. Meanwhile, the dark gods Urgathoa and Zyphus court Naderi, hoping to encourage the flowering of the more nihilistic side of her personality. Naderi herself remains a precariously balanced figure, clinging to the memory of the light and love and beauty she experienced as Shelyn’s servitor, while struggling with a growing conviction that love is only ever consummated in death and a burgeoning fascination with the aesthetics of suicide.

Today, there is frequent friction between worshipers of Narderi and Shelyn, with Shelynites often determined to convince followers of Naderi that life holds too much beauty and wonder to leave behind and that while romance is a great joy, an individual can have many true loves over a lifetime, both romantic and platonic, making no single loss worth dying for. Worshipers of Naderi see Shelynites as too shallow to understand the despair that comes of being denied the freedom to pursue a true love. Their shared interest in the arts also frequently brings their worshipers close together. The focus on romantic tragedy artists of Naderi so often favor exhausts Shelynites, and the Shelynites’ attempts to get artists to focus on brighter and happier subjects irritates Naderi’s worshipers. Thankfully, most devout worshipers do their best to avoid open criticism of one another and often attempt to bring out the best in one another.

Insp: The Understanding Naderi and Naderi and Shelyn write ups in Inner Sea Faiths.

Ages ago, Zon-Kuthon went by another name, Dou-Bral, half-brother to Shelyn. While little is known of the extent of his powers or his relationship with Shelyn at this time, the two shared custody of what is now her portfolio. At some point they argued, and Dou-Bral abandoned Golarion for the far dark places between the planes. Shelyn grieved for her lost brother, but was more horrified by his return.

During his travels in the void, some terrible, unfathomable entity found and possessed the young god, driving his original self into a tiny prison within his own essence. This alien presence filled the void of Dou-Bral’s godly power with twisted versions of the things he used to watch over and protect- beauty before mutilation, love became misery, music became screams, and the art of creation became the craft of torture. When Shelyn reached out to her lost brother, he pierced her hand with his black nails. Again the siblings quarreled, he responding to her tears and pleading with silent violence. Only after she wrested his weapon, an intelligent magical glaive, away from him did they reach a tenuous peace of silence and avoidance. For countless centuries Shelyn has tried to find ways to make her brother remember who he is- all with little effect.

To this day, Shelyn’s favored weapon remains her brother’s stolen glaive, Whisperer of Souls. While Shelyn has managed to reshape the weapon’s appearance from its original hideous and nightmarish form into a glittering and golden weapon, the artifact still remains a powerful and evil thing. Crafted by the former god of smiths, who fell during the same murderous spree that claimed Shelyn’s mother, Whisperer of Souls can absorb souls and once it absorbs 100 sufficiently powerful souls it will become a god in its own right and bring about an era of murder and death. By the time Shelyn stole it, Whisperer of Souls almo0st had enough souls. Thankfully, in the time since, with the help of Nethys and brave mortal adventurers, Shelyn has been able to free most of these souls. Much to the silent fury of Whisperer of Souls, Shelyn seems incorruptible and immune to its influence, unlike her brother.

Insp: Shelyn's write up in Skeletons of Scarwall, Curse of the Crimson Throne and pathfinderwiki's Shelyn article.

The greatest and most tragic of Zon-Kuthon’s heralds is the creature called the Prince in Chains. The living embodiment of suffering and loss, the creature looks like a skinless wolf standing taller than a house with several oozing gashes in the shape of fanged maws on its body, restrained by dozens of heavy rusted chains. For years, Zon-Kuthon tortured the creature, stripping the Prince’s own flesh away replacing it with haphazard layers of metal, leather and the necrotic flesh of other beings. It’s tongue has been embedded with dozens of barbed hooks and razors and Zon-Kuthon himself gouged out the Prince’s eyes to make the receptacles of his own dark will.

But far more terrible than the Prince’s twisted form or gruesome torture, is the indication that once, long ago, when Zon-Kuthon was Dou-Bral, the Prince was a great and noble spirit wolf called Thron, the Prince that Howls and the sire of Dou-Bral and his sister Shelyn. When his son returned as Zon-Kuthon, the Prince that Howls greeted him with a joyous noise born of ages past, a noise that choked in his throat when the corrupted god bound him in razor sharp chains and dragged him off as a plaything. Long ago that beautiful voice was silenced, now only able to gurgle, screech, and gnash his teeth.

Yet while once a noble, goodly creature, The Prince in Chains is far from kindly and delights in sharing its torments with any living creature it encounters while wandering the depths of the Plane of Shadow. Around its son-turned-master, however, the Prince’s demeanor shifts to that of a simpering pup, unwilling to look the god in the eye, whining equally for the attention of a careless caress or a bone-shattering kick.

insp: Write up of the Prince in Chains in Skeletons of Scarwall, Curse of the Crimson Throne

Long ago, in a world where the First World and ours were much nearer, lived a Faerie Princess, a beautiful, kind warden of Varisia’s sacred groves, in the time before it was called Varisia. The Princess worked hard every day, tending the plants, animals, and creatures of her realm, using her magic to heal them and her silver tongue to soothe their frustrations. “Don’t you ever tire, Princess?” asked Lord Unicorn. “Are you never lonesome?”

“Of course not, Lord Unicorn, for I have you and the rest of the court.” And so she lived, separate and unfazed by the frolicking of satyrs or strapping men or elves. That is of course, until her Beloved wandered into her lands, astride his ship the Celestial Monarch. Her Beloved was a simple mortal, a man of the seas and rivers, skilled with his harp as he was his bow. It was a soft quiet morning when she heard the sharp and flowing giggling of nereids and the gasps of a creature dying. She intervened immediately, scolding the fey for tormenting an innocent traveler and plucked him from the river dripping and wheezing.

