(ENG) D&D 3.5 Ed. - Dragon Lance - Lost Leaves From The Inn of The Last Home

100 Lost Organizations 7th Winternight, 351 We Kirath are provided with all the tools we need to do our job well. We are taught from a young age to use our minds as well as our bodies, to watch for changes in nature that may give clues to the passing of others. We can recognize many secret marks, and some of us have even learnt to speak the language of the forest beasts, to use them in order to help us with our quest. We have a code that binds us together; we can adjust, adapt and improvise to any situation. We are lightly armored, to allow speed, agility, and grace. We have the Greenmask to protect us from the noxious fumes that now fill our home, the Atrakha flute to imitate the birdcalls of the forest and to keep in contact over vast distance, the ritual cloaks that protect us from fire or help us to blend with the woodlands, but most important is the Soris. The Soris is a symbol of the Kirath. A jointed staff-spear, two pieces of darkwood connected by a universal joint. The short upper shaft has small folding hooks and a rope hand-loop. The lower shaft has an attached leather thong and is tipped with a sharp metal spike. The balllike joint can be locked in any position, allowing for many possible uses in the forest, both weapon and tool. The Soris has saved the life of many of us and is our most precious possession. Today I had need of my Soris to defend myself. That itself is unusual. We are not the warriors of House Protector. We travel fast and light, we are the eyes and ears of the Silvanesti people, we report back, and do not engage in bloodshed unnecessarily. But today I had to fight. Fight against creatures of which my darkest dreams could never have conjured. As I traveled through the forest, ever onward toward Silvanost, the aberrations of nature and corrupted forms continued to assail me from all sides. I could not find the roads, and traveled through the deep and thick forest, at times so twisted and dark I did not know if it were night or day. I dreamed of my brother, repeating the image of his death in my mind so often I felt like I would go mad. I came upon a clearing, where a beast awaited. Perhaps it used to be a wolf, but I really couldn’t tell. Its form writhed and tentacles sprung from its mighty shoulders, and its legs seemed to be little more than misshapen claws, its mouth split into mandibles like some giant insect. It would almost have been pitiful, were it not so deadly. It leapt at me, its foul breath making me gag as I dodged to the side, my Soris leaving a trail of black blood down its rubbery hide. The slimy blood hit the ground, fizzing and popping when it hit the earth. This creature was truly otherworldly. It turned and snarled, bearing its huge teeth at me, circling me slowly, and testing my resolve. I in turn circled slowly, pointing my Soris straight down its drooling maw. It lost its patience and leapt through the air toward me, landing on me bodily, impaling itself on the Soris. My other hand held its throat as its jaws snapped and gnashed close to my face, its tentacles and claws pounding and raking my arms, my body, my legs. Its weight crushed me into the earth. I saw stars in front of my eyes. I felt searing pain in my hands as its black blood fizzed and popped down the darkwood shaft of my spear. I had a choice: live or die. I chose to live. I pushed it harder now, through skin and bone and tissue, until the melting tip of my Soris breached its back. The creature whimpered and collapsed on top of me. My hands were burnt and blistered from its corrosive fluids. The wood of my Soris is now destroyed, useless. My armor was torn and ripped by its powerful claws. I rolled it from where it lay on top of me, feeling the air fill my lungs as the crushing weight was removed. And for the first time, I felt the rays of the sun pierce the boiling clouds. It was a moment of beauty, an oasis of calm in a sea of darkness. I was filled with hope, and for the first time in weeks, my fear vanished. I’m only a few days from Silvanost now. The tangled paths seem clearer ahead.

Lost Organizations 101 I ran on. I run still. I am Kirath. “I pledge my energy to the reclamation, restoration, and preservation of nature. Animals, plants, water, or any other aspect of nature, are to be used wisely, not wasted. Never solve a problem by violence when stealth and strategy can yield a better solution.” —Code of the Kirath 9th Winternight, 351. I reached the city at midday. I’ve never felt so tired. My limbs ached. But at least I was nearing home. At least I would meet the survivors, to help them defeat and rebuild whatever had destroyed our land. The elven people would laugh and cry and reclaim our land; we would slowly but surely tend to our garden and make it beautiful once more. I arrived at the gates with a heart full of hope. The gates of Silvanost are gates woven of the finest gold and silver and steel. Something within me died when I saw them. Broken, blackened, open to the world and revealing the carnage and wreckage that was once beauty and elegance. The living dwellings of the Silvanesti people were torn and broken and dead, shadows flitting between the buildings, darker creatures hiding from anything that resembled light. I collapsed to my knees, finding tears when I thought I had no more in my body. I clutched at the earth, moaning and then screaming, screaming until I had no more breath, until I was hoarse and had coughed up my last meal. Then I saw the elves. An army of elven soldiers walking straight and true, down the avenue from the gate toward me. I was so tired, so full of hope that I rasped out a joyful cry and began to crawl my broken body toward them. And hope once more brought me to my downfall as I got closer. These warriors were elves no longer, for no life shone from their eyes. Their skin was rotting flesh, the cold of the grave flowing from their forms, their clothing torn, their armor and weapons still sharp and menacing, washed with the same green unholy mist that flowed across the murky earth. These creatures were once my kin, but now they served some other dread master. The leader of these phantoms, these spectral mockeries of my people wore a mask. A Greenmask like my own. My heart leapt into my throat. This poor elf was once Kirath. The army of elves stopped at the gate, but this lone mockery of life walked out toward me. In its hand was a Soris, the staff-spear of our kind. In sheer despair I realized that I had nothing left to lose and nowhere else to go. “So be it,” I said. As my Soris was lost, I drew my sword, a fine elven longsword with which I had dispatched countless foes, and charged the creature as it advanced. I was on it in moments, aiming a slash that should have taken its mockery of a head from its shoulders. It was brutally quick, unbelievably agile. I had expected a corpse to be slower. Its fighting style was remembered from life, its training similar to mine. I swung and it parried with the fine darkwood of its Soris. I thrust at its midriff and it dodged to the side. It feinted to the left, and I read its movements, bringing my blade around to slash at it, only to find it had moved beyond my reach. This evil creature was an excellent fighter, and we were even on all terms except one. It did not tire. It just kept coming, while I began to slow, began to be beaten back, and had to become more and more defensive as our two weapons danced in a blur in between us. I was losing. I slipped sideways on the wet ground, scrabbling over the ground as I tried to regain balance. The tip of its Soris found my skin. The blade pierced clean through my unarmored upper arm and caused a spray of blood that splattered gore across the mask covering its face. I screamed, wrenched myself forward, and pulled myself further down the spear, my hands unconsciously finding the mask it wore. I pulled with all my might and felt it give. I was looking directly into the red eyes of the dead warrior, and straight into the ruined face of my brother. My dear brother, Bereleth. The entire forest seemed to stop. The hideous realization lasted an eternity. The lips I knew so well cracked open and a gurgling moan came from deep within its form, “Fennic…join… me…join…us all.” He pulled the blade from my arm, a moment of agony that brought me back to my senses. I scrabbled backwards, crab-like, as it—as he—slowly advanced forwards toward me…. I ran. Ran until my vision blurred. I ran until my heart pumped like it would burst from my chest. I ran until my muscles refused to go any further. And all the time I could hear his soft sibilant whisper through the forest, “…my brother…,” I heard his voice calling for me. I still hear it now, even as I write these words. The code of the Kirath says, “I am first and foremost an observer. I serve to report the obstacles, not engage them. Dead kirath give no information.” Today I will break that vow. For now I write in this journal for the last time, and I can only hope that there are some of us left, some of us who will fight, some of us who will find this journal and learn from my tale. Use it to break this darkness. My tale is over. He hunts me now. And from him, I cannot run. I hear his footfalls on the earth. I hear his voice in my head, “Fennic…come…” He is coming for me. I will not run anymore. I go to meet my brother. We are Kirath.

102 Lost Organizations The Knights of Balif I n the years following the Rose Rebellion, the kender of Hylo became enamored with the idea of the Solamnic knighthood. Warriors dressed in bright shiny armor that could wield glittering swords in battle with the efficiency of a hoopak and could perform all sorts of neat tricks from the back of a moving horse were all the rage. The medals, the feasts, the festivals, the jousting, the waving flags–it was like those knights lived in one big kendermoot day in and day out for their whole lives! The fact that these knights had long ago rebelled against Ergoth, a nation that had really not been very friendly to Hylo in the past, only made the reputation of this growing Knighthood even more appealing. So for decades, generations of kender made the trip to Solamnia to join the Knighthood. Each one was turned down for one reason or another. Either they were too short, or they were not born in Solamnia, or they weren’t allowed to play with the valuable ancient weapons, or any other number of “silly” reasons. Most kender eventually returned home at one time or another with the sad story of their rejection from the Knighthood. In 1634 PC, after his fifth attempt and eventual failure to join the Knights of Solamnia, Huma Springfingers decided to form his own knighthood. He named his knightly order the Knights of Balif in honor of the first and greatest kender hero. As news of the Knights of Balif spread, kender from all over Kenderhome flocked to Hylo to join. Every kender who could serve was allowed to join. They created three orders. The Order of the Acorn was the highest and noblest of the three. This order was reserved for Huma and his close friends…and their close friends. The Order of the Sparrow was dedicated to all those kender who were currently on wanderlust or planning to be soon. The Sparrows would fly to the farthest reaches of Krynn doing good works in the name of the Knights of Balif. The third order, the Order of the Pouch, was open to those kender that were beyond wanderlust and chose to remain in a place for longer than a few weeks. It was their responsibility to provide shelter to wandering Sparrows and to assist in collecting supplies or information for the Order of the Acorn. The knight’s oath was “Ek’thik allus mot durnat” which means “Goodness is best.” They intended to live up to the standards of the Knights of Solamnia that they admired so, even if the Solamnics did have a slight problem with their entrance requirements. Word of the new warrior regime in Hylo reached the ear of Gregori uth Telan, the Solamnic Grand Master at the time. The Grand Master was unfamiliar with the ways of kender and was outraged at the stories of kender running around with “pots on their heads,” waving “sharp pointed sticks,” and claiming to be knights. He believed their actions belittled the grand Solamnic Order. So he sent an emissary to request that the kender stop their mockery. They did not stop, however; in fact, they issued an invitation for any knight who was interested to join the Order of the Acorn, a great honor indeed. On this note, however, Grand Master Gregori ordered an invasion of Kenderhome, despite the protests of his advisors. As the Knights rode into Hylo to lay siege to the citadel at the heart of the city, the kender cheered and waved. The kender never actually realized they were under attack. Instead they prepared for a great festival in honor of the Knights’ arrival. For nearly a month, the kender strolled around the Knights’ encampment, praising them for their arrival and telling them how much they admired them. Eventually the commander of the invading force was able to explain how the formation of the Knights of Balif had hurt the Grand Master’s feelings because the Grand Master thought they were teasing the Knights of Solamnia. The realization of this information shocked the kender and they decided to disband the Knights of Balif in order to prevent any further misunderstandings. It wasn’t until the Chaos War that the idea of kender knights was brought up again. During the time when the Dragon Overlord Malystryx ordered armies of ogres to surround the capital city of Kendermore, the story of the Knights of Balif resurfaced. It is said that the stories of the valiant Knights of Balif gave the kender courage when their own natural fearlessness had begun to fail them. Kender storytellers claim that the kender knightly order was reborn in that terrible tragedy and that some of the kender who helped the populace escape that day wore the symbols of the three Orders. Legends suggest that the Knights of Balif will return some day, in some form or fashion.

Lost Organizations 103 Shadow Wars: Secret Societies, Cults and Clandestine Organizations of Ansalon The term ‘secret society’ has a negative connotation to it, but in reality it simply refers to a group that has some form of exclusionary membership and purports to have access to some form of secret knowledge available only to those members. A clandestine group, by comparison, is what people typically think of when they hear the term, ‘secret society.’ It is a group in which membership is a closely guarded secret, not something publicly proclaimed. The meetings are held in basem*nts and other secret places, and the group’s goals and motives are usually suspect. They are typically thought to be subversive, but in fact they are as likely to be beneficial as malevolent. The dark forces that plague society exist at all its social levels, so clandestine group members feel that in order to keep them in check they must combat them in secret ways. Other clandestine groups are dedicated to social turmoil and strife, seeking instead to sow chaos and dissension. The end result is that these two opposing groups often combat each other under different guises, clashing in a secret war of which average citizens are typically unaware. In some cases, a guild is a fluid organization, while in others it is a very rigid hierarchy. They are commonly reserved for tradesfolk, such as smiths and merchants, although Palanthas and several other major cities on Ansalon are known for their thieves’ guilds. In the past, the priesthoods of Reorx and Shinare, being the patrons of many merchants and tradesfolk, heavily influenced shipping and manufacturing guilds to the point of outright control in some cases. Fraternal or sororal orders are commonly known as “brotherhoods” or “sisterhoods;” these are very similar to guilds, but have more mystical and decadent accoutrements. The groups claim to be more exclusive, but in fact many have rather lax membership requirements. Morality and Group Motivations Just because a group is a secret society does not mean it is a malevolent one. These groups usually have very rigid moral codes to govern conduct, and transgressing them invites the harsh wrath of the organization’s leaders. The older members of these groups know that they exist because society fears them, but also because they are not so much of a problem that they need to be dealt with. If constant openly illegal and anti-social acts were being committed, the populace would rise against these groups and expel them. The benevolent groups are similarly minded; they know that they exist because they offer benefits to enough people to not be a problem. If they started to assert themselves in realms beyond their appropriate sphere of influence, they too would likely find themselves under society’s scrutiny. One common mistake often made is that of counting cults as secret societies, when this is not true. They share some characteristics with secret societies, but a cult is very much a form of religious devotion, whereas a secret society is a form of association. The duties of a cult member are much more demanding and usually require a commitment of a shared moral code or belief system. Claims of Antiquity An important part of any group’s reputation is its history. Often, a new group will simply invent a grand history extending back before the Cataclysm, adopting historical figures into its ranks and weaving itself into history, to the point of commissioning false histories and ‘ancient’ artifacts or artwork depicting their influence down through the ages. In other cases, a group will steal a name from a defunct group of historical note, claiming to be a new or reborn branch. Woe to the group that steals a reputation from a group that later proves to be very much alive and active, and does not appreciate its reputation being sullied by pretenders. This historical posturing ties into the desire on the part of members to be part of a long and proud tradition, especially important among those who are ineligible for the great long-lived orders such as the Knights of Solamnia or the Conclave of Wizards. Secrecy and its Nature It is important to understand what is meant by the secrecy these groups are cloaked in. There are two main manifestations of secrecy in these societies. Some keep their very existence and membership secret, which in fact makes them clandestine organizations, while others proclaim themselves openly but keep their internal workings a secret. The former are the