In thanks, her Beloved played her a song so wondrous and enrapturing that for the first time ever, the Princess was moved to tears. “What is this? Where is the rain?” she asked, looking to the sky. Her Beloved laughed. “You’ve never wept before?” “None of the First World do this. What reason is there to waste perfectly good water with this foolishness?” she asked. Her Beloved smiled and it was at that moment he dedicated himself to showing the Princess the joys of the worlds.

The first time she laughed was when her Beloved’s white dog licked her face. The first time she gasped was when he took her aboard his ship and showed her the stars. The first time she sighed was when he kissed her. The first time she shouted in delight was while she was in her Beloved’s bedchamber. And so on for decades they went, her Beloved showing her ever new sensations, as the two of them spiraled ever more in love.

That is, until the Princess came upon his ship, half sunken in the riverbed ripped apart with massive hands. And for the first time, the Princess knew fear, as she rushed below decks to his cabin. Coming through the door and laying eyes on the corpse of her Beloved, the Princess knew heartbreak for the first time. She fell to her knees and wept bitterly as her Beloved and his white dog stared at her unseeingly. When she managed to tear herself away, the Princess’ despair poisoned the land around her, inviting all manner of dark fey and twisting the beautiful lands into dark misty swamplands.

“Princess,” Lord Unicorn asked after several days of seeing her and the land spiral into gloom, “Don’t you tire of this pain? Are you not lonesome?” The Princess sobbed and nodded. “If only you could never feel this pain again. You would be spared so much pain.” Lord Unicorn began to walk away before the Princess called out to him.

“Lord Unicorn! Would that you could take this pain from me!”
“Of course, Princess.” And Lord Unicorn pierced her heart with his crystal horn and she arched in pain for a moment as her love, her despair, and all the things her Beloved showed her melted away from her. Around them, the foul waters drained away and skeletal dead trees sprouted leaves and birds peeked from their nests to sing their songs.
“I shall never love again.” The Princess declared sternly, to herself as much as her court. “Tis far too dangerous, too painful.”
And so it was, the Princess returned to her duties, locking away the memories of her Beloved and the wonders he had shown her. And to this day, the fey of the land shun all mortals alike and Lord Unicorn teaches his children to avoid men whenever possible, fearing the horrors they brought so long ago.

Insp: Mostly made up from the idea that Myriana was hesitant to love Lamatar because of some tragedy in her past and to tie a few of those haunts into her backstory.

The Eldest are the most powerful residents of the First World. These beings are sometimes called the fey-lords although no beings rule the home of the fey. They are also often called the shapers as they are extremely adept at molding the substance of the First World to their will, creating domains that serve as oases of stability on a constantly changing plane. Other such creations are the Tane- the most feared of a group of notorious fey known as the Twisted, goliaths of war and madness dreamt and stitched into being by the Eldest. Terrible to behold, stories speak of the Tane stumbling into mortal lands, where they ravage kingdoms by creating firestorms, crush keeps with their feet, and eat dragons.

The greatest of these is the Jabberwock, a thing of scales and fire and crushing fury. Standing taller than a storm giant and nearly as heavy, these creatures can warp the minds of men with but a sound, bear wings powerful enough to buffer enemies as a hurricane, and eyes that can project beams of fire. Once, a long time ago, the Jabberwock came to reside in a forest a day’s flight from a dozen cozy villages. Once a week, the beast emerged from its lair to spread destruction and ruin to these settlements, delighting in the chaos it brought and laughing as townsfolk’s arrows and pitchforks bounced harmlessly off its terrible hide. Eventually, a hero came forward and bearing a legendary sword forged by a now-forgotten artisan god and engaged the Jabberwock in a battle so epic that it created echoes throughout reality. From these echoes came the lesser jabberwocks known today as well as the magical Vorpal swords used to slay them.

The next most powerful Tane is the Sard, the Storm of Insanity, a thing of boughs and briars and misery, an ancient Wychwood Elm given life and hatred by the Eldest. Awakened from the scorched corpse of a lightning struck tree, the First Sard was created as a living siege engine and it quite enjoyed this destructive role, often seeking out fortresses or even entire towns to systematically terminate using the lightning magic it wields. The only ways to stop this monstrosity are those involving sonic magic, for the twisted rites used to grant the creature fire were completed before the answering thunderclap to the lightning bolt that killed the tree. Having just awakened, the first thing the beast sensed upon gaining sentience was the deafening roar of thunder, and since then the creature has feared and disliked such effects.

The least of these is the Thrasfyr, the Dreaming Hill of the Dark, a chimeric monster wrapped in chains that took part in the Three Thousand Year War of the Eldest. The creatures was said to form a bond with a living creature that allowed the two to communicate and watch over one another over any distance. Much like the other Tane, the Thrasfyr is decidedly deadly, possessing the ability to breathe fire, see invisibility constantly, and use the chains permanently attached to its body as additional limbs to attack and ensnare enemies with.

Insp: Justice Ironbriar’s treasure, Rise of the Runelords anniversary edition, and the Tane writeups in Sound of a Thousand Screams, Kingmaker and Bestiary 2

Little do they know that's EXACTLY what's gonna happen during the giant raid on Sandpoint the moment they get a stone giant below 10 HP (or the oracle fumbles his roll on a natural 1 as frequently happens) as Randy appears out of nowhere and kills said giant.

Korva Mabravi (NG human two handed fighter 3/ ranger 1): a redheaded firebrand that was absolutely vicious in battle and never stopped flirting outside battle.

Tem Kaylos (CN half elf bard 3/ ranger 1): a sweet talking roguish character that enjoyed traveling and seeing new things almost as much as he liked helping his allies cut down giants.

and Aerodus Kotek (LN diviner 3/ ranger 1): the shy but clever youngest son of a wealthy but minor Magnimaran noble that left home to seek adventure and handles most of the Fort's book-keeping.

Calistril (Feb) 26, 4679. I’ve made more coin here than I ever did in Magnimar or on that wretched farm. I’m thinking of renting a room for a while. This place is sort of growing on me. Everywhere I look I see a bird waiting to be freed by my hands.

Abadius (January) 24, 4683. Saw one of our old neighbors at the market today. He kept going on and on about how “a son should be there for his family” and how if his sons ever ran off like I did he’d ring their heads like bells. Blubbering idiot never even realized he DID ring my head like a bell. For YEARS. I’d been a moment away from throwing my carving knife at him when Father Tobyn noticed us and struck up a conversation with the old coot. I’d sooner go to all the layers of all the hells before I went back to that hellhole.

Sarenith (June) 24, 4687. I’ve decided to move to the isle north of town. The climb is treacherous but the birds there are so beautiful and so far from town they don’t even seem to notice me. Several people in town seem surprisingly supportive. Mayor Deverin even convinced Old Battlehorn to build me a set of stairs from the beach all the way to the top of the isle. We start construction tomorrow.

Erastus (July) 5, 4687. That idiot Battlehorn is an affront to talented wood-crafters everywhere. That fool was trying to use just any old wood for the door and rails and got testy when I insisted they use the best wood for carving. They’re called STOOTS for a reason! This is what I do and he presumed to tell me that I was being picky. Mayor Deverin managed to separate us before a punched him but only just barely. At least here I’ll be away from the idiots in town, alone with my art and the birds.

Rova (Sept) 19, 4687. I’ve done more carvings in these past few weeks than I did in almost all my time in town. I can hear the birds singing to me from all across the island. I’ve seen them in my dreams, beautiful, deadly hunters, swooping down to grab mice and rats from the fields before vanishing into the horizon.

Neth (Nov) 26, 4690. It’s been so many years but I still sometimes have nightmares about him. This time I was sleeping in the field, using my cloak as a pillow when he attacked me. He was choking me, punching me, and yelling about how I was lazy and useless and the reason mother left. I couldn’t fight him. My knife was too far away and he was on top of me. And then suddenly- he was gone. I looked up and a magnificent creature had snatched me away. It had the legs of an eagle and huge black eyes and two sets of magnificent eagle wings, each longer than twice my arm span. “He’s gone, child.” The creature told me. “He cannot hurt you here.” I thanked the creature and he smiled at me, hooting happily. “All I ask is that you free the spirits you find. They are so desperate to finally be free, like yourself.”

Pharast (March) 17, 4690. I’ve finally found it. The Bird King’s secret chamber has finally been reopened. He’ll be so pleased. The massive statue I found depicts him a little differently than I anticipated, but my nights have been blessedly calm and quiet.

Gozran (April) 3, 4690. Enderaki Sorn loaned me a book that regards the Bird King. He seemed surprised to see me but let me in all the same. When I looked at the Stoot I’d left on his railing it seemed to sprout a second pair of wings and turn to watch me as I walked in.

Desnus (May) 8, 4697. Lord Pazuzu has offered me a great gift. He says a great and powerful winged beast has been hunting in these lands lately and that he’d very much like to baptize this creature as his newest servant. He promised that if I succeed, he shall grant me the power to claw out my father’s eyes and rip his venomous tongue from his mouth.

Desnus (May) 24, 4697. The beast is smarter than I ancicipated but also utterly uninterested in my lord’s offer. When I pressed more earnestly the beast breathed a pillar of fire at me. I just managed to duck out of the way. Perhaps my lord will grant me another task, one less likely to get me killed.

Lamashtan (Oct) 19, 4697. Lord Pazuzu was most displeased that I’d not managed to secure him the servitude of the damnable mule. He promised that he’d grant me another task but that first I must complete the excavation of the rest of his temple.

Arodus (Aug) 28, 4699. Father Tobyn came to see me today. He complimented my birds but seemed surprised when he noticed the Bird King’s holy text on my table. He talked about how “demons are not to be trusted” and “we’re here for you, Jervis”. Oh yeah, like they’d been when I was a child, eh? When my father beat me blue and chased off mother? I’ve seen the way he hides away that daughter of his- he’s just the same. A controlling old bastard more interested in forcing his child down his own narrow path than actually listening to what they have to say. I slammed the door in his face after giving him a piece of my mind. I doubt anyone will be back soon.

Kuthona (Dec) 28, 4701. That damned town with their foolish holidays. I watched the dances and the bonfire from my bedroom window. I carved birds onto every building in that greedy little town and no one even knit me a pair of socks. They pass around that stupid Zon-Zon doll whispering forgiveness. Some things are unforgivable. The god of pain and loss should understand that.

Kuthona (Dec) 29, 4701. Lord Pazuzu has granted me a second chance. Releasing the souls of these idiot townsfolk will sufficiently power him to finally grant me the power to end those who’ve wronged me. I slipped into town under the cover of darkness. That idiot boy wasn’t even wearing his shiny armor. The knife sank through his heart soft and true. I left his body but brought his eyes and tongue back to my Lord’s table as a gift.

Abadius (Jan) 2, 4702. That fool Das should know the pain I’ve felt. He was always too loud, too arrogant, too happy. When I stumbled into his young wife on my hunt, I knew just the way to punish that bastard. I slit her throat neatly and didn’t even see the boy until she’d fallen, showering him with her blood. I smiled and almost giggled. Lord Pazuzu could always use new servants! I took the boy home with me. I’ve only given him some water. Soon enough, he’ll realize how generous Lord Pazuzu can be.

Abadius (Jan) 6, 4702. The boy learns quickly. His left arm is a beautiful pink array of crude but deep carved birds. Tomorrow I’ll bring him another plaything and we can decorate them together. For now at least, I’ve started feeding him. He’s quiet but I can see my Lord’s righteous fury in the boy’s eyes when he carves himself.