104 Lost Organizations stuff of rumors and shadows, while the latter have meeting halls, rallies, and the like to show their membership to society. Malevolent and benevolent goals can be found among both, as can legal and non-legal methods of achieving those goals. It is at some point trivial to try to draw strict lines between these groups, because their goals, motivations and methods overlap in many cases. Membership and its Benefits Membership in secret societies is very diverse. The members come from all levels of society; the makeup usually determined by the nature, purpose, and origins of the group itself. Within a given group one may find nobles, merchants, tradesman, and peasants, all seeking boons from their fellows. For some, being part of a group means special business deals, or access to certain clients or other economic advantages. Many people live lives of mediocrity, especially in small towns. Being part of an exclusive society is a way to elevate oneself above one’s normal social position, and hence not feel quite so powerless in the world. Priesthoods of Darkness in particular capitalize on this thirst to be different, especially the followers of Chemosh, promising power and prestige in exchange for devotion. This devotion more often than not has a higher price than anticipated, however. Some people join the groups out of fear, but there are two types of fear. Some people are scared of the group itself, and see protection from it being gained by joining it. Others join the group because they seek protection from outside threats or internal weaknesses by being part of the group. In other cases people join groups for the camaraderie and social aspect. There is nothing sinister to their motivations, they simply wish to associate with men or women of similar skills, ideas or means. Families play a strong role in some groups, with sons and grandsons being sponsored for membership by other relatives. This family tradition is particularly true among the Knights of Solamnia. Professions also have traditions of being parts of groups, although this is strongly tied to the ideas of economic advantages and mutual aid. In ethnicallybased groups, aid and fellowship are the main motivators for joining. New immigrants to an area seek out groups like this, so that they can help each other get established and prosper. There is an understanding, that to accept help is to later give it when called upon. In some towns, membership in a local secret society is an essential part of becoming an insider in that society. For example, being a member of a certain guild is an unspoken and unwritten requirement to open a business or become a society leader. Having the right membership can allow circumventing of laws, taxes or other social hindrances that people continually seek to avoid. The titles and pseudohistory that are part of secret societies are also an important reason many people have for joining. When one is a member, they are no longer a lowly waiter or wagoneer, they have a title that confers an air of nobility. If a person from the upper echelons of society joins, a person of lesser means may still supplant them and hold authority over them, even though they are subordinate in the “normal world.” Initiation An essential part of joining a group is the act of initiation. In the prospective members mind, the initiation rite and participation in it is what makes them no longer part of normal society, but part of a special elite. The Wizards’ Conclave is a well-known group with an initiation rite that all prospective members would do well to take very seriously–failure to do so almost invariably results in death. As with the Conclave, some groups have magical rituals, but for the most part the act is an assemblage of prestidigitation and showmanship, designed to instill a sense of awe in the new member and symbolize passage from one stage of life into another. Selected Groups There are hundreds of groups, small and large, across the physical and chronological span of Ansalon. An attempt to catalogue them all would be an exhausting and dangerous task, as some groups are secret and prefer to remain that way. The list is intended to show only the variety and nature of groups that exist. Ash Collectors To most mages, they are purveyors of spellbook inks, chalk for summoning circles, and other components. In truth though, they sell components for darker purposes, for all are made from the ash of the magic-warped lands they frequent. They prowl the battlefields, from Ansalon to Taladas, gathering samples of what they find. They are detectives of a magical bent, gathering the remains of magical minions and samples of the lands they warped. Some members are alchemists, other mages, others are dark priests—all have heard the whispers of power and have answered the call. They collect the ashes for study and for use in foul magicks, all to gain the ability to summon and control the creatures of Chaos. While they have succeeded in the summoning on numerous occasions, their membership has remained small due to their inability to control most of what they unleash. Therefore, they continue their studies, beneath cities, in dark caves and on mountain peaks, in hopes of gathering

Lost Organizations 105 minions to further their dark ends. The Ash Collectors have tenuous ties to black and green dragons. The wyrms are often very curious about what the collectors could do for their dark designs. Chaos Cultists Throughout Krynn’s long history, the seductive whisper of Chaos has filtered throughout Creation. It has attracted beings from all races, outcasts hungry for power, chafing at the limits of the circ*mstances they find themselves in. They are not granted power, but rather knowledge; in return, they serve Chaos and his ends. A heathen priest or renegade mage typically leads a cult group. In some cases however, the most vile and intelligent creatures of magic itself lead the cult group, walking in the guise of a mortal race. Chaos cults are thankfully unaffiliated with each other, operating instead as a near private army acting out the whims of the cult leader. In return for their servitude, cult members are granted the Touch of Chaos in a dark and vile ceremony. This is power the leader wields as a magic-user. They bestow a gift in the form of a mutation, a mark of loyalty and a tool for the group to use. Some have enhanced senses, others special abilities, none though are untouched. The touch binds them to the leader, making them his or her eyes, ears and sometimes hands. The changes are permanent, and in the event that a lieutenant wrests control of the cult from the leader, a second ceremony will bind the followers to them as well, if they are capable of using magic. If not, the minions scatter, taking refuge in catacombs and sewers or, in the case of those that come to their senses, trying to find a cure for whatever change was inflicted on them. Chaos cults engage in different activities: raiding, murder, grave robbing, and theft, all to gather resources for the leader. Some leaders though have lost their faith in Chaos’ power, operating the cult group as a gang, becoming rich then abandoning the followers. Those who do abandon their children sometimes come to regret it, as their more powerful followers hunt them relentlessly, or in some cases take control of the cult and seek their former master. Throughout the ages they have been hunted by knights and priests, adventurers and mages, some of whom have succumbed to the lure of the cult themselves, forsaking their former life for a new purpose–fulfilling the will of the charismatic leader. They are reviled and hunted by beings both light and dark, and more than one celestial or infernal being has entered the world with the sole purpose of wiping out a cult. The Deepsong Brotherhood The Brotherhood is a loose confederation of the pirates of Ansalon. There is no real hierarchy, it is a system of shifting alliances where the strong rule and the weak hope to advance by plotting against their betters. They have hands in smuggling, ship theft, extortion, slaving, prostitution and other dark deeds in most major coastal cities of Ansalon. Over the Brotherhoods long history, its fortunes have waxed and waned, but it has always survived to fight another day. It is not uncommon for those who thwart or defy them to be found hanging from a yardarm, their ships or warehouses burned, or families murdered. Indeed one of their greatest defeats was at the Battle of the Boneyard, a treacherous reef bank near Ergoth’s Nordmaar island colonies. There the pirates and their Zebolim allies encountered an Imperial war fleet when they were expecting only merchant ships. The battle was the stuff of legend, and utterly broke the Brotherhood for decades afterwards. More than one career in the Ergothian admiralty has been made by a great victory over the pirates, with a fleet sunk or a stronghold destroyed. In response though, other careers ended in scandal or worse, courtesy of the vengeful remaining pirates. They are not to be trifled with, and have ties with thieves’ guilds, military groups, and at times cults such as the Zebolim. Disciples of the Risen Kingpriest There are those who believe that Beldinas, the last of the Kingpriests, did not go far enough. They believe that the destruction of the Towers was not the work of the wizards, but was in fact the justice of the Kingpriest smiting the mages. In their twisted ideology, the destruction of Istar and Ansalon in the Cataclysm was the work of the wizards, further evidence that they are evil. Even though the continent was ravaged, they believe that the Kingpriest survived, protected by Paladine in the Beyond, and will return when followers of great piety gather and strike Istar’s enemies. They possess several pieces of the heartchambers, including at least one greatshard from the tower of Losarcum. The glittering black shard is worn embedded in the breastplate of the High Acolyte, the Kingpriest’s representative on Krynn. It is this shard and breastplate that he will present to Beldinas when he returns from the beyond, as proof that his flock is devout. When that day comes, the followers will strike, with Beldinas at their lead, at those who had wrought such havoc and destruction. Even now they hunt mages, sacrificing them in dark

106 Lost Organizations rituals to prove their piety, the flayed skins decorated in the ancient church tongue, litanies begging forgiveness of Beldinas for their misdeeds in life. Frostreavers The Frostreavers are a society of wealthy Palanthan gentlemen, an eccentric group of armchair explorers that use their money to fund expeditions to Krynn’s South Pole in search of the legendary civilizations there. They are devout gatherers and collectors of artifacts and lore of the twin kingdoms, as they call them—a legendary ogre kingdom draped with gold and finery, and a strange city that descends into a rift in the world’s surface. Occasionally, one of the members will accompany an expedition, but so far, there have been no major discoveries. The society is named for the fabled war axes of the Icefolk. The axes were given to the founding members of the society, a band of adventurers that aided the Icefolk in a war against the loathsome thanoi. The mage of the group was able to enspell the axes given to the surviving company members, to preserve them for the trip back. They hang in the great hall of the society, chilling the air around them, reminding the survivors and children of the founders of their legacy, but not melting over the passage of years. The Hangman’s Daughters After the fall of Solamnia in the Age of Darkness after the first Cataclysm, a band of mercenaries appeared. All were women, all wore Solamnic armor, but the ideals they followed were very different than those of the Oath and Measure. The original members were orphans, daughters of Solamnic Knights slain by the wrathful populace for not averting the Cataclysm. Their banner is a broken sword in a noose on a blood red field. They fight for steel, self, and comrades, and throughout their history they have ridden for both Light and Darkness—whichever paid more. They formed over several decades, as the first leaders, the twin daughters of a Knight of Caergoth, gathered supporters in Abanasinia. When their numbers had swollen with a score of other exiles, they returned to Caergoth by sea, hiring mercenaries to aid them, and sacked the town in 23 AC. Anger and egos sated, pouches full, they returned to Abanasinia and claimed an Elven fortress deep in what had once been northern Qualinesti. They ride forth from time to time, as likely to pillage the land as to liberate it. They have no grand designs, save for continuing their existence and never again falling victim to the whims of a fickle peasantry. Imperial Nordmaar Company The company was formed in the century before the first Cataclysm, in the wake of the first successful circumnavigation of Ansalon by an Ergothian captain. Her discoveries led to the establishment of several colonies in uncharted lands around the continent, the most prominent of which were the Nordmaar Islands. The lush islands, largely isolated from the rest of civilization, were the source of much wealth for Ergoth, in the form of spices, plants, animals, exotic hardwoods, and slaves. Nature’s bounty was ripe for the picking, and pick the company did, with an Imperial charter that gave them dominion over the islands and a fleet that at the time dominated the oceans. It was only a matter of time before Istar took note of the colonies on its doorstep, and launched a challenge by placing their own representatives there. Cargoes of misery sailed east and west, to the great cities of the age, while mundane items returned, bribes for the tall, red and blonde-haired natives to continue their servitude. As time passed, the company and the Istarians came into conflict, but by then, Ergoth had lost interest in the islands, having secured other sources for much of its products. The fleet was withdrawn, and without it to protect them, and by extension the Istarians as well, settlements of both colonial powers increasingly fell prey to minotaurs and other pirates. The resourceful company employees and governors continued on, bringing in enough profit to sustain imperial support and the charter, but the days of great profit were gone. Until the Cataclysm struck. The charter, which granted dominion over all the lands of Nordmaar was still a valid treaty, and was even more potent because Istar, its chief opponent, was destroyed. The company and by extension, Ergoth, had even more land to exploit, and it was in the Cataclysm that the company found its savior—salt. The sea floor thrust above the surface was littered with cakes of salt, as the water evaporated. All that needed doing was its collection. The governors in ravaged Ergoth itself had no knowledge of this turn of events, indeed the posts operated independently for over forty years before a company ship returned to the former islands and now the new peninsula. The representative that stepped ashore was shocked to find that the warehouses were full of salt cakes, meticulously recorded and stacked, as was company policy. After the salt harvest, the forests too began to spread, creating even more room for exotic spices and woods to flourish. Many of the cities of Ergoth were rebuilt from the sales of the colonial products, after the Cataclysm. There are three types of men in the company, the traders themselves, the factors that lead them, and the governors. The traders are the rugged and resourceful men who operate the forts and ships of the company, the factors are