Abadius (Jan) 18, 4702. I’ve been so busy I hardly have time to write! My dear apprentice has learned so much so quickly. His quick little hands carve faster than mine, although not as neatly. He prays to Lord Pazuzu with me every night but still stares at his mother’s tongue rather than the idol of our god. I think warning him that his tongue could join hers might be motive enough for him to show his lord the proper devotion.

Abadius (Jan) 26, 4707. That damned Sheriff has been just around the corner for too many hunts now. I shall have to offer him up to my Lord as well. He is quick however, and handy with his sword. Bless my endeavors, Lord Pazuzu, ensure my safe return to your side and do not let me be struck down by the swords of my enemies. Soon, so soon I shall see my father’s eyes and tongue sitting next to those of the foolish idiots of Sandpoint.

I think the earliest he could possibly have any clue is if the lamias Xanesha or Lucrecia manage to get away and send him a message somehow. That said, he might not bother wasting his time scrying on them rather than "more dangerous/ important" individuals until after they kill Mokmurian.

As told by Kusa Hawk Dancer,
Shoanti storyteller from the Shriikirri Quah

“Stand ready for the campaign at all times,” the Azghat said. And so it was. The Azghat brought order to the world and we were the Shoanti, their blades. When there was dissension, the Shoanti brought order and peace in the name of the Azghat. To be Shoanti was the greatest of honors, for the Shoanti were selected by the Azghat from those of the greatest skill, speed, strength, and honor. The Azghat’s gifts to use was to organize us into quahs and unto each quah was given a purpose, a commitment unique to its gifts. And so it was.

Then came the time of the Hollow Sky. The forces of those who rebelled against the will of the Azghat rose so great that the Shoanti began to dwindle in number. In response, the Azghat took it upon themselves to share in their honor with the Shoanti so as to renew our battered resolve. But this was a terrible misstep. With their honor diminished, the Azghat fell into a spiral of evil, and with each passing year, the Azghat grew close to becoming one with the very enemies that moved against them. In time, with the heaviest of hearts, the Shoanti were forced to turn on the great Azghat and with their defeat, the kingdom of the Azghat finally crumbled into dust. And so it was.

To this day, we as Shoanti carry not only our own honor, but the remains of the gift of the Azghat. It is said that those warriors who continue to conduct themselves with honor slowly restore the Azghat’s memory and resurrect the glory of their land. One day, perhaps, the Shoanti debt will be repaid. Until that day, the Shoanti’s enemies will always remain many. Always will our enemies seek to purge us and the memory of the Azghat from the land. But we will not allow this. We will remain here, where the Azghat first brought us together and shaped each quah, in honor of their gift to us. And so it shall be.

Insp: Pulled almost word for word from People of the Storval Plateau, Curse of the Crimson Throne: A History of Ashes

Near a hundred years ago, at the dawn of the Age of Omens, many in Korvosa decided enough was enough and left Little Cheliax for a place free from the overly pedantic and close-minded government of Korvosa. They came west, led by the visionary paladin Alcaydian Indros and his companions, the Wardens of the Eye. When they came to the Seacleft, they knew they’d found home. But the native Varisians soon clashed with their new neighbors, asking them to move their newly built homes to the south of the river, away from their holy grounds. Comfortable in their new homes and preferring them to the tents they’d spent long months in, all of Magnimar’s leaders refused except for one: Mistress Ordellia Whilwren, a member of the Wardens of the Eye.

Curious, Ordellia promised the Varisians that she and her followers would gladly relocate if they would show her an angel. In response, the Varisians mysteriously told her to look up to the Seacleft Spire at dawn every day for a week. Ordellia did so and on the week’s final day, she saw a radiant figure perched atop the alabaster spire in the glittering sunrise. Awed and inspired, Ordellia kept her promise and moved south to the district called Ordellia in her honor. Cynics still occasionally whisper that all Ordellia saw was a cagey Varisian adorned with a magical disguise, but Ordellia went to her grave with the happy conviction that she had seen, if not Desna herself, then one of her more powerful azata handmaidens.

Two years after that, in 4610, a great storm wracked the land, wind whipping caravans apart, turning building supplies into deadly projectiles and flooding sections of the city with enough sea water to force a Halfling to swim in it rather than walk. Through the driving storm, ignoring the lashing wind and rain, Ordellia prayed to the angel of the spire. And finally, after she was soaked and shivering and standing in water up to her knees, the angel of the spire answered her prayers. In a blinding flash, a bolt of soundless white lightning struck the spire’s rocky perch, blasting it to nothing but glass and rubble, but in doing so, scattered the storm clouds to reveal a starry sky.

Having heard Ordellia’s prayers and seen the silent lightning, the townsfolk agreed to create a great tower to replace the fallen spire. As workers laid the first stones, local Varsians –seeing they now shared the same faith- joined in, and thus did the Arvensoar begin to rise. Although it took more than 18 years to erect, the Arvensoar now stands as a symbol of Magnimarian-Varisian unity and an open invitation to goodly spirits.

Insp: Pulled almost word for word from Magnimar, City of monuments

After the battle of Angraysan, each of the seven quah-jothka came together to praise one another for their role in the victory. Lajtru of the Spire Clan snapped the blade off of his klar and laid it upon the ground so that it pointed at Halrik of the Hawk Clan. “Your horsemen turned the tide of the battle,” said Lajtru. “No,” answered Halrik, “it was the Wind Clan who showed us the way and where to begin our charge. This battle was over before it began.” and with that Holrik snapped off the blade of his klar and placed it on the ground pointing at Churtan, Quah-Jothka of the Wind Clan. The mute Churtan shook his head and silently arranged his klar blade so that it faced Myton of the Skull Clan. As he did, the remaining quah-jothka each began to place their klars as well, each on giving due to the other quah they though contributed the most to the victory. When each was done, the quah-jothka looked down and saw that the klar blades were arranged in a seven pointed star, with each quah recognized by another. When the Azghat came and saw the star upon the ground, the Azghat nodded with approval. “This is the symbol of victory,” said the Azghat.