Lost Organizations 107 the heads of each outpost, or factory, while the governors are the aristocrats that fund the venture and decide its course. The imperial families themselves have a stake in the success of the company—the crafty writers of the charter decreed that the rulers of Ergoth are majority non-voting stockholders, thus ensuring support from any dynasty so long as the dividends roll in each year. They specialize in the court intrigues that make such an enterprise continually viable, and in the centuries of the company’s existence, few are the governors that have not become obscenely wealthy. Governors and factors are cut from a similar cloth; both are as different from the traders as night and day. The former are thrifty diplomats with career aspirations, the latter the loyal soldiers of a commercial empire. All take threats to the company and Ergoth very seriously, and constantly engage mercenaries and adventurers to protect outposts or shipments, survey trade routes, secure supplies, transport dignitaries or rare commodities and in some cases, to quell a rebellious populace. Hiring is, in their view, much more cost effective than maintaining a standing force. Of course, much of these activities do not officially happen. Those that complain or claim otherwise are quickly dispatched to distant corners of the realm, or so others are told. In the days before the Cataclysm, the company seal on a product, whether painted, stamped or branded, was a sign of quality and competence, but also a reminder of the long arms of Ergoths power. As the Company rebuilds and reinvents itself, the seal is being seen more and more on crates, bottles and flags, across the world. Kalimites The Kalim was a mystic warlord, a half-Elven descendant of the desert princes, and the self-proclaimed voice of Kiri-Jolith on Krynn. In 64 PC, he raised an army of fanatical followers to drive the Solamnics and Istarians out of the Sun’s Anvil region, the desert land of Dravinaar. Elves of northern Silvanesti joined his horde, as did some Kagonesti, believing that only he, the Kalim, could stem the tide of human expansion. They believed that if the humans hungered after worthless desert, the forests of Silvanesti would be even more tempting to claim. Though the court of Silvanost did not condone his acts, neither did they condemn them—instead they watched with elven dispassion, awaiting the outcome. His true name is unknown, his title “Kalim” simply means ‘warrior’ in the tongue of the desert nomads. His rebellion started small, with an attack on an Istarian outpost, but soon grew to the point when the Kalimites were striking the small oasis cities scattered across the region. Istar and Solamnia dispatched forces to deal with them, but neither met with success. Instead, they wandered blindly, seeking rebels that seemed to appear out of nowhere, then disappear back into the canyons and dunes. The mounted knights in their armor were unprepared for this sort of foe, and the Kalimites slowly whittled away at the force. As their successes grew, so did their favor among the local populace. From Micah to Zaladh, Solamnics and Istarians could buy no food or water, as the descendents of the desert princes dared hope that they would be free of the Solamnics, the Istarians and their Kingpriests. Seeking succor at the tunnel gate of Qim Sudri, the city later called Losarcum, the remaining knights were captured by Kalimites, the news of their abduction reaching Palanthas itself. Soon after, bodies started to be found in the public fountains of Istar, members of the missing contingent. One appeared each week for thirteen weeks, until public pressure to rescue the survivors reached a fever pitch. A second force left Istar with Istarian soldiers to supplement, lead by Imal Fabran, a descendant of the pre-Kingpriest era warlord that tamed the lands and brought them into Istars fold. They too were slaughtered, smashed upon the Sun’s Anvil and driven west to Yandol, where they tried to heal their wounds and regroup to try again. The leadership of the cult finally met its match in the Sargonids, a warrior-priest sect devoted to the condor god. They took up the cause when one of their sacred sites was despoiled. The site was a battleground, known as Shalamakhar, the Bloodwell of the Gods. Sargonid legends say it was where Kiri-Jolith and Sargonnas clashed in the AllSaints War, where the furies, spirits of vengeful justice, were born of the split blood of the gods, beholden to neither. The Sargonid monastery stood on a plateau amid the blood-red spires, a place of stark and horrific beauty. The temple and school were razed, the masters and acolytes overrun and slaughtered. The thirty-nine remaining paladins, on a meditative retreat at the time, returned to their monastery, retrieved their armor and set off to hunt their quarry. They took no food, nor personal belongings, knowing that they would not return even if they survived. The tale is an epic one, a song of battle and prayer that left hundreds dead before the Kalim and his circle of personal warriors were cornered atop a mesa. The fanatical tattooed Jolithians fought and killed many of the bronze-bedecked paladins, but finally all were dead save the Kalim himself. The Sargonids sheathed their weapons, and camped at the foot of the mesa, determined to wait him out. They were intent on denying him an honorable death in battle, and their patience was rewarded. After 13 days, the Kalim, mad with hunger and rage, hurled himself to his death. The Sargonids, under a banner of truce, walked to the Solamnic and Istarian encampment, and presented the Kalim’s head to the leader of the force. His body was left for the vultures. The Kalimites’ plunder was never recovered; their lairs remained unfound, even after the Cataclysm.

108 Lost Organizations Keepers of the Light Across Ansalon, on desolate coasts, mountain peaks and in bustling cities, the Lightkeepers stand watch. They live and work in the lighthouses that guide travelers on land and sea, worshippers of Sirrion, the Sacred Flame. The Cataclysm destroyed some of their towers, but many of the dwarf-built bastions still stand fast against the darkness. Indeed the more isolated ones have thrived, their fortifications giving rise to towns, and providing a refuge in times of war. The Keepers themselves are quiet and humble, spending their time preaching and praying, when not tending the lenses or fires of the tower. Some towers have been abandoned since the Cataclysm, and the Keepers continually seek to survey and reclaim them, salvaging what they can of their legacy, and reusing the materials in the ruins to shore up other sites if they cannot be repaired. The Legion of Daltigoth The legion is a pseudo-military order of aristocratic Ergothian patriots, imperialists of the old mold, who seek to rebuild the hordes of Ergoth and drive the ogres from the ancestral capital. Ask the ogres though, and one would hear of how they are in fact reclaiming their own ancestral capital from the human interlopers. Regardless of who is right, the Legion acts as a lobbying force in the imperial court, securing periodic expeditions to salvage artifacts, survey ruins, and plan, in the long term, the liberation of Daltigoth. Many members are of older imperial families, people whose ancient lineages originate in the old capital region. They often fund expeditions to their ancestral castles to reclaim relics and heirlooms, and in some cases to drive out the occupants and destroy the structures. As Ergoth’s fortunes began to turn after the Cataclysm, the Legion grew in prestige and membership. The ultra-patriotic legion found new allies in some of the exiled Knights of Solamnia, when the knights discovered the current state of their preSolamnic heritage. The Penitatum They were the worst of the worst, a band of brigands and thieves, cutthroats and ne’er-do-wells. From every civilized race, and some less civilized, they found their way to Newgate prison in Kalaman. They were sentenced to lives of hard labor behind the walls of the notorious gaol, but when the War of the Lance came, they were the only hope the city had. Offering full pardons, the city released two hundred of the prisoners: dwarves and ogres, minotaurs and goblins, elves and men alike, under the leadership of Vinmar Leigh, a disgraced knight. The dragonarmies were ravaging the defenses of the city, and the prisoners were levied from Newgate to bolster the defenses. Their leader gave them the name Penitatum; their tactics were unorthodox, brutal, but effective. Those who survived earned their freedom and a memorial stands on the city’s eastern edge to commemorate the redeemed nameless dead that defended so valiantly. Many of the survivors stayed together after the war, forming a mercenary company from the only family they had known, the bonds formed in the months of war carrying on afterwards. Kiri-Jolith gained new followers in that war, and though they gained no spells, they studied his teachings devoutly, finding purpose in just wars to defend the downtrodden. New members join from time to time, former prisoners paroled after their terms, escaped prisoners seeking a new life, or others pardoned for service to the city. The only rule of the company is that for each member, there is no life before they joined, no family, no comrades or contacts. That life is ended; they are redeemed in the regiment, and it is there that their loyalty must lie. Traitors are dealt with harshly. As a mercenary company, they have traveled throughout the continent, fighting for just causes, and spreading the teachings of Kiri-Jolith. The Skiffman’s Guild Originally led by priests of Reorx and Shinare, the Skiffman’s Guild controls the canal traffic in Solamnia. They rule the waterways that crisscross the Vingaard valley, transporting goods and people for a price. Their craft range in size from small, hand-poled gondolas to larger, animalpowered paddleboats that carry tons of cargo over great distances. There have been time in their history when they have blockaded towns in petty trade disputes, and other times when they have transported refugees and soldiers for free. The Knights have tried to control them, but after several instances when trade, the lifeblood of any nation, came to a halt, the government opted instead to let the guild function on its own. The guild has representatives everywhere, in every hamlet and city—from the rural ferryman to the harbormaster of Palanthas. Those who open new independent routes soon find themselves visited by representatives of the guild, and few turn their offer of friendship down. Tour Umbria A cabal of wizards, the “Shadow Tower,” exists within the Conclave, and was formed soon after the Conclave itself was established. Its existence is rumored, its structure informal, its membership secret and limited. Its members attempt to manipulate the fates of nations, and gather artifacts of great power for themselves, bolstering the magic that aids their political efforts. They are a select group, meeting rarely and only when necessary. They prefer to act through

Lost Organizations 109 intermediaries, agents and slaves, to protect themselves. If the Conclave could be certain of the membership, something could be done to control it, but the Shadow Tower has existed for millennia as the “Sixth Tower,” complete with its own strongholds and servants, hidden far from the eyes of others. In the days and years after the Siege on Sorcery, they led secret expeditions into the ruins of Daltigoth and Losarcum, killing even other mages that discovered them, including the official recovery teams from the Conclave itself. This is of course not widely known, for their existence is little more than rumor. The lost expeditions only added to the rumors of the ruins’ dangers, which aided the teams’ secret recovery of bodies, artifacts and other salvage items. It is rumored that in a secret valley in the Khalkists, the heartchamber of Losarcum and other rooms of the Tower have been partly reconstructed, a refuge for the Shadow Tower, in a place others would not think to search for. This group does not hunger for power, for with power comes responsibility and prominence. Instead it seeks influence. It desires to bend the ear of rulers, to influence actions through politics. The masked mages are powerful, but not omnipotent—secrecy is their greatest tool. They have protected the Conclave, sometimes from itself, throughout its history. Zebolim In the dark depths of the oceans dwell darker things still. Though few in number, the Zebolim, the children of Zeboim, are a powerful group. The cult groups are only loosely connected, each being led by a priest or priestess, who speaks the teachings of their dark mistress. With sacrifices to gain her aid, they wage covert war against the surface peoples, sinking ships, summoning storms, and raiding towns with minions of the deep. They are fierce opponents of the followers of Habbakuk. Aspirants to the cult must make a sacrifice to join, and each aspirant’s sacrifice is different. Some must give up a hand, others an eye, others a living being of their flesh. In return, she grants them the power to travel her realm unimpeded, and limited control of her children of the sea. When not on land, they plot and plan, hoard and butcher in temples and ruined cities deep below the surface of the ocean. There they experiment with magic and breeding, warping beings to serve Zeboim better. The cult spends much of its time securing sacrificial subjects, luring them to her monstrous minions or her bloody altars. Zebolim also spend a great amount of time hunting for artifacts of Zeboim. The legends say there are many—weapons, items, shells, and pearls—scattered across the primal seas during the All-Saints War when Zeboim fought Habbakuk in the depths. Their battle ended in stalemate, each claiming victory, but agreeing to share rule of the seas. Habbakuk’s followers, too, seek the artifacts to use them for good and to prevent the Zebolim from finding them. The departure of the Gods mattered little to the Zebolim. The sea remained, so they refused to believe their mistress had abandoned them. They were instead spurred to bolder acts when they learnt that Habbakuk’s followers were no more. Many pirates are found among her devoted, choosing prime victims from among their raids. Indeed some captains lead groups of Zebolim, casting spells, summoning storms, and turning their ships into floating sacrificial platforms. Though they are a blood-cult, they are by no means unskilled in manipulation. Many are the towns that have unwillingly or unwittingly built a shrine to Zeboim, making sacrifices to placate her of their own volition. Such devotion amuses the sea queen, for there is little that pleases her and her followers more than the smell of mortal fear.

110 Lost Organizations The Way of the Seekers My chosen area of scholarly expertise has long been the phenomenon of false religions, cults and cabals that prey upon a destitute or otherwise desperate person who only seeks relief from the ever-constant struggle of life. Using smoke and mirrors, minor magicks, even elaborately staged miracles, the common factor among these false faiths is always to dupe people into believing and tithing. The Seeker religion is no exception. From a loosely connected cadre of wanderer-disciples to a dominating presence in Abansainia and Southern Solamnia, the Seekers are by far the most successful of the sophist faiths. But to call them misworshipers is misleading; what marks the Seekers as different from other sensationalist groups, such as the Belzoratic Cabal or the Verdant Greenmen, is the peaceful1 message of hope and prosperity through community. In the midst of famine and plague wrought by the Cataclysm, the men and women who would become the first Seekers lead their neighbors through despair to something resembling prosperity, which then evolved into new gods born of the strength of the community. Make no mistake, the Seekers were as beset by corruption as any powerful organization of any day, but at their heart was a moral tenacity that rekindled in many the idea of piety. Even today, after the return of the true Gods, the fall of the Seekers, and the fallout of war over most of Ansalon, the effects on community and personal faith wrought by the Seekers can still be felt in places such as Solace and the Lordcity of Haven. Imagine, then, how pleased I was when a general request to the Library from one Tika Majere for “the facts” about the Seekers landed atop my escritoire. Summarily I poured over the holy text Gratio Praxis. Much of the Seeker’s literature was conceived in verse, but is found recorded only in prose. Where appropriate, I have restored passages to a likely approximation of their original composition. Interspersed in the entries you will find my footnotes to help the reader understand conventions unique to the Seekers. The first three selections offer an insight to the subtle message of unity found throughout the Praxis, followed by a pair of poems that are intended both for the Seeker priest and his audience, and lastly two poems and two prayers that focus on the Seeker gods. —Norman Thoms, Aesthetic, the Great Library of Palanthas The First Seeker The flock to ruin falls should My staff and hand abate; As men doth2 fail when gods Forsake us to our fate. Behold! I let them wander; The sheep dwind’ and die. So too need men their gods, Lest meet men their demise. Chance met a dwarf at road-fork I ask’d, “What gods have ye?” From ‘neath beard bellow’d, “Reorx! Only and all we need!” “This god your pray’r doth answer?” Ask’d I in sinc’rity. Guffawed the dwarf, “Nay, sir! Who needs divinity?” To the elf woods walked I And ask’d, “What gods have ye?” Elf-prince gave soft reply, “E’li is all elves need. Chosen children in his eyes, We live by his light bless’d.” “Your prayer he sets to rights?” Ask’d I, the humble guest. “Nay, alas,” spake he, “he’s gone.

Lost Organizations 111 He tests us in our faith.” “Nay, alas,” Spake I. “He’s gone,” “He’s left you to your fate.” Thus began my trav’ls to The lands of Anslaon. Seeker of Gods a’new; Man’s faith must be reborn. Three Deaths3 The old man, weak from standing bent Faces great’r trial than any yet sent, For without Gods, without the flame Of truth to guide, a man o’any name Doth three times die. Speech, rendered slowly, which field needs sow? The death of the mind creeps unseen, slow. Long moments lost in the mists of thought, Mead taken twice, meals taken naught, A’bed he doth lie. Dress’d in shadow, cloak’d in death’s scent Man passes to corpse, no more time lent. Life’s beat ends, foul, bed-rid, bed-lame. Rest ye sir, we lament o’re your name, His sons doth cry. Grief, lamentations, son’s sorrow, In the past left, left for the crow Life beats ever on; in it all men are caught. Against this third death all men have fought; His soul doth fly. Thrice dead, each man, upon leaving Krynn, Thrice dead, thrice lost, thrice the sin, But with new Gods, in hearts and mind, Seekers of New Gods, in truth ye find, With hope doth lie. The Waiting Man Old man sitting by the side of the road Wherefore do you sit, let thine tale be told. A’waiting for word of Paladine I wait patiently on the divine. Daft man! Wherefore? What hope thou to find? The gods have left us; leave them in kind. Here I’ve been waiting and here I’ll wait; I’m patient, thou’ll see, he’ll come a’fore late. The man sat there each day that I passed Headed for market where people amassed. Seekers told word that New Gods came; I ran to the man to tell him the same. Alas poor man! The gods have left thou! Alas thine waiting’s left thou untold; Seeker Gods bring hope but none t’thou: Alone, murdered, by the side of the road4 . Song for the Seeker5 A Seeker must see first with his eyes To discover falsehood and outrageous lies. Then you must see and seek with your mind Where trick’ry and deception are oft divined. With your heart look upon all things last; For the heart is where truth takes its repast. Zeshun, the Keeper of Memory6 You do not walk alone in this life Watched by Zeshun through your strife. Each swing of your scythe, each bushel’grain Each swing of your sword, each blood’d stain Each curse, each prayer, each breath and sigh Zeshun keeps e’ry deed, e’ry truth, e’ry lie. The Waking Prayer7 Honor Olmathea as you do your mother; Without her grace we are lost. Honor Faere as you do you wife; All things grow by her hand. Honor Zeshun as you do yourself; For she sees into your soul. Honor Cadithal as you do your lord; For his good word is fortune. Honor Sauvay no less than the others; For his strength is ours. Prayer Before Sleep I am humble before the New Gods. Sauvay, Fatherlord, the Blessed Revenge, stay your wrath from our hearts this night that we may sleep in peace. Olmathea, Motherlord, Giver of Life, the Protector, send your mercy to us, for we are humble servants. Cadithal, Tradelord, we bargain our humility for rest, and upon waking will again take up your call. Faere, Daughter of the Gods, Goddess of Growing Things and Inspiration, bless us with your gentle touch that love might grow in our hearts this night. Zeshun, Queen of the Night, Keeper of Memory, guard us from wrongdoing in our dreams, and remind us of our humility upon waking. The Seeker’s Words When his son fears of goblins and ogres in the night, the proud father makes a show of laying out his old sword to ease his child’s quake. And when the daughter wails of her lost tooth, the gentle mother performs the tooth-rite to give purpose to her child’s distress. As parents, we comfort and

124 Lost Organizations woman and wolf. Sometimes against each other, sometimes against another foe. Sometimes man and wolf will find each other in the snow, and to keep from freezing, or being eaten by white-furred bears, the two watch each others’ backs until the storm blows over. There have been times when the ‘wild girl; of the woods takes in an orphaned wolf cub, and they grow up together in the corps. The stories are rich and varied, and very secret. “I’m sure you’d like to know what I mean by: ‘they take Canus into their hearts.’ How does that work? Can someone just look up at the twin green stars of Canus and say, ‘Canus, I take you into my heart!’ and become bündesphar. “The answer is no, but once an age, yes.” More from the Lecture on Graygem Lore “We must look back, much further back, into Krynn’s history to understand how the creatures of Chaos come to walk our soil. Imagine a sheet of metal on a black-smith’s anvil. Now, take a hammer and mash areas of the sheet thinner. As you guessed, those are the sichten. But what does the hammer represent? “The hammer is the Graygem. When the High God made everything, it was like the sheet of metal, even and stable in a cosmological sort of way. It was the Graygem’s passage that ‘hammered’ reality, caused sichten to appear between the Abyss and other worlds. And with the taint of Father Chaos in the Graygem, well, it’s possible for both creatures from the Abyss and the ‘extraplanar outsiders’–the minions of Chaos–to find our Krynn.” Various fragments (From unidentified text discovered in Ergoth) It pleased the Dark Queen to have the work of herself and Canus continued, allowing men and women to follow their path, their “sacred mission.” It’s interesting to note that these scouts do not worship Takhisis, nor does Canus ask for worship. Men and women who become bündesphar–wolves who give themselves to the Hunt–do so of their own will and ask (maybe ask is the wrong word, maybe require is better) nothing more from the Queen of Darkness and Lord of Wolves than the Bond. When wolf and man take the Bond, they know their lives are dedicated to each other and their sacred mission. The Dark Queen does not want to destroy Krynn, she wants to control it. And she has the bündesphar to save it. Two Truths of the Bündesphar: My life for yours, yours for mine. Above all things, a man loves his wolf. Above all things, a wolf loves his man. When a scout or wolf dies, they go on “the Long Hunt.” Their souls are taken up by Canus to the god’s hunting ground in the Godshome. What happens there, nobody knows.

Lost Lore Sometimes knowledge seems so trivial or commonplace that it might not seem worth the effort to record it. My brother learned that weeds growing in our own backyard could be used to battle common ailments. Here you will learn of the jewelry crafted by my dear friend, Flint Fireforge, the magnificent feasts of Solamnic nobles, the ways of love and courtship among the kender, the creation of the war drums of the ancient ogres, and more. Be it reading an afternoon’s amusem*nt or for important research, we hope you find the best use for the knowledge recorded here. Caramon Majere Proprietor of the Inn of the Last Home

126 Lost Lore Flint’s Jewelry Since the death of Flint Fireforge, Hero of the Lance, one item in Solace and the surrounding area has become highly sought after—his handcrafted jewelry. Flint was a well-known master jeweler who created pieces that not only resembled the nature of the land, but also captured the essence of it. This work would earn the dwarf fame and recognition even from powerful figures living in the area. The process of becoming a master jeweler is not an easy one, and the styles that Flint incorporated are considered to be genius. Straying from the traditional dwarven styles of heavy filigree, large stones, colorful alloys, and exotic minerals, Flint’s style was closer to the elven artisans of Qualinesti, a style that uses smaller stones, intricate detail, and created pieces that look lifelike. Flint began to learn this process while his older brother, Aylmar, was mentoring him, but it would take decades for him to create the master style he became famous for. Collectors seeking Flint’s pieces have discovered that Flint marked his pieces with a personal signature. This signature would bear his current residence, such as Solace or Hillhome, and provide a date indicating when the piece was created. Most of Flint’s works were created in Solace, where he lived most of his adult life, while a few rare pieces have been discovered bearing the Hillhome stamp. For those who are collecting the jewelry created by Flint, the most desired are those created around 260-265 AC, when his craftsmanship became even better. Many leaders in the lands of Abanasinia actively sought to buy his creations. Solostaran, Speaker of the Sun, acquired first a silver and moss-agate bracelet, and then two goblets made of silver hammered thin and polished to a brilliance. The goblet had three aspen leaves that seemed to grow out of the stem to cradle it. Solostaran so prized these that in the spring of 288 AC, Flint was commissioned by the Speaker for several more pieces and was invited to stay in Qualinost during the summer months. During the next twenty years, Flint perfected his skills, creating such wonderful jewelry that almost all elves tried to acquired a “Fashioned by Flint.” When the Speaker requested that Flint create a special medal for Porthios’ kentommen, the dwarf delivered. When the elves fled Qualinesti during the War of the Lance, the items that were created by Flint were some of the few that were taken with the Speaker to Southern Ergoth. Flint was even commissioned to create a piece for a Dargonesti princess, Selana Sonluanaau. The princess did this in secret, giving him only the components and instructions on how to create a bracelet. It turned out to be a magical bracelet, a Bracelet of Foresight. If Flint had only known what he would be creating, he would never have done so, for he despised all things magic. Flint continued to create his works after he and his friends separated, during the five years prior to their involvement in the War of the Lance. The last piece of jewelry that he was known to have created was an intricate necklace, created for the Mayor of Solace’s wife on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Flint took great pride at this request, and the result was a necklace of intricate silverwork that connected to a large emerald at the center, with three diamonds on each side of it in the shape of a V. Each of the six diamonds is nestled in silver in the shape of a vallenwood tree leaf.

Lost Lore 127 The Last Days of the Gnomish National Opera as told by Mirrashar, Elven Bard The following are the final excerpts from the Journal kept by the musical directors of the Gnomish National Opera of Krynn, which was located somewhere in the foothills surrounding Mt. Nevermind. The book is currently in the Rare Histories section of the Library at Palanthas. This is part of an almost unheard-of aspect of gnomish culture and history. (This tome is leather-bound, elegantly carved, and closed with a complicated metal catch. It is three feet tall and two feet wide, and is decorated with every musical symbol known in Krynn. There are also some symbols that are foreign to my eyes, understood perhaps only in gnomish notation. Considering the height of a gnome, the writer must have a moveable stool and an adjustable rest for his arm, or perhaps he sits on the book itself to put pen to parchment. I have translated these excerpts into Elvish from the original run-on gnomescript, and include several annotations.) {There is much splattered ink at the beginning of this section, as if the author had trouble beginning his narrative.) I pick up my pen, trembling. Even I can hardly read what I’m writing because my hand shakes so much. My words must be set down in this revered tome with those of renowned maestros who have come before me, and I quail at the prospect. I am, after all, only a lowly second trumpeter; the last offspring of Maestro Guylomrostrowilliamsprevinish Prokojakarashawlevineshorek, the greatest director the Gnomish National Opera of Krynn has had in centuries. (There is a sizeable pale splotch in the manuscript, likely several tears, or a smudge from his sleeve after he wiped it across his nose and eyes.) I regret to say that Maestro Prokohakarashawlevineshorek, my father, had a stroke yesterday during the rehearsal of the new sextet. He is resting at home, his right side (including his directing arm) paralyzed. Human and gnomish healers who we called in at the moment of his collapse all confirm the diagnosis of our official Opera physician: none are certain if he will ever regain full movement. A specialist is supposed to help him with range of motion exercises beginning next week. I don’t envy her; assisting the Maestro in anything is no easy task. He has his own way of doing things. That’s one reason he is—was—the Maestro. My name is Wyntonandredizzsatcharnoldmaynardmorricone. A kender I met years ago while I was practicing in a graveyard shortened it to Dizz because I fell off a stone during a high note and bent the bell of my horn up. I’ve been known by that name ever since, especially because I experiment with the bells of my instruments. I invented and played a trumpet having three small bells instead of one large one last year, but the Maestro said it did nothing to improve the sound. The Maestro is not one for innovation unless he feels the sound or playability is better. So I had to go back to my old horn, at least during opera rehearsals and performances. I keep the other one for dances and shows. After that introduction, I don’t need to tell you that I was born into a musical family. My mother Karalferriermariansteviemaddelenschumann-heink was a true alto diva, a very rare voice among singers. The Maestro fell in love with her as soon as she opened her mouth and sang full-voice in the low tenor range during a tryout. They married two days later, and we little gnomes came along a-one, and a-two, and a-three. Mother was so sick with us that she could hardly sing a lullaby much less an aria, so she reluctantly passed the position of alto soloist to her cousin Ernestinecarpenterannierdasemiramide, and became one of the Opera’s top-line vocal coaches. (Most of the musical parts and many of the crew positions in the Gnomish National Opera apparently were inherited. Families involved had charts marked with the best singers and instrumentalists in their lineage. Parents and grandparents labored industriously to mate promising young musicians that might produce truly outstanding soloists, chorus members, even crew chiefs, set designers, and costumers. This seems an odd way to do things, but it worked for centuries. The practice was put in place almost as soon as the Opera was established I have found no definitive references as to why, other than obvious reasons of ego, family pride, and job security.)

128 Lost Lore My older brother Krupacollinsbuddymoonriferabb was always banging on things, so he became a percussionist. He invented a huge bass drum that could only be played from the inside. He beat himself silly one night during a piece called “The Cataclysm.” The Maestro was grooming Krupacollinsbuddymoonriferabb to eventually take his place at the conductor’s podium some years in the future, but that’s impossible now because he is quite deaf. Krupacollinsbuddymoonriferabb became the music librarian of the opera when it became too much for Aunt Terpsichorewigglearscaballebrunnhilde to handle alone. She now assists him. My sister Pinchasprimroserollahindenmithkugel played her viola so hard and fast practicing “Bumblebees in Flight” three weeks ago that she started a fire. The burns on her hands, arms, and face are healing, but it’s going to be awhile until she can join the orchestra again. Most days, she sits in her chair and listens to the rehearsals, frustrated at not being able to play, her bandaged hands keeping time. Pinchasprimroserollahindenmithkugel yells at anyone who takes more than two covetous glances at her orchestra chair. She’ll have to find a new viola before returning to work: her instrument was so badly scorched that the varnish melted. Its voice changed, and not for the better. Our best violinmaker is working on its repair, and is also building a new one for her. I hope he comes up with another innovation, like two fingerboards, one above the other. It was very entertaining watching my sister trying to play that instrument at the same speed she usually attains. And now I return to yesterday. It was a bad day musically: no one in the orchestra was hitting their cues, entire string sections were out of tune, and the huge family of percussionist Bamwhongtingdeurthangenthurring came to the amphitheater for a noisy picnic during his nineteen-page rest. Withabrassblastenofortecombooble brought his new invention for the baritone horn that was supposed to catch rats as well as provide an exciting finale to the end of upcoming Scene 7,569. Triggered by a thumb switch, the bell of the baritone shot off the instrument and straight up into the air, glinting in the sun and emitting sparks. We all stopped playing and singing to watch. The Maestro fumed, but I saw him sneak a few looks himself during the bell’s flight. The thing, which had been ascending flange first, turned over at the apex of its arc, and came straight back down. Withabrassblastenofortecombooble was in openmouthed rapture by the sight and the fact that his trigger worked exactly as he’d described it would. Despite many warnings from orchestra members, cast, and crew, he did not move from that spot. The orchestra has lost a fine baritone player, and the rats paid no attention at all to the spectacular airborne baritone bell. Things went seriously wrong some time later; the soprano and the alto soloists began arguing with the tenor, the baritone, and the basso profundo over who had held the final note of the sextet longest. The noise onstage got so loud that the singers drowned out the orchestra, so we stopped to listen and choose sides. The females began throwing props, and the males returned the favor. This was not a good thing since we were in the middle of a scene using spears, bows and arrows, and clubs. This is the situation that gave the Maestro his stroke. When he collapsed, there was a long moment of shocked silence. Then the violin and viola sections lifted the Maestro onto a stretcher improvised from two music stands and the slide from a trombone, and carried him home. The trumpet section pushed me up onto the Maestro’s dais before anyone else could get there, and stuck his baton in my fist. The Maestro gave his approval to my being there, a bit reluctantly, just before he was carried from the pit. The mezzo-soprano Moffodelilaceciliaoktavianvonstade, poor lady, tried to keep peace in the midst of the uproar during the sextet. She just wanted to sing, and keep singing. Two hours later, after things calmed down a tiny bit, she was taken to the Opera’s healer with a broken leg, hyperextension of both elbows, several broken fingers, and a concussion.