Insp: Pulled almost word for word from People of the Storval Plateau, Curse of the Crimson Throne: A History of Ashes

Children from all over rural Avistan know the story of the Dawnfly, told most often around the winter solstice by mothers attempting to entertain and bully their children into behaving. For posterity’s sake, and those from more distant lands, the story is as follows:

It is said when the day is shortest, that the Dawnflower is at her weakest. It is said this is the day that the Rough Beast anticipates most in the entire year. In the shadows of morning, the beast comes loose to terrorize the world. From underneath, it erupts! The land comes alive with gnashing teeth and lashing tongues, each grasping first for those most vicious of children and dragging them kicking and screaming to be imprisoned in its belly for all eternity! Those children are forever lost, but if you believe hard enough, if you have faith, if you’ve been good the whole year through, the Dawnflower will speed to your aid, and throw down the beast once more in all her brilliant, burning glory… But only if you’re good.

Most commonly accepted as a fictionalized account of the mythic conflict between Sarenrae and Rovagug, new evidence suggests that perhaps this tale isn’t quite as fictionalized or hopeful as previously thought. For over a hundred years now, scholars have believed that the Beast mentioned in this story is a Spawn of Rovagug, rather than the Rough Beast himself. Degmadu, the Shuddering Maw, is widely whispered about among the creatures of the Darklands, even in the deepest vaults of Orv.

Ancient legends and accounts from these subterranean peoples speak of Degmadu as the Millennium Polyp for its exceptionally rare excursions to the surface world. These sources say that the Shundering Maw is “all mouth” akin to a vibrating funnel of stone teeth and feathered cable-like tongues. However, if these accounts are to be believed, once Degmadu reaches the surface (which it only ever does on the winter solstice) its behavior changes drastically. The beast bundles all of its energy and erupts in a blinding light as the Dawnfly, a massive wasp of glass and chitin filled with roiling smoke and six constantly vibrating wings that can lay low miles of farmland. By the time the sun falls however, the Dawnfly has expended all its energy and must return to the earth, leaving behind a stunning, fragile living glass husk up to 60 ft long. To the uneducated spectator, it may have looked as if the forces of Sarenrae descended into devastating battle to vanquish the beast before disappearing into the clouds.

While these husks are few (I myself having been lucky enough to see one, albeit sworn to carefully guard its location for fear of theft of such a magnificent artifact), their existence calls to question everything formerly thought about this tale. Is our hesitance to destroy the hopes of children (as well as a story many of us delighted in as children ourselves) inadvertently celebrating the life cycles of a horrid beast and potential Spawn of Rovagug? Perhaps we may never know, but the facts remain: this story did not come from nothing, and every thousand years, there exists massive glass insect husks found amid miles and miles of destruction.

Insp: Wayfinder 2, Spawn of Rovagug: The Dawnfly

In the ancient days, the Shrine of the Fateless was among the world’s most respected oracles. Deeply devoted to the mysteries of the goddess Pharasma, the Fateless forsook their own destinies to better divine the paths of those who sought their advice. For centuries, the ancient faith foretold plague and plenty and their words were irrefutable. Yet, over time, the Fateless grew greedy and arrogant. They exacted great sacrifices for self-serving lies cloaked by mysticism.

Displeased, Pharasma herself visited the shine of the Fateless, disguised as a sickly old wanderer, and begged to know her future. The leader of the temple, a stunningly beautiful seer called Lamia of Avalos, dismissively demanded an offering for her insight. To the priestess’s surprise, the stranger paid. Prepared to lie to be rid of the beggar, Lamia was instantly wracked by a vision- the first true vision she’d ever received. In it, she saw the old woman traveling a shining path, threatened on all sides by woods teeming with snakes, lions, and other deadly beasts, but at the road’s end rose a tower of gleaming ivory. Speechless, Lamia quickly dismissed the vision and wickedly told the woman that she would receive great wealth if she traveled to the deadly Lands of the Horned Serpent.

Dismissing her disguise, Pharasma’s aura of eyes filled the shrine, and in a booming whisper the goddess spoke: “I alone chose what perils lie upon the path to wonder! You who would speak and lie in my name, I renounce you and reveal you as kin in fate to the beasts forbidden to walk the path of destiny.” With those words, the Fateless became as starving lions and Lamia’s cries turned into the hiss of a pathetic snake. Pharasma banished the Fateless from her shrine, leaving them accursed things, forever wandering without destinies, half liars and half beasts.

Turned bitter and ever more sinful, Lamia and her kin grew quick to covet, enslave, and overindulge, luxuriate in gory feasts, violent trysts, and bloody entertainments, reveling until their playthings are broken or they grow bored and move on. The children of Lamia, named for their mother, typically revere Lamashtu although they’ll worship any deity they believe likely to bless their wicked plots. Despite seeking other gods, the Lamia still bitterly despite Pharasma and her followers, eagerly doing them harm in vengeance for the curse the goddess of fate laid upon their race. Many lamia believe that their touch robs their victims of their destinies, and thus their sacred path granted by Pharasma, and as such, take special pleasure in draining the souls of Pharasma’s servants

Insp: Lamia Matriarch write up in Skinsaw Murders

While it has been decades since it was measured, nearly everyone in Varisia recognizes Mhar Massif as undoubtedly the tallest mountain in Varisia, if not all of Golarion, at 31,565 ft. What fewer people recall however, is the strange legend associated with this great peak. A mountain so impossibly tall that some believe it supports the World’s Roof while others insist it pierces it instead. There is a legend, that was ancient even to the people of the Age Before Ages, that speaks of the death of an ancient, unknowable creature known as a Great Old One.