Lost Lore 129 At least her voice is still intact, and she is conscious at last report: I can put her onstage in a wheeled chair tomorrow. Her understudy Amnerisbumbryrisecherubinochristaklausse (who is also her daughter) is badgering me to let her take over the part. The young gnome is so desperate to sing in the opera that she might go as far as bribing me. That might be nice: I could use some good bribes right now. Regalamothalesliemengelshorinoff the third-chair cellist is working on the wheeled chair backstage during his rests. We will test it in tomorrow’s rehearsal, even though by that time it’s likely to have more than four wheels. The costume department is on overtime to make sure her skirt will bend enough to allow Moffodelilaceciliaoktavianvonstade to sit down. Otherwise, we’ll have to write in a part for a servant who pushes her from place to place on a wheeled dolly. She might have fun doing that, and it would look great from the audience. I feel a little optimistic thinking about that. It’s a bright spot among the tension and bickering. The opera must go on. The opera must always go on. It is the most constantly written thing in Krynn outside of the histories recorded at the Library of Palanthas. It is also consistently practiced, the new parts are performed at least once a quarter, and it never ends. It is the story of our generations, of our life as gnomes. It is necessary to our existence, to our creativity, and to our mental health. And now I am the Maestro of the Opera. I can already tell this is going to give me nightmares and ulcers. (There is an obvious break here. When he resumes, it seems as if Dizz is even more upset than he was when he started writing— his script is more difficult to decipher, as if he wrote in a great hurry.) I haven’t had time to add anything to this Journal for five days. Between rehearsals, arguments with singers, costumers and the stage crew, and haranguing advice from the Old Maestro that keeps me up most of every night, I have not found time for most of the rest of my duties, not the least of which is holding tryouts for the second trumpet and the first baritone positions. Those started this afternoon. It seems as if everyone from age 12 to 195 who can force air into a brasswind is competing for them. I pared down the number considerably by age alone. There were also six fights during the tryouts, mostly by crew trying to protect Opera props and set dressings which gnomes at the tryouts wanted to take home for mementos. They did that in particular if they failed, or were too young or too old. I ordered all 27 instigators and combatants out of the amphitheater. Being obeyed by them, however reluctantly, felt good. If they objected, which some did, I had them forcibly tossed out by the burly set changers. I commanded that the Opera crew who were involved in the fights should not return to rehearsals until they can control their tempers. They’ll probably drag back in tomorrow, contrite. I hope so. The Opera can’t do without that many people who all know their jobs well enough not to be closely supervised. I suppose I will get faster and better at some things, but not all. Not all. There is just too much. How did the Old Maestro do it and keep his sanity? The most difficult thing to contend with is the reluctance of the singers and the orchestra to accept me as their New Maestro. After all, I played third trumpet for three years, and second trumpet for five. The only respect they have for me regards my mastery of the post horn. So I take it with me to the podium, and I blow it when I need their attention. A good blast on a post horn will always draw gnomish eyes, especially if there are colorful flags hung along the tubing. One singer who does appreciate me is the mezzosoprano Moffodelilaceciliaoktavianvonstade. The costumers would have had to hinge her skirt to allow her to sit in the special wheeled chair the cellist made. Hinges are bumpy and never easy to sit on. They also squeaked something terrible, which put the oboist out of sorts. I made the decision not to use the wheeled chair. Moffodelilaceciliaoktavianvonstade likes being pushed around on the special eight-wheeled dolly by the largest gnome I could find, someone from the set construction crew. He and his brother take turns. They need to—four of those eight wheels don’t roll straight, so it’s always a challenge to get the mezzo-soprano to her mark on time. Moffodelilaceciliaoktavianvonstade is a delight—she is always on cue, always on pitch, and smiles at me often. She is a bright spot in an otherwise horrible power struggle of the New Maestro versus everyone else. I had no idea this was going to happen. I should have listened closer to the Old Maestro when he told me about How Things Were in the Opera. But who knew I’d have to take over? The baritone did manage to sing his aria very well before we all stumbled home to dinner late last night, but that’s only because he loves that piece more than his life. When I complimented him on his performance, he snarled. One should never snarl at the Maestro. I think I’ll have his props and his costumes weighted with lead. Perhaps then he’ll stop complaining about stupid little details, straighten up, and sing right. I announced to the set crew that I’d give an award to whomever comes up with the best invention to make tenor Domingopavracarrascarusotuckerish look taller. He’s always been short, and is very sensitive about it, especially when standing on tiptoe or on a box during a love scene with one of the sopranos. Both of them are considerably taller than he. When the tenor heard what I’d done without informing him, he turned seventeen shades of red (I counted them), stomped off the stage, and disappeared. It

130 Lost Lore will probably be a couple of days before he returns, but he will return—I told everyone that I’d replace him with my own choice of soloist after three days’ absence. That’s one less day than the Old Maestro allowed. The tenor’s role is much too juicy to lose to his ego, and he’s got a sixteenyear-old son he’s been training to take over when he decides to retire. That was at least one more small victory. When he comes back, Domingopavracarrascarusotuckerish has to try on all the tallness inventions, and choose the one that works best. I’m voting for the stilts that strap around his ankles and have bottoms that look like boots. The ballet rehearsal was another thing that went well today. I get along beautifully with Dancemaster Fonteynaliciapavlovannamariatourjetétallchief. The orchestra put a lot of cues in the wrong places, but the dance company is so well drilled that it didn’t matter. Fonteynaliciapavlovannamariatourjetétallchief and I are having dinner tomorrow night. If, that is, I can get away from the Old Maestro’s stern coaching. Dinner with a gnomish beauty is something to which I look forward. I need to consult with the caterer who sets up the Opera’s lunch buffets—I understand she likes to prepare exotic dishes for special occasions. This would certainly be a special occasion, at least for me. But tomorrow evening seems years away. I’m so very tired. I’m falling asleep over my quill, and I’ve got ink on my forehead from leaning against the stilldamp words on this page. I’ve got to get some rest so I can get up early tomorrow—no, later today—and attack the next series of disasters . . . (The next few words are unintelligible. The ink runs into a scrawl, as if sleep took the writer in the midst of a word.) Yes, yes, I know it’s been another four days since I wrote anything. I can’t get used to writing consistently, and there’s so much going on. At least I get no criticism from this Journal. The Old Maestro gives me enough for the whole Opera. Most of today was another trial. The bass soloist Rameyrobesonsarastroclangdonhalipinmorris had hiccups so badly they threw off all the singers including the chorus, and reverberated oddly in the kettledrums and the flyspace above the back of the stage. According to the crew chief, the hiccups carried a note that resonated in certain sorts of metal. The kettledrums popped a few tension-tuning pegs. The timpanist was bruised, but he’s returning after a short visit to the healer. The orchestra enthusiastically pitched in to recommend cures for the bass, and took bets on which one might work. I must say, Rameyrobesonsarastroclangdonhalipinmorris looked silly walking around the stage for several hours with a brown bag over his head. We also tried sugar. When that didn’t work, we suggested he hold his breath. He was not amused at that. Scaring him was the most fun: the terrified look on his big square face caused a great deal of mirth until he caught on to what we were doing. The harpist fell off her stool laughing. Thankfully, she is uninjured. Several hours later, three of the piercedwork lanterns hanging in the flyspace fell without warning except for a few loud pings, apparently the result of that resonating metal. One of the assistant set directors and a tertiary costumer were hit on their heads and shoulders, then caught and whipped about by flailing chains. The overworked Opera healer would not estimate recovery time in either case. I had to replace both that assistant set director and the costumer for continuity’s sake. We’re too close to performance to do without them. If either one or both gets better enough to return to work, they’re not going to be pleased about someone else in their precious positions. I’ll get more irritated messages delivered during rehearsal, or screams from their friends and families, as I arrive at or leave the amphitheater. The Old Maestro has suddenly realized that none of his children are married, so he’s buried in family charts to see where the best matches lie for the three of us. After all, there must be someone to take over the position of Maestro from me. My brother is marginal since he’s deaf, but at least he has musicianship, knowledge of how the Opera works, and the personalities involved. My sister is a better match, despite some scarring that will occur from her burns. At least those won’t translate to her children. She’s a dedicated and intense musician . . . ummm, perhaps a little too intense. But I’m the prize. Apparently my worth as a mate has shot into the stratosphere since I was thrown into the Opera as the New Maestro. The Old Maestro now has at least fifty written marriage proposals in hand. He showed them to me. They’re frightening. Some are with mere children; others offer the hand of gnomish ladies decades older than I. There are also several representatives from certain families with eligible musical daughters camping in the front yard. So, along with doing everything else, they expect me to marry as soon as possible. In fact, my family is considering tomorrow afternoon, as soon as they pick the right partner for me. Mother has entered a state of panic—she claims she can’t get everything done before then. She’s ordered my brother to find the “Procession of the Master Musicians of Krynn,” a gorgeous triumphal march from Scene 4,225, and distribute the parts to the orchestra as soon as possible. The musicians are already grumbling about having to rehearse it. My cousin Tilsonsoltivivaldkreislerheifitzyehudibell, a fine violinist who’s almost fought his way up to Concertmaster, will direct while I’m . . . uhhhhh, otherwise engaged. I told the Old Maestro about my dinner with the Dancemaster, and that we hit it off quite well. He got grumpy over her, but at least he didn’t appear to be having

Lost Lore 131 another stroke. He told me that she isn’t a great match, but she might be considered a good match if he has a little more time to think about it. Remembering Mother’s unusual voice, the vocalists would set up a real howl of protest if I married a dancer. So Fonteynaliciapavlovannamariatourjetétallchief is on the list for consideration. That’s something. The Old Maestro picked his own mate, why can’t I? (Several untranslatable paragraphs follow.) The tryouts are over, except for the cannon. Why doesn’t someone tell me everything? I didn’t know about needing tryouts for cannon! I guess they have voices like almost everything else. They’ve been on the way from Mt. Nevermind for two or three days now, a long procession of brass and iron. I need to hire a secretary for myself—I’m not as organized as the Old Maestro, nor do I have his prodigious memory. I hired my cousin Maynardcoreafanfarenagelwingyalperthirt to replace me on second trumpet. I hate to admit it, but his tone is better than mine. I also approved Bassenompahrepeatemblatten to replace Withabrassblastenofortecombooble on baritone horn: that was appropriate because they’re brothers. Now I have to approve and supervise the cannon for the next big scene where a war starts. I don’t know which war. I’d better find that out tonight. And dig up some good ear protectors: it is not my intention to go deaf like my brother did. (He begins again after another break. Spots of ink make it appear that his pen was trembling again. The reason why is not apparent, apart from tension and hurry.) I’ve been bad at not writing again. But I got married while all the cannons arrived. Fonteynaliciapavlovannamariatourjetétallchief and I had a huge outdoor ceremony at the amphitheater. I wished it could have been more intimate, but every member of the Opera and their families insisted on coming. So we basically had a concert with vows buried in the middle. I was right: I am now regarded as the #1 Enemy of Singers since I wed a dancer. It will take awhile to build up respect with the soloists and the chorus again. I have a meeting with Chorusmaster Piecespartsbreathsupportbygoshandbygolly this afternoon after I select the cannon. On the other hand, my new wife and I are very happy. She has somehow managed to charm the Old Maestro into thinking she can do no wrong. He’s even extending some of his newfound approval to me. I think I like this! I’m getting a signal—the cannons are lined up and ready to fire. My new assistant Glenniechortlehicsniffereesum enjoys running around and telling me where and when I need to be next. She’s got a large book in which she writes meetings, rehearsals, and the like. Even my sleep times are in there, when I’m lucky enough to get one. There are twenty-three cannon lined up beyond the Opera’s amphitheater. The last one is supposed to be spectacular. The inventor claims it’s rocket powered, whatever that means. Guess I’ll find out. I am truly beginning to like this job! May the Opera continue forever! (This is the end of the entries. I have done research in several other histories of the area. All agree that on this date at midafternoon a number of explosions were observed, each louder and more terrible than the one previous. The final concussion was enormous. The shock wave was so great that it flattened villages many miles away. There were several collapses of structural devices holding up walls deep within Mt. Nevermind. Most called it the Great Lightning Strike in Gnomeland, although the skies held few clouds that day. Some thought it was an explosive earthquake, or a volcano. Only a towering column of smoke and a yawning glassy chasm marked where the Gnomish National Opera of Krynn had made its home. Apparently, all the gnomes involved with that great work and their families had gathered to watch the cannon tryouts. None survived. We have only this Journal to tell the tale.)

132 Lost Lore Kender Courting and Marriage Traditions by Amburrtail Getsintoplaces This was a disintegrating scroll I discovered in a niche in the last aisle in the last room of the Histories Section of the Library in Palanthas. It is one of those intriguing bits that one doesn’t find unless one is seeking something quite different. The author of the scroll is Amburrtail Getsintoplaces, a name I recognize as the one kender who decided that she would write an ambitious history of her race and detail its lifestyles. I believe she was distracted after writing the first two or three scrolls, abandoning her work to wander off in search of adventure. This is the first work of hers I’ve discovered. At least we have here several observations of little known kender attitudes and practices from an inside observer. This proves that there is quite a bit of thought put into kenderish living, despite some writings to the contrary. The collective inability to marshal their tendencies for “handling,” however, ravels the order that might otherwise make their lives more practical. Their innate joy and natural ingenuousness does excuse most of their shortcomings. These observations are strictly those of Amburrtail Getsintoplaces, and do not represent those of any other historian of Krynn, either living or dead. With the permission of Bertrem, whose Restoration staff will be overburdened well into the next century, I am copying Amburrtail’s original manuscript, as well as translating it into Elvish. I am also moving this precious original into the woefully small area marked “Kender” in the Library of Palanthas so it can be more readily found by those curious about that race’s culture and traditions. —Mirrashar, Elven Bard, from the darkest dusty corners of the Library of Palanthas Courting First there’s the Watching Time. This starts when two kender start seeing each other, and both of them get...well, it can only be described as a sort of disease. This illness shows in a little fever and loss of appetite, associated with an overload of silly facial expressions and stupid remarks. There’s also much staring off into the distance with a rapt look, both while in and out of each other’s company. The couple also does dumb things while swearing they’re not doing dumb things. The individuals’ hands tremble: they can’t even “handle” a rock that’s right in front of them, much less pick it with any delicacy out of someone’s pocket or purse. They don’t speak well, either. Some call this The Tremors.

Lost Lore 133 Good thing this normally doesn’t last long, and that kender have others looking out for them; otherwise, many in love would starve. And obviously, this condition is not good when it strikes one during an adventure. Several deaths from wild beasts, cliff edges coming too close, and irate mages have been directly linked to kender infatuation. (See my previous work called “No Fear: Why Kender Always Court Death.” Mirrashar’s Note: I am currently trying to find this scroll, but Amburrtail leaves me no clues to where it might hide.) Anyway, these symptoms alert kender parents to start the Watching Time, a period when they determine how intrigued the youngsters are with each other, and whether the attention might be serious. (If the kender fall in love when they’re older, as with one who’s lost a wife or husband, their friends take the place of parents. This doesn’t happen often: most single adult kender are too interested in finding out what’s beyond the next hill, or behind that intriguing door.) Anything longer than three days is understood as pretty serious. And it also lets parents know a little more about what little treasures the children hid in their clothing, stashed behind certain chair cushions, and tucked beneath strategic corners of beds. It also gives family members time to retrieve their own possessions, and handle a few interesting items for themselves. Kender don’t have the best memories. Everyone on Krynn knows this. Family members take that into consideration at times like these. If they like a potential boy- or girlfriend, they mention his or her name on a regular basis to drive home the point. They don’t speak as much (sometimes not at all) about individuals they don’t favor. So the choice of a partner can be limited or controlled by the family. Kender are also known to be somewhat hardheaded: there are those who just plain won’t listen to the preferences of family or friends. Three days, a week at most, seems the norm for most kender attention spans without the assistance of consistent repetition. Those who go beyond that time are very determined to recall an important name or item. Some write what they want to remember down somewhere. Of course, they typically lose their notes soon after and wander off, searching for new intrigues. I knew one kender who wrote his beloved’s name on the back of his hand, and lost her the first time he washed before dinner. A kender maiden wrote her boyfriend’s name on a scarf and tied it around her neck. Soon after, she befriended a small stray dog that became her pet. She tied the scarf around the dog’s neck, thus giving her boyfriend’s name to the dog and forgetting the young kender’s attentions entirely. (He apparently forgot her, too.) The ones who do remember someone they’re interested in (with or without help from friends and family) number slightly less than half the total of those in the Watching Time. I’ve recently read some interesting papers I borrowed from Thornyfield Walkslong, the only kender who achieved the status of healer. He believes that some sort of change takes place in the minds of kender well suited to one another so they actually remember each other’s names and where they live. Otherwise, no one would get back to anybody, and the extended kenderish family system would disappear into gully dwarf-style chaos. Well, that’s Thornyfield’s theory. I think he may be about half right. When an eligible person visits someone else eligible more than three times, kender relatives decide that it’s time for the second step. Serious Dating Time That step is the Serious Dating Time. It lasts anywhere from a few minutes to a few months. Thank goodness the stupid looks and dumb actions now lessen for most kender: I have seen a few couples where those got worse, but they’re exceptions. Everyone avoids them, and their families normally separate the couple until they return to more conventional attitudes. Most others during Serious Dating are typical kender, with the exception of having a strong fixation on the object of their affection. A few even give up adventuring. Those who do are often called Silly-Sickies. During this time, most kender couples try to spend as much time as possible with each other. Arguments and pouting are common because one kender is intrigued by something over here, and the other always sees something interesting over there. Both pull at each other, trying to involve the partner in what they’re discovering. One has to give in: if not, the relationship is over, snapped like a brittle tree branch. The two wander off, wondering what happened. If one kender allows the other partner to dominate the relationship, it should be over. (Sometimes relatives or friends interfere at this moment to cut off the one-sided romance. Older kender agree that there has to be a balance.) Serious Dating Time mostly leads to Pledging. All right, it sometimes leads to Pledging. The Pledging When a couple gets this far, there’s always a Pledging Party. Kender love parties, so there is no limit as to how many celebrations of this type a couple gives or has given in their honor. Some go on for a month. Such gatherings are filled with good food and good drink of all kinds; the only things that change are if someone’s tried a new recipe, and the types of dancing.

134 Lost Lore Round dancing is a favorite, although it can be dangerous. Single boys set up a pole at least eight feet tall, on which the girls have attached long colorful ribbons or strips of cloth beneath a placard with the names of the couple printed in large letters. The closest friends of the engaged couple grab the ribbons for the first dance, called a pattern. When the music starts, they cavort around the pole, making pretty designs against the wood with the ribbons as they circle. Skipping, leaping, and whirling around each other is common. When they finish, dancers unwind (or untangle) the cloth and start a new pattern. This is a very social time, and often leads to new partnerships. Many of the older dance patterns have names, such as “Whingaree” and the “Tuck n’ Leap.” Kender children are taught these as soon as they can walk. I mentioned that round dancing could be dangerous: if the pole isn’t well wedged in the ground, dancers tugging on the cloth can make it topple. Falling poles at Pledging Party Round Dances always happen during the first couple of patterns, until someone gets the idea of just how to brace it and calls all the dancers to stop and help. Patterns of ducking and jumping the ribbons often get so complicated that celebrants tangle themselves in knots. They fall all over each other. This falling and tangling has led to quite a few additional Serious Dating Times and Pledging Parties. If the engaged couple, some of their friends, or their parents are standing at the base of the pole, the dancers can and will wrap them against it. One couple was caught on their pole for two days while their Pledging Party went on around them. Good thing the dancers took breaks and decided to play a new game called Feeding the Wrapped Ones. The couple was let loose by someone who noticed their predicament a short time after the Round Dancing area was deserted in favor of other pursuits. Caterpillar dancing is where many kender link hands or arms and try to do the same steps at the same time. This can be in a long line going forward or sideways, or in a series of short lines going to either side (if, that is, they can all decide which side to go toward at the same time). The leader often invents new dance steps as he or she goes along, and then improves upon them for others to copy. It’s always interesting to see new dance steps go down a dance line. By the time the last dozen kender learn the steps and incorporate them into the dance, the leader has invented new ones and has taught them to the first in line behind him. Thus, seldom do the leader and those further down the Caterpillar line actually do the same steps at the same time. That’s one of the reasons this dance is called the Caterpillar. Whip dancing is a form of Caterpillar dancing done in a long line going forward. The leader goes faster and faster, then adds some fast steps that throw the last half-dozen kender off the end of the line. Sometimes they’ve got so much momentum that they fly into the food tables and are tossed into groups of kender recovering from previous dances. A number of Serious Dating Times and Pledgings usually occur after eligible males end up in the arms and laps of eligible females, and vice versa. Whip dancing is not done unless there’s plenty of room. During the Chair Game, friends of the engaged couple dance in an inward-facing circle around dwindling numbers of chairs and stools. The goal is to be the one sitting upright in the last chair, which should also be upright. (Chairs and stools may not be fixed to the floor by either magic or normal means such as bolts.) Normally only bruises and sprains are sustained during such fun, but there are stories where up to a baker’s dozen kender rush a single stool. Several knocked themselves out. Kender concussions are not happy injuries. The Ring Giving is the central part of the Pledging Party. It can also be hazardous. Rings are very attractive to kender, especially when they’re engraved or are set with sparkling stones. And since the rings given at engagement parties are normally handled merchandise, someone else at the celebration may have possessed them recently. This can, and has, lead to hard feelings. Usually such feelings go away fairly quickly because there are more intriguing things to do at a party than fight. In rare cases, however, irate former ring owners have been known to lob large chunks of rock candy or the odd crystal punch bowl at the couple exchanging rings. Too, most kender don’t remember the normal stuff they handled yesterday, much less what new items they had in pouch or pocket last week. And something better is always around the next corner or behind the next door. The Exchange of Rings itself is often somewhat difficult. Sometimes the love tokens don’t get given at all because one kender becomes so focused on the charms of the ring that he or she refuses to give it to the partner. In this case, the families of the lovers have backups ready. These backups may not be as precious as the original (such as a ring of limestone or paper), but it’s at least there to hold the place until the reluctant kender finds a different gift. Sometimes this situation involves both partners, which makes Exchanging even more complicated. As soon as the rings are given, the guests begin efforts to handle them. The first male to get the ring off the hand of the engaged girl wins a kiss from her. If it’s a girl who wins, she gets a kiss from the male partner. This often turns into a free-for-all. During some parties I’ve attended recently, half of the engaged pair actually gave away the other half as the prize. If this happens, the engagement party continues with the new love interest, the name is hastily changed at the top of the dancing pole, and the parents of the old love congratulate the parents of the new. Few kender enjoying the celebration immediately note the change. After all,

Lost Lore 135 this is a party. The replacement is eventually announced to the entire group by the couple’s parents, but by that time everyone knows via word of mouth anyway. The Forever Ceremony Any couple that manages to keep their rings for more than five days is counted as very special. They’re given a “Forever” ceremony. It’s an excuse for another party, but this time the theme deals with rare good luck that comes from the gods for protecting the symbols of their love. One couple chained their rings to cuffs on their wrists. Even this didn’t unduly challenge a determined and talented handler: she got both before the evening’s festivities were finished. A kender elder makes a (hopefully) short speech before the Forever ceremony begins. (Sometimes that speech is even on the subjects of dedication and love, but not often.) Mostly it’s about how to keep their rings, and stories about the best-handled ones. After the speech, the music, dancing, eating, and drinking begin. The record for ring keeping was twelve days, held (if I remember correctly) by Zandriss Braidtail and Trumbledorn Lockpicker. It is rumored that they had a little help from a mage who wanted to test some new spells. This was never proved. Ever since, engaged couples must swear that they have no outside assistance, especially magical, to keep their rings. Before the Marriage Parents collect parchment for invitations, also special colored inks, and pens of twisted glass or long feathers. Mothers and fathers of the engaged couple are responsible for these. Most invitations do get written, but the typical list is unending: parents always remember some relative that went to the wilds of Kargonesti or to Tarsis in the past, and was never heard from again. But that doesn’t mean he or she shouldn’t have an invitation to this special occasion! Tied into little scrolls with fancy ribbons, the invitations are sent out with kender intending to visit other communities. Of course, most of the invitations never arrive at their destinations because of forgetfulness, handling, crossing rivers, storms, hungry wild animals, political disagreements, and other hazardous things A few enterprising parents have tried to employ carrier pigeons for the job, but their directions are either swimming in detail or so vague that the poor pigeons get confused. One flew in a circle for two days above the village where the invitations were written before dropping dead of exhaustion. Trained rats, ferrets, squirrels, and small dogs have all been tried with a similar lack of success. Everyone who walks through the parent’s house picks up an invitation. Some take several. Kender never keep checklists, so they’re likely to write three or four invitations to the same person. Old much-faded wedding invitations have been found in some very odd places, such as dragon hoards and in sealed bottles washed up on beaches. They are highly prized by gully dwarves, who believe they are bits of good luck sent to favored individuals from the gods. There is a story told of a gully dwarf who found a kender wedding invitation, and because of it was made leader of his tribe. Kender parents also always start to keep precious family objects, bits of elegant embroidery, and other interesting pieces of art or whatever for the couple, intending to present them with these at the wedding. Of course, this does not happen. The couple to be wedded sometimes gets to handle the treasures themselves, but not often. The cache always disappears because of the race’s kleptomaniac tendencies: whoever is in the house handles whatever interests them. Parents are usually upset about this for little more than a day. They always start another bunch of goodies, which also disappears. Marriage Only about 2% of kender make it near marriage with the same partner they started with during the Watching Time. Most switch love interests at least as many times as fingers on both hands before getting really serious: with some individuals, every week means a new love interest. (Those parents get very frustrated until they become used to a constant Watching Time.) Some kender play at love like a game, leaving behind them a string of broken hearts. Others forget about their love interests entirely after a few weeks. Once a couple does make it to the point of trading vows, the celebration gets much larger. And wilder. Some call it the Big Party. (The Other Big Party happens at funerals. The Little Big Parties are reserved for birthings.) The Ceremony is a very public all-day affair. Friends and family gather at a designated spot, normally the village square. The food and drink is brought in and set on plank tables covered by colorful cloths, and the band begins playing. Bright flags wave in the breeze. There’s a traditional search for the bride and groom started by both sets of parents. It ends when a young kender rushes in, announcing that he’s found the groom. Friends carry the engaged kender in on their shoulders from one side of the square. He is usually dressed in new clothes. He trades jokes and songs with everyone for a little while, until the cry for the bride starts up. When the chant for her reaches full-voice yells, her friends swarm in with her in their midst from the other side of the square. She, too, has new clothes, and her hair is braided with bright