Mhar, as this being came to be called, attempted to enter the world from the Dark Tapestry, using the planet’s crust as a womb, but ultimately failed. Some say this was because the planet Apostae was slightly out of alignment with the other planets, while others say that the Rough Beast, Rovagug himself that stilled Mhar’s birth, angry that another would dare destroy the planet he enjoyed tormenting so greatly. The legend says that Mhar was caught and petrified midway through its emergence from the mountain, his snarling face forever frozen in stone at the mountain’s peak.

While many explorers often note a strange otherworldliness to the mountain, none have ever seen the Mhar, the World Thunder or proof of his existence. Still, there do exist cults that venerate this mysterious being, some even claiming that their god did not fail to be born, but rather that its gestation is merely one measured in eons, and that when the Great Old One does finally awaken, a time which will be predicted by earthquakes and volcanism, it will turn most of northern Avaistan into a realm of fire and ash. Let us hope, for all our sakes that this legend is merely that, and the mythical bridge between realms has been burned.

Insp: Cults of the Dark Tapestry in Carrion Crown: Wake of the Watcher and Spires of Xin-Shalast

While all the people of Golarion know of the destruction Earthfall caused, few know the cause of Earthfall. Long ago, in the Age of Serpents, strange, alien creatures known as aboleths, raised the legendary Azlanti from barbarism, teaching them to control and harness their magic. Over time, the Azlanti grew more powerful, more wealthy, and ever more talented with magic, and thus grew prideful and secretive. Eventually their aboleth masters lashed out at Azlant and when their punishments failed to restore the proper level of slavish devotion, but rather strengthened their resolve to eclipse their teachers, the aboleth instead decided to destroy Azlant completely.

Their powerful, otherworldly magic reached far beyond Golarion, stretching into the great depths of space to the very fringes of reality. There, in a place devoid of warmth and light, they found a body of star-born poison and metal, the drifting corpse of an unborn planet and in this they found a weapon capable of murdering worlds. Their power wrapped around this star-forged blade and launched it towards Golarion. But the aboleth weren’t the only powerful beings watching over Azlant.

Acavna, warrior goddess of Azlant and mistress of the moon, learned of the aboleth’s dreadful plot and acted. As the alien weapon drew near, she dragged the moon out of its orbit and into the projectile’s deadly path. The dark star collided with her lunar shield and shattered. But it did not slow. The resulting rain of otherworldly blades riddled Acavna’s physical manifestation, inflicting wounds lethal even to a deity.

When her beloved, Amaznen, the Azlanti god of magic (sources differ if they were lovers or merely close companions), saw Acavna breathe her last, he knew he had to do something, lest her death be proven useless. Concentrating his essence, he appeared before the rain of mountainous daggers still hurtling toward Golarion. Intent, he sought out the ageless aboleth magic and spoke a word. With this word, he faded from existence, taking the accursed aboleth magic with him.

A storm from space rained down upon Golarion that day, but what fell were stones only, without direction or drive. Although Azlant was destroyed, the continents reshaped, and the world forced into an age of ash and darkness, life on Golarion survived, thanks to the sacrifice of Acavna and Amaznen.

Insp: History of the Starstone in Mythic Realms campaign setting and History of Golarion in the Inner Sea World Guide

Citizens of Magnimar and frequent visitors have undoubtedly heard the Scarecrow rhyme, a morbid folktale almost as old as the city itself.

“Mumble Mumble Scarecrow,
Alone in the maize.
Sleeping in the daytime,
A stitched man he stays.

But when the moon she rises,
Up Mumble gets.
He shakes his hands at first
And moves his feet the next.

And when the dog is snoring,
And when you’re fast asleep,
Mumble Mumble Scarecrow
Will find you good to eat.”

While very few are likely to admit it, I would estimate that nearly half the city has seen a shadow or skulking vagrant that made the hair on the back of their neck stand on end and brought to mind this rhyme. Far fewer still are those who’ve come across a small bit of blood stained straw after spotting the creature. For decades farmers and stable hands have been complaining about something killing and eating their livestock, leaving bits of straw on half devoured corpses. The official response from the House of Ushers amounts to little, as they blame rabid dogs or vindictive customers rather than a creature such as the Scarecrow.

Several speculate that the Scarecrow could be an undead creature, a tormented farmer’s soul, killing in retribution for some wrong done to them. While any number of undead creatures might have their rotting skin and damaged clothing mistaken for such a creature, I doubt this creature is one of them. Most undead carry with them a scent that is fairly unmistakable yet stories of this creature rarely mention a smell other than the city itself. No, I believe the creature is a construct, similar and yet different than those of Golemworks. A creature made of flesh and straw rather than steel and glass. Perhaps we shall never know the true nature of this creature, but for those new to the city, heed the warning- if you see straw at night, hurry home lest Mumble Mumble Scarecrow find you good to eat.

Insp: Write up of the Scarecrow in The Skinsaw Murders and Magnimar, City of Monuments

Much like today, as with Magnimar’s Cenotaph and Antio’s Crown of Taldan, wealthy and powerful Thassilonians paid exorbitant fees to bury their dead in the great monuments of the land. Alongside these vastly wealthy citizens were also buried the slaves architects and builders, frequently subject to brutal and horrifying manners of death from being sealed in sarcophagi with all manner of poisonous vermin while still alive and screaming or slowly forced to starve to death or resort to cannibalism. A favored one of the time that particularly proves Thassilon’s debased, evil nature, was that of the Skull Ripper.