136 Lost Lore ribbons. The couple is not allowed to meet: they’re paraded around the area several times, allowing only glimpses of each other. The parents step forward to speak of their child’s virtues. Sometimes they go so far as to warn the intended about a few drawbacks, too. The crowd cheers the descriptions, and individuals typically add a few choice observations. This can go on for quite some time. An aisle eventually forms between the couple, and each is pushed forward until they finally stand face to face. The parents and close friends, who form a circle around the two, witness the vows between the couple. What is said is not formula—it usually deals with love, remembering, and sharing adventures. The parents are allowed to assist their children with their vows if they forget . . . and sometimes the parents assist when their children didn’t forget anything, just so they can get in their say. With such help, the vows sometimes drag on longer than anyone can tolerate. If they get too wordy, friends pull the bride and groom away to the dancing. Music is a big part of these parties. No band needs to be hired—kender bring their instruments with them, or find them at the gathering. There are always plenty of players: each rotates in as others tire or find something else interesting to do. Small bagpipes, whistles, mandolins, carved wooden flutes, hand drums, spoons, sticks, and shakers (anything of wood or metal that can add an accent) are common. Smallsized violins and bassoons are more rare. Bucket basses are made on the spot if the items needed are available. (These are large buckets set upside-down having a wire attached to the inside of the center bottom on a wooden block. The wire runs through a small hole to the top of a stick or pole a little taller than the player’s head. The stick or pole keeps the wire taut. The instrument is played by plucking the wire with fingers, or with a stone shard. Moving the pole with the supporting hand changes its pitch. The longer the pole, the deeper the pitch of the bucket bass. Its voice is a soft resonant tummmm.) Feet, especially those with boots, are always used to keep time. I know a male kender with a barrel chest who plays himself like a drum. And everybody sings; it doesn’t matter whether they’re on pitch or not. Most of them aren’t, but as Brambledorn Silentstep the kender elder told me, “Singing is the perfectest expression of joy.” With kender, one of their ultimate joys is making noise during celebrations. The other is discovering something Really Unusual while adventuring. The couple, accompanied by their closest friends, then attempts the Candle Climb. Kender communities save wax from small candles, forming it into a huge candle two stories tall, sometimes taller. The sides are smooth, and the bottom ringed by thick pads of sweet grasses, featherbeds, pillows, and piles of straw. The goal of the couple is to choose agile and adept climbers from among their friends and family who can help them attain the top with a torch and light the fistsized wicks. (Some kender go into training for this.) Another kender, chosen from the crowd and often led by a distant relative, opposes the couple’s team. Much clamoring happens as the members are chosen. When ready, they line up on opposite sides of the candle. The parents yell “Go!” and the scramble is on. The newly wedded couple charges to the candle using axes, knives, whatever comes to hand to chop foot- and handholds in the wax. The other team does the same on their side. Both parties haul themselves upward, pushing and shoving. Falls are common, as are sprains. The first of a team to the top tries to defend it against the other group. The band plays songs with faster and faster rhythms as the action on the candle moves toward the plateau on top. There have been pitched battles on the tops of such huge candles, but only for moments. Usually, the leader of the opposing team raises a hand to take credit for reaching the wicks first, then stands back for the couple. They light (or try to light) the wick together, panting and shaking from exertion. Practical jokers sometimes soak the wicks with water, and all they do is smolder. Other times, one or more wicks have somehow been handled, so there is nothing to light. (Recently, there have been some bright friends of the bride and groom who take small candles to the top with them, just so the couple will have something to light in case the wicks are missing.) Couples who get to the top of their candle without major injury are honored. It is said that the gods bless those who manage to light the wick. Their names go into a special book kept by kender elders. (I’ve searched for these, but have not found one yet: there are said to be at least for or five in existence. One is rumored to be cached in an old dragon hoard in north Nordmaar. I’ve wonder why that happened—why is a kender book so precious that it is collected by a dragon?) When everyone comes down off the top of the candle, feasting and drinking begins. The newly wedded couple normally doesn’t stay long after tasting the many special cakes baked, and all the ales brewed in their honor: they’re too tired. Friends carry them to their new home, built for them by their parents and the community. Tenderly tucked into their new bed, exhausted, they fall asleep in each other’s arms still dressed in their wedding finery. Sometimes one or more of the wedding party is overcome, and nods off on the floor. The rest stagger back to the party, which continues far into the evening. My next subject will be the Funeral Traditions of Kender, or What Happens at the Other Big Party. (Unfortunately, Amburrtail wandered off toward adventures before she wrote more than the sketchiest of notes on her next subject. I have a suspicion she may have attempted to investigate that antique dragon hoard she mentioned. Our loss.)

Lost Lore 137 Minotaurs of the Blood Sea Since losing my left arm and right leg during an encounter with an Ergothian mariner more than 10 years ago I have been forced to the less than honorable position of House Teskos historian. My patriarch has commanded that a brief history be made of the rise of the minotaurs’ might on the Blood Sea. What follows is a brief account of that period and of the brief period of time referred as the Blood Sea War among the natives of the Blood Sea Islands. To many an unimportant part of the War of the Lance, to we minotaurs it represents the beginning of our greater glory. —Dastrum Es-Teskos, Chief Historian of House Teskos. Part 1: The Rise of the Empire What the weaker people of Krynn call the Cataclysm was a great boon to our race and a blessing from our great god Sargas. After many years of slavery, due to the endless numbers of Istarian humans and the power of their weak gods, the Cataclysm tore the earth apart and created the Blood Sea, turning Mithas and Kothas into islands far from the lesser races of Krynn. Our litany has always spoken of such a time of blessing: “We have been enslaved but have always thrown off our shackles. We have been driven back, but always returned to the fray stronger than before. We have risen to new heights when all other races have fallen into decay. We are the future of Krynn, the fated masters of the entire world. We are the children of destiny.” Minotaur power and ingenuity was demonstrated when the first ships were constructed. We easily adapted to sea life as if we had been born to it and our entire focus as a race shifted to the life giving sea. It was at this time that minotaur raids began to be feared all along the Blood Sea; our reputation extended as far south as Icereach and our ships were feared as far west as Ergoth. Ours were the ships that first dared the dangerous Maelstrom of the Blood Sea and to us came the honor of sinking the ships of the lesser races and pillaging their villages. It was during this time that one of the greatest of our emperors rose among us. Emperor Toroth was an ambitious individual and an incredible fighter, one of the best arena fighters the world has ever seen. Soon after ascending to the throne, he consolidated his hold on Mithas and Kothas and began an unprecedented shipbuilding project that, coupled with the population boom in the islands, created the greatest navy the minotaurs have ever seen. His first mandate was to scour the Courrain Sea and conquer lands that other races had no records of and which were spoken only in whispered legends. Secret archives, believed destroyed, say that under the command of Eragas the Brutish, his greatest armada actually reached another continent far to the northeast and conquered it. Thus began the great minotaur empire in that strange land whose name is Taladas. Most historians disagree with the archives, and believe the fleet went down with all hands and was lost at sea. Whatever the truth, Emperor Toroth is honored as the creator of the Minotaur Empire and as the father of the vision that drives us ever today to conquer and subjugated the lesser races of the world. He was such a remarkable individual that the emperors that followed him are mere footnotes until the rise of Emperor ChotEs-Kalin. Part 2: The Rise of Emperor Chot Es-Kalin It has been said that the period before and after the War of the Lance would bring profound changes in our society and in hindsight that might be true.

138 Lost Lore To understand the rise of Emperor Chot one must understand the follies of his predecessor. Emperor Garik EsKaros reigned over the empire for many years, becoming weak and decadent, when the first rumors of dragons reached our ears. Any other emperor would have determined whether the rumors were true or would have sent ships to confirm them, but Emperor Garik was weak and his weakness had spread to the Supreme Circle as well. In a time when we needed unity, the great houses squabbled among themselves. In a time when danger loomed on the horizon, our forces stood idle. Our mighty empire stagnated and degenerated into a couple of houses that had little honor left. The problem was that, as weak a ruler as he was, Emperor Garik still defeated all of his opponents in the arena. The Arena games, which had always decided the succession to the throne among our people, were always free from corruption—or so the majority of minotaurs think. The truth is that they can be rigged as easily as any other contest, so it come to no surprise that Garik was poisoned the day before his combat. While previous games may have been rigged, the use of poison was unprecedented and the mystery of would be such a dishonorable coward as to use poison to deal with an enemy remains today. At the time of his death, rumors exploded in number. Some felt the great houses were fed up with the weak emperor, while others blamed enemies from beyond our shores too afraid of the minotaurs to launch and honorable war. Emperor Garik´s death caused much turmoil and the time was ripe for an emperor who understood that strength did not only mean defeating enemies in the arena. Emperor Chot Es-Kalin was a renowned warrior and a great mariner. The House of Kalin had never bred leaders and had always been one of the second tier houses. Because of his lackluster background Emperor Chot surprised everyone by defeating all contenders in his arena matches, including the new reigning champion from House Orilg, Akadeztian, and Kobos the great warrior of House Zhakan. During the first decade of his reign, right before the War of the Lance, Emperor Chot managed to recover all the power his predecessor had squandered. He turned the Supreme Council into a powerful advisory body under his command, with insufficient power to overrule his decisions. At the time we needed it most, Emperor Chot returned to us our pride, and our vision of a future in which we would conquer all of Krynn, as it is our manifest destiny. Might makes right after all. His short-term plans included a new bout of shipbuilding and the crushing of the bird-like Kyrie that inhabited the tallest peaks of our islands as the beginning of the conquest campaign. Alas the War of the Lance derailed his plans. Part 3: The War of the Lance To us the War of the Lance came as a bad surprise and a rude awakening. Secure in our forgotten corner of the world, the minotaurs would be involved in a war that touched all Ansalon and nearly devastated the continent. Luckily for us it affected the islands far less than the mainland and did nothing to diminish our might. The war also came during our efforts to start a new imperial phase of our history, one in which we would not have to bow to external overlords. To our shock the news of the upcoming war came in the form of mythical creatures long vanished from Krynn: dragons. Few of us were prepared for the truth about the great beasts and the immense power they command. Soon after, the clerics of Sargas started having visions from the Horned God in which he urged the minotaurs to join the armies of his consort, Takhisis, and crush Krynn under her heel. In a display of wisdom not normally associated with the new hotheaded ruler, Emperor Chot parlayed with the forces of the Dragonarmies and met with Ariakas, the Highlord of the Dragonarmies and self styled “Dragon Emperor.” Despite the mutual wariness between both emperors a bargain was struck. In return for minotaur service in some of their armies, the chosen of Sargas would be left alone to rule the Blood Sea area as they saw fit, all under the watchful eye of the Dark Queen. Of course, this meant no interfering with Dragonarmies ships and cargo, and no piracy or raids against the forces of the Dragonqueen. All in all it was a far better bargain than Emperor Chot expected. He used his newfound power and draconic allies to exile the sons of political rivals to fight for the Dragonarmies and send them to die on distant shores. Most of them ended up in the White Wing, holed up in the Icewall fighting the local ice barbarians and the biting cold of the region while the fortunate ones joined the Black Wing on their attacks on Balifor and Silvanesti. Regrettably the Dragonarmies also stuck bargains with less savory individuals such as the honorless Bor Es-Drago, best known as Mad Boris, and a group of exiles from House Karos, who refused to submit to the Emperor’s will with their small fleet of five brigantines. Away from the Dragonarmies’ eyes, our local skirmishes against the mariners of Saifhum continued. Much of our luxury goods come from the ships of that island and from various coasters that ply the Turbidus Ocean and the Northern and Southerm Courrain Sea. The War of the Lance severely depleted such trade and replaced it with Dragonarmy supplies. To get the needed goods for our people an alliance with the Reaver, a notorious pirate, was struck.

Lost Lore 139 Close to home the intermittent campaign against the Kyrie continued as a way to test new troops, but since their habitats are on the highest mountains of the islands, contact was rare. An event during this campaign, however, would have a profound impact on our future. What follows is a breakthrough of all the campaigns that involved minotaur forces. The Black Wing Campaign 348 AC to 353 AC Those minotaurs assigned to the Black Wing of the Dragonarmies were a mix of political enemies of Emperor Chot and eager young minotaurs out to prove their worth and honor by carving themselves a name in a great campaign. They lacked the resources to put out a great armada of ships so sea battles were almost unknown for the Black Wing minotaurs, despite some amphibious assaults. They operated mostly as heavy infantry and as amphibious marine assault units, as they were used on the taking of coastal towns, such as Port Balifor or Flotsam. The other use was as a quick strike force to destroy a walled compound or to draw the defenders to a certain area as a feint. The Black Wing minotaurs fought very little after the initial campaigns, since the wing momentum stagnated in several places and was relegated to support duty. At the most, they were used for guard duty, and to keep humans from causing trouble—hardly the honorable position many imagined when they volunteered. Most of the surviving members of the Black Wing made a last push through Balifor to attack the forest of Silvanesti during the year 353 AC. This force was routed by a combination of the Nightmare and the arrows of the returned elves, along with some Whitestone forces deployed for the occasion. Captain Barak Es-Teskos was renowned for his cunning use of minotaur strength to bring down fortified positions and earned praise even from the Highlord of the Black Wing for his ruthlessness and heroic demeanor. It is important to note that at the end of the War of the Lance, of all the minotaurs that participated in the conflict, those of the Black Wing are the most surly and less revered. Their numbers suffered almost no casualties, compared to those of the White Wing. For a minotaur it is not a matter of honor to say that he was a Black Wing minotaur. The White Wing Campaign 349 AC to 352 AC The scions of political enemies of Emperor Chot made up most of the leadership of the minotaurs assigned to the White Wing. Led by Ronox De-Jaska, a burly but competent commander from Kothas, the minotaurs served mostly as mariners for the Dragon Highlord Feal-Thas. The names Sargas Vengeance, Horned Might and Talon of Fury still strike fear in the ice barbarians inhabiting this forbidden wasteland. Prior to 351 they battled the elves of Silvanost and sunk a lot of their ships when they started the retreat to Southern Ergoth. It was in fact his leadership during the naval battles that brought much honor to Ronox and secured his status as Flight Marshal of the 1st White Flight. The time for naval battles drew short when the White Wing was relocated to Icewall as the minotaurs were used as heavy infantry and to man the defenses of Icewall castle along with the walrus like Thanoi. The minotaurs would get their big battle in 351 when it was decided to destroy the main Ice Folk camp to end the resistance on the region. Sadly the Heroes of the Lance were among the ice folk and they coordinated the defense very well. Feal-Thas chose the minotaurs to lead the charge against the barbarians and along with the Thanoi they suffered the greatest number of casualties during the Battle of the Ice Reaches. There was never an official tally but fully half of the minotaurs assigned to the wing perished in that battle and the rest had to hole in the castle after the death of Feal-thas and the lack of a trustworthy commander. After the battle the only minotaurs that saw any action were the mariners, as they raided the coast for the remainder of the campaign independent of the new White Highlord Toede. Most of the surviving minotaurs refused to serve the little hobgoblin, seeing no honor on it, and their position under such an inferior creature chaffed them. In the end most of the minotaurs returned home with tales of great battles and much honor, but many still refuse to talk about their time under Toede. It is worthy to note that courageous as a white wing minotaur became a phrase used to describe someone who fights on despite the odds. The Blood Sea Raiders 1 AC to the Present Raiding the sea has been a way of life for our race since the Cataclysm. It has brought prosperity to our islands and resources to our shipyards, and for most of the time we did that alone without outside interference and without any worry of what may came to us. Emperor Chot was quick to see that his alliance with Ariakas was a two headed axe. Most of the ships from Saifhum carried supplies for the Dragonarmies and under the terms of his alliance he could not attack them. Most of the coastal towns were also under Dragonarmy control and could not be raided openly lest the minotaurs stir the hornet’s nest.

140 Lost Lore As part of the agreement with Ariakas, Nethosak’s shipyards started working overtime, creating a great fleet to supply the Dragonarmies. New training centers were set up in the isles of the empire and they started producing minotaur warriors who Emperor Chot would not send to war. At the beginning of the campaign, when the Dragonarmies had not made much headway, the minotaurs raided nonconquered towns and harried the few Silvanesti ships that dared the oceans, along with the Ergothian and Solamnic coasters that plied the sea lanes toward Saifhum and Nordmaar. But once they fell under Dragonarmy control the prospects for minotaurs quickly dried up. Emperor Chot´s solution was to ally with Mandracore the Reaver, the half-ogre leader of the human pirates based out of the island of Karthay. Both Emperor Chot and the Reaver understood each other perfectly and both lusted for the goods of the Dragonarmies. The bargain let Emperor Chot provide renegade minotaurs, mostly navigators, to man the ships of the Reaver and the pirate lord could raid and attack ships that the minotaur were forbidden. Minotaurs loyal to the Emperor manned our fleets raiding what little they could. The agreement worked for both sides and the raiding and pillaging brought much wealth to our land, even when we had to share it with the Reaver. For most of the War of the Lance minotaur ships raided enemies of the Dragonarmies while the Reaver´s fleet raided the Dragonarmies ships and those under their protection. Sadly, at the end of the war, Emperor Chot suffered various setbacks. Due to the untrustworthy nature of the Reaver, most of the minotaur navigators were executed when the Reaver was captured. The mariners of Saifhum wanted minotaur blood and the untrustworthy half-ogre betrayed them to save his own skin. In retaliation Emperor Chot burned the Reaver’s fleet but the damage was already done. That was not the only setback. A fleet that was sent to raid Saifhum, again in retaliation for the murder of the mariners, was lost to the maelstrom. Confused reports from survivors speak of the legendary “Blood Sea Monster” as an engine of destruction, wrecking many ships, and countless swarms of small red forms that are commonly referred as “Blood Sea Imps” that appeared to draw minotaurs to a watery grave. Emperor Chot had a contingency plan, however, and it was tied to the Kyrie extermination that had always been a minotaur goal. The Kyrie Extermination Forever to the present The bird-like Kyrie had always lived in the tallest peaks of Mithas and Kothas. Fiercely territorial, they clashed with our ancestors many times in battle, but our superior numbers and might proved too much for them and they were greatly reduced in numbers. Such was our might that never again did the Kyrie present a frontal battle, the dishonorable birds have fought a guerrilla warfare since we destroyed their pride at the battle of the Sky Tear. Emperor Chot used the Kyrie as a test for the new platoons created in the training camps. All units fresh from training would be sent against the Kyrie to measure their worth and to goad them into open battle. Despite this tactic, during the War of the Lance the Kyrie were attacked almost as an afterthought, and given no more thought than one would give rebellious children. That changed when Emperor Chot discovered the strange property of an ancient artifact known as the Northstone. A unique diamond-like gem of incalculable value, it was discovered high above the Mithas Glacier, and a tower was built around it. Much later we learned that the stone belonged to the birdmen, and that they wanted it back. The magical emanations of the stone give untrained navigators the uncanny ability to determine direction and even distance to the shore when they are at sea. Armed with such power Emperor Chot would have the navigators he needed to safely sail around and even near the Maelstrom without fear of losing precious ships and minotaur lives. A grand project was started in which a great number of minotaurs would be exposed to the magical gem to create trained navigators. Alas as with most plans it was not to be. After only 40 navigators were trained, the stone was stolen from its tower and disappeared from the face of Mithas. The culprits remain unknown even to this day. Were the Kyrie able to spirit the stone away? Unlikely, since the stone would let them migrate from the islands and they are still here. Did a group of lesser races take it away? Not possible, since we cannot be fooled by lesser races. Because of this setback Emperor Chot has ordered every last Kyrie found dead, and the order still stands today. Part 4: The Aftermath The War of the Lance was good for us, but the peace that came after it ended is even better. Free from the yoke of the Dragonarmies we are once more the proud people we deserve to be and the lesser races will know it. We stand poised to take the future on our hands. Our numbers suffered very little during the war, our ships number in the hundreds, our warriors are all veterans, and our might is second to none. None of the other races can hold a candle to us and we have a strong leadership and a unified people. The time is now. We have been enslaved but have always thrown off our shackles. We have been driven back, but always returned to the fray stronger than before. We have risen to new heights when all other races have fallen into decay. We are the future of Krynn, the fated masters of the entire world. We are the children of destiny. Let Krynn know fear and see who its masters are.

Lost Lore 141 War Drums of the High Ogres I first heard of the drums during an archaeological dig high in the mountains of Blode. It was near the end of the digging season, and while the time had been productive, little had been found in the way of new artifacts. That all changed when a four-sided stela was unearthed. Standing, the shattered pillar would have been almost twenty feet tall, and its surface was covered pictures and the vertically read ogre runes. As we translated our rubbings of the fragmented artifact, it became clear that a tale was inscribed upon its surface. As we read and discussed the archaic language forms and pictograph dialect, we began to think that we had discovered perhaps the first written ogre epic, predating the written forms of the epic poems Gurchak-pov and Chakaru-pov, though likely not precursors to the oral forms of these tales. The atmosphere in the bleak mountain camp brightened as we all rushed back from our digging each afternoon to hear the days translations, like children eager for a continuing bedtime story. We reread previous sections and discussed them long into the night, making corrections of names and events, for accuracy and for our own enjoyment. What follows is a summary and analysis (with supplemental information included where needed) of the stela’s contents. The narrative is incomplete, as the bottom of the stela was missing and there is some damage to the faces, obscuring some images. This leaves gaps of uncertain lengths periodically throughout the text, as the tale started at the top of one side, proceeding downwards until it reached the bottom of the obelisk, before continuing at the top of the next side. The ultimate fate of the drums is unknown, though one of our scribes recalls reading of a great and grotesque bronze drum secreted in the vaults of the Kingpriest long before the Cataclysm. Sadly, further research into the site and the pillar is not possible—the tides of War sweeping across the continent have barred us from returning, and we have learned that at the command of the Khan of Blode, the pillar itself has been crudely rebuilt, and probably damaged. All that remains to scholars is our rubbings. —Keegar Tarenn, Library of Kalaman Millennia ago, in the Age of Dreams, the High Ogres ruled Krynn with an iron fist. Though no power could oppose them, there was little peace, for the realms of the ogre kings warred with each other. Sometimes for plunder, sometimes for slaves, sometimes for females, the ogre cities attacked each other, but eventually all fell under the sway of powerful regents. The wars changed then, from expanding city-states to growing kingdoms, seeking greater power, until the rise of the first great ogre empires. These spanned dozens of cities, and spread across the lofty mountain ranges of the world. Some kingdoms fought their own battles, relishing the blood-rush of combat, while others disdained it as a primitive urge best suited to animals. They often used sepoys—loyal slaves of elf and human stock—to fight for them, though they were led and commanded by ogres. The world shook with the treading of these mighty armies, marching for conquest, greed, and glory. It was in this age of smoke and fire, when the great powers clashed, that the great war drums were forged. The text says five drums were created, though their locations must be on the missing base of the pillar. The narrative continues at the top of the pillar’s next side. The drums were forged of bronze, though legends say that the bronze was cast in molds of bone-clay, and the castings themselves were cooled in the blood of slaughtered slaves. The details of the rituals required to create the drums are mysterious and lost to history, but inscriptions hint at chanting and sacrifices, of great and terrible ceremonies on windswept mountaintops, where the dark gods could bless the handiwork of their mortal servants. Though their names are different for ogres, I have used the common forms of the dark gods names here. Zeboim granted the fury of the sea and skies, while Sargonnas gave the rage of the earth. From Chemosh came the hunger of the restless dead, and from Takhisis the drums gained the power to stir souls and lead them unto death, and if need be, beyond. The night gods poured power into the blood-born vessels, infusing them with an awful might—power that even fallen ogres speak of in awe. This reverence was confirmed by one of the scribes at the great library, who has lived among them, and specializes in Ogric studies. The drums were created when Takhisis granted visions to her most loyal priests, each the ruler of one of the mightiest kingdoms. The goddess had long tired of the wars between the cities, for no power could gain the upper hand for long. As one ascended, others banded together to cast it down. While they squabbled, in the forests of the world the elves, the favored of Paladine, grew more and more organized. Some elves even began to raid the outposts of the empires, freeing their kin. Takhisis longed to wipe out the children of her rival, and decided that she must directly intercede and guide

142 Lost Lore her servants to do so. She gifted them with the knowledge of the drums’ creation—whispering the secrets of bone clay and blood-soaked bronze as each was in the midst of a sacred trance state. The clay, she said, must be made from the bones of all mortal races, for the drums must have power over elves, humans, and ogres. When the drums were cast, the bronze would draw power from the clay, and trap it within. Once cast, the drums must be cooled in a mixture of blood, seawater, and the soil of the earth, that they might have dominion over the world and all its inhabitants. The priest-kings and queens, each in their own city, did as they were bidden, summoning their high priests to begin the preparation. Crypts and tombs were raided, so that the ogre bones chosen were only of the most valorous commanders. Slave grave middens were despoiled, so that the bones of only the weakest and most pitiable wretches could be ground for the clay molds. So it was that the best of ogrekind and the worst of elves and humans were bound together for eternity. Then they took the most precious artifacts they could find, and began to melt them down for the metal to cast the drums. For thirty days they smelted and smoldered in the great forges, while parties of ogres crossed the empire to seek out humans, elves, and ogres, and take their blood for the cooling. The most powerful of the kings, Khalkis himself, set out for the sea, to purify himself in Zeboim’s embrace. Walking over two hundred miles on foot, he marched north, and ogres of all castes and clans followed him. They knew of his quest, and desired to prove their loyalty by imitation, to be purified along with him. They were clad in the simplest of garments, ogrewoven linen, coarse and crude, not the fine silks their slaves produced. The ritual pilgrimage was one of purification, and while one ogre king set out alone and unarmed from his city, he returned with ten thousand fanatical followers. It was his destiny, he believed, to unite the ogres by conquest, and lead them all in a mission to wipe the lesser races out, not even keeping them as slaves. Five artisans worked for months, one in each kingdom’s capital, sculpting the drums and laboring under the direction of the high priests. The clerics ensured that each inscription was perfect, each drum a work of malevolent craftsmanship. The craftsmen knew their ultimate fate; they would be sacrificed to gain the blood to cool the cast drums and they went willingly when the time came. Their names are inscribed on the drums, one each on the drum they created. It is also after them that the drums are named, and from these names that ogre vocabulary draws some words even still. Some drums were larger or more powerful than others, and took longer to complete. The weaker drums were finished first, and their creators, knowing that even one drum could turn the tide in a battle, eagerly attacked their enemies. Such was the case when King Burok attacked the capital of Queen Lattak of the east. To his chagrin, his forces found her drum, Akar-Tempys, completed and very potent. As they drowned in flood and storm, King Khalkis used Sangan-akar and attacked the lands of Queen Gekrell in the south. Gekrell had been blessed with the greatest of the drums, Mortala-nax, but the vessel was unfinished and could not raise the dead as it was intended. Gekrell’s city surrendered and swore fealty to Khalkis. For weeks his armies waited, until one day Mortala-nax was completed, and he turned on Lattak’s coastal kingdom. His undead were immune to the storms she summoned, and his troops blood lust overcame the fear she tried to instill in them. Meanwhile, Queen Khere, believing herself the favored of Takhisis for the peace she enjoyed, oversaw the completion of Vulchasa-akar, and delivered it to her army, who continued their conquests. The armies marched, and the nobles continued their wars with each other, all in accordance with the plans of the dark gods. Only through purging weakness, only by the strong vanquishing their lessers, would the ogres remain pure and focused on their dark destiny. Not all the ogre kingdoms had drums, for there were many kingdoms on the continent. Some fought with only their legions and sepoys, sorcerers and priests, but these were all ultimately vanquished or swore to the power of the drum-wielders. Armies broke and fled in terror before Phohemys-akar. At the thundering call of Vulchasa-akar, the earth swallowed whole legions. Storms summoned by Akar-Tempys drowned troops in the fields and at river fords, while Sangan-akar call instilled a bloodlust in the troops of its creator. Finally, Mortala-nax, the greatest of the drums, beaten by Khalkis himself, ripped the dead from the earth, turned the fallen upon old comrades, in a relentless march. The drums answered their creators’ desires, though they did not guarantee victory. Skilled commanders were still needed to lead—the drums only aided an army—they did not fight for it. The kingdoms marched to war, but none could stand before Khalkis. Cities fell before him until he besieged the capitals of his greatest enemies, and took them each in turn. Some kings and governors fought to the end, yielding their drum or cities only when they died, while others bent their knees in fealty, swearing allegiance to the first ogre emperor. Within five years, Khalkis held sway over almost all ogrekind. All except the lands of Khere, who had used Vulchasa-akar to block mountain passes and thwart any attempts at invasion. The obelisk was broken off here, but it is presumed that this portion of the stela detailed the battles between the Queen Khere and King Khalkis, culminating in the defeat and exile or flight of Khere. From other sources of ogre history, we also know that Khalkis was the father of Khere, but after dealing with her, he ruled supreme as the first emperor. The wars had lasted nearly a decade.

Lost Lore 143 Under Khalkis, the horde turned outwards, bringing its furious might to bear upon the elves in their forests and the humans wherever they dwelt. No slaves were taken; no quarter was given. The other races fought valiantly, but they were no match for the blessed of the darkness. Humans and elves fell before the magic and the might of the ogres until the horde had spread across much of Ansalon. As is the nature of the Balance though, evil turned upon itself. Within the ogre horde and within the cities themselves, factions formed, all seeking power for themselves. Greed poisoned the ogres to their greater purpose, and they lost their direction. His forces so spread, Khalkis could not hold the empire together, and several of his generals tried to seize power with troops loyal only to them. Within the cities, sorcerers and aristocrats murdered each other openly or through their minions, while citizens rioted in the streets, tired of supporting the armies in the field. The empire was thrown into chaos, and the purges of the lesser races ground to a halt as the armies fought each other or returned to the cities to restore order. Khere had not been idle in her time of exile. She enlisted the aid of dragons and other, darker beings summoned by her sorcerers, building an army of her own beyond the coastal mountains, far from the capital of Khalkis. With the empire of her father in disarray, the deposed queen struck. His remaining forces poured out of the mountains, seizing cities and provinces as they swept across the continent. Entire armies switched sides, seeing the might he possessed, and believing him to be the true fulfillment of the prophecy. The two armies met on the field at Gehennar: Khalkis with his troops, his undead, and the five drums, and Khere with her traitor legions, demons, and dragons. The battle was unlike anything seen before on Krynn. Storms and earthquakes lashed the field, the undead