A construct the size of a horse in the shape of a black skeletal scorpion wearing human skulls as jewelry, this creature’s coming was heralded by a terrifying chittering noise made by the chain of skulls impaled on its long tail, topped with a curved stinger containing a debilitating poison. When a particularly wealthy Thassilonian noble died, the members of his household would commission a great tomb into which the deceased lord would be placed along with extensive treasures, large numbers of living slaves, and one skull ripper. There, in the utter darkness of a sealed tomb, the still air would resound with screams as the slaves were harvested, one by one, in a final grisly pageant for the dead lord’s entertainment. Ancient writings hint that the greatest of all the tombs of Thassilon was built high in the mountains of northern Varisia, before being snatched away from the mortal realm by wizards powerful enough to tear and stich together the very fabric of the universe.

Very rarely, such creatures are found even now in the collapsed and buried ruins of ancient Thassilonian tombs, quietly skittering back and forth, the jaws of each skull chittering in warning that any who approach, may soon be chittering that same warning to whatever poor soul comes next.

Insp: the skull ripper write up in the back of Hook Mountain Massacre

Insp: Sandpoint Cathedral write up in rotr anniversary edition

Insp: Night Fiddler haunt in Wayfinder 7

Nine months later, the devil came to see his newest herald but could not find the hag anywhere. Bellowing angrily, the devil searched and searched before he found the hag, hiding in a honeycomb of caves, with both twin babies nestled together sleeping in her empty cauldron. She begged him to forgive her but he refused, and pointing to the sleeping infants he cursed them. The first babe, the one promised to him sprouted wings the size of its whole body before flying lazily out of the cauldron. The hag watched in horror as the infant’s brow hardened and protruded, stretching into pointed horns while its pink skin turned bright red, its ears long, and fingernails growing into claws. Beckoning the child, the newly made imp obediently approached his master, perching on his shoulder.

Then the other babe lifted out of its iron cradle on newly formed bat wings and the hag watched in horror as the child’s hands and feet shifted and blackened into hooves and it’s face into a long snarling snout as it’s small tuft of hair grew and migrated halfway down his back. The hag cried out in anguish as the creature alighted on the devil’s other shoulder. “Don’t you know, Hag? Never break a deal with a devil.” And with that the hooved babe belched a gout of flame, burning the hag’s face and boiling away her tears. To this day, wherever the Sandpoint Devil is, not far behind you can hear the agonized sobs of its hag mother.

Insp: mashup of the Sandpoint Devil write up in the Inner Sea World Guide and Melissa the Tickwood Hag of Wayfinder 7.

In a rage, the devils pursued us through the twilight years, destroying the land wherever they stepped. But Vyush’baro led us into barrows and through tunnels, under the mountains and over the plains until the devils vanished in howls of frustration and left us to claim our true destiny.

Some say Vyush’baro was an angel, a servant of Desna and that one day he will return in our darkest hour. Then, once again, we will follow him through black despair and live forever in joy in our promised land.

Insp: taken almost word for word from People of the Road write up in Pathfinder #7, Edge of Anarchy

A wise woman, a fortuneteller named Amendra, saw our pride swell and sought to bring the word of Desna back to our people. Many cast away their fortunes to follow Amendra, while others chose to remain in their beautiful city. One morning, Amendra led the faithful away to find a new life as wanderers. That evening, a mysterious disaster struck the golden city, and all those who stayed behind died in the cataclysm.

Amendra taught our people that the quest for riches has led us astray. We forsake all property and settlement because we know it leads only to misery. Some think we wander aimlessly across Varisia, but we actually follow the path Amendra once took. My mother told me that, when we finally reach the end of the trail she left, Amendra herself will return and show us where our destiny lies.

Insp: taken almost word for word from People of the Road write up in Pathfinder #7, Edge of Anarchy

Then a great roar shatters the funeral peace, faces streaked with dust, hands bloody from climbing through the wreckage. Those faceless figures, our masters, shriek in anguish and call fire and ice from the skies to protect their castles. They care nothing for us. They do not follow. They bring their power to bear to protect their lands but all for naught. They fall beneath piles of rubble while my people march into the night.

In my dream, it seems we walk for years, both over the land and beneath it, always searching for something. We lose our brothers and sisters to wild animals, fierce creatures with red eyes, starvation, disease, and broken hearts. When it seems I cannot bear another moment of this miserable trek, the sun rises. A flight of butterflies lifts off from the grass, and my people spin in joy, arms raised to the light.

Now the sun begins its decent to the west, and I fear the coming dark. But as my dream splinters, I see a lunar-white moth flutter from the shadows to lead us on once more. (note from Lel: I know Nan likes to tell this story because it’s one of the last prophesy dreams she had, I don’t like it- I think it’s scary and not in a good way either)

Insp: taken almost word for word from People of the Road write up in Pathfinder #7, Edge of Anarchy. However, in our campaign the party oracle (the one asking for the stories) came to Sandpoint after a vision involving a dark shadow cloaking Sandpoint's Cathedral so I thought this would be of interest to him.

That night, Hanzi tucked the doll into his own sleeping bag in the wagon and fell asleep cradling it. As we slept however, the bonfire we’d camped around rekindled itself somehow. To our horror, myself and the others woke only after Hanzi’s family wagon had been engulfed in flames. The few magic users we had with us did not have the means to quench the fire and when one of us tried to leap past the flames to find Hanzi and his family, we had to pull him out of the fire, half dead. We watched in horror for what felt like a lifetime before we spotted something incredible.

The Zonzon, clothed in tattered, burning scraps of cloth, still wearing a smoldering flower crown, walked out of the flames on its own, Hanzi bent over and holding its hand tightly. Behind him, Hanzi dragged his entire family, each holding hands with the other, out of the fire, completely unharmed. The next day, after a long feast, we set the singed Zonzon down the Turandarok River on a tiny raft, wearing a new flower crown and surrounded by gifts in thanks for saving one of our own. I never saw that doll again but ask Hanzi and he’ll swear up and down that he still sees his Zonzon every few years, watching over him, leading him from danger.

Insp: details regarding Crystalhue traditions taken from Wayfinder 2

Once every generation or so- more often when it happens more often, less when it happens less- all the gremlins of Golarion gather for a Grand Moot. The wicked jinkins and the unlucky pugwumpis, the crafty grimolochins and the unspeakable psammeads, the vexgits who unfix the runners of sleds and the nuglubs who smother babies then place them back in their sleeping mother’s arms, and many other gremlins beyond couting or countenancing, all gather together in the First World.

There, so the brownie told my grandmother, the gremlins swap stories of misery sown, of chaos caused, and of lives ruined, or, to use the gremlins’ own words, “made more interesting,” for it must be remembered that gremlins are fey, and while they do not care the slightest if anyone dies, they have little regard for a boring or inappropriate death. A nuglub who simply kills a victim earns no respect but one who murders a person in singularly novel or poetic fashion or in such a way that all the survivors believe that another has done it? That is high art and fine craft. Indeed, more than one nuglub has risen to King of the Gremlins for orchestrating a single murder and then laying false blame that leads to a blood feud or even a war between nations.

The brownie told her that many gremlins have been king or queen, sometimes for a season, sometimes for a century. The fey do not measure time as we do. Moreover, the gremlins choose not only their ruler, but also who is a gremlin. If other fey convince them of their novelty and ingenuity for mischief, of their talent for creating misery and consternation, then they may not be declared an honorary gremlin, but can win the gremlin’s highest acclaim, being given the wyrdstone scepter, and declared king or queen, at least for as long as they continue to amuse their subjects.

Indeed, as the brownie confided in my grandmother, it is said that a human maid once found her way to the Gremlin Moot and spun her own tale about mischief, how she had conspired to ruin her sisters’ marriage prospects, and so was elected Gremlin Queen herself.

Who this maid is or when this was the brownie did know or was perhaps too afraid to say, but the Gremlin Queen must be keeping her subjects amused because it has been a while since the last Grand moot… (note from Lel: I wish so much sometimes I’d known my great great grandma! She met a brownie! How cool is that!)

Insp: Taken almost word for word from Pathfinder Grand Lodge folktale in Wayfinder 6

Insp: Pulled almost word for word from Desna write up in Pathfinder #2, The Skinsaw Murders

Those who have seen the beast can never speak of the tale- as soon as they try black blood wells up from their throats and into their mouths, choking their words (note from Lel: How do we know what it looks like then? OH WAIT, they did what I just did! They wrote about it instead!). Those who’ve sighted it –those that haven’t gone mad at least- claim that it summons terrible storms with it, to throw her meals into the ocean and below the surface into her hungry maw.

Some even say that the beast is older than many gods- that she’s a minor god herself and a sister of Lamashtu. They claim she was subjected by the Mother of Monsters, robbed of her divinity and cast down to Golarion to serve her sister. But Lamashtu, ever fond of horror and monstrosities, couldn’t bring herself to fully destroy the creature’s divine spark. Dark mages say that cutting the Oblivion Mother’s heart from her chest and bathing in its putrescent blood with grant one invulnerability –even from the gods!

Insp: Black Magga/ Mother of Oblivion write up in Pathfinder #3, Hook Mountain Massacre and rotr anniversary edition

The grandson of Firebeard immediately drew the Skull and knowing he had no way to fight a Dread Wraith, immediately drew again. His second draw gave him The Void (soul is trapped elsewhere).

The Rogue managed to draw the Key (gain major magic weapon) THREE TIMES before she drew Ruin (lose all wealth and property) and lost all 3 weapons. Her final draw gave her the Euryale (-1 all saves) but at least she survived.

The wizard drew the Gem (gain 50,000g worth of gems/ jewelry), then the Talons (which lost her the unique scroll that allowed the chest to fly and all other magic gear), and then finally, the Donjon (you are imprisoned). I ruled that because there’s no way he could carry 50,000 worth of gems in his tiny belt pouch, they were in a pile next to him and did not fall into the abyss when the ground opened up and swallowed him.

The barbarian and rogue split the gems and got the hell out of dodge before anything worse could happen.

He despises his father and refuses to summon demons, but it’s above using his bloodline to strengthen his other summons (DR/ good equal to half lvl). The sorcerer doesn’t know it but his entire clan of elves was once closely related to a sect of evil elves that regularly summoned demons to advance in power. Learning this may show up later as a small quest.

He and his twin brother were trained by their Evoker uncle. During their training however, the PC Wizard realized that his twin and uncle had an unhealthy amount of interest in Sin Magic (from Rise of the Runelords) and he chose to avoid sin magic and pursue Abjuration instead. Their uncle is long since dead and neither he nor his sister has heard from their brother in years. He is currently imprisoned in the capitol city (or another very large city with lots of magic users). He may or may not eventually escape and cause some chaos.

The wizard actually was an adventurer before he retired. He and his friends (cleric, fighter, and rouge) adventured together for several years before they encountered a green dragon. Over estimating themselves, they challenged it. Within seconds the dragon killed the fighter and rouge and bit the cleric’s leg clean off before the Wizard not cast teleport. Since then, the cleric and wizard have retired and used their wealth from adventuring to build a large temple and wizard’s tower. They use the tower’s library as a classroom to teach the village’s children and have taken to showing simple magic theory to a few promising young students. Being one of the few to face a dragon and survive, he’s made a bit of a name for himself and is actually the reason the Sorcerer came to town. He wanted to be trained by the famous Wizard of Southbay.

I hadn’t thought about the need for an arcane angle. I’d be interested to hear your ideas on that. Perhaps make a wizards guild?

The ranger also has a younger brother and sister- very young, her brother is barely an adult and her sister is about 7 or so. They do odd jobs, and hunt for food and she gives them a portion of her monthly salary as a ranger of the Order. Their parents died of a plague a couple years ago, along with several other members of the village. They have a guard dog and she has taught them to use bows but they are still only commoners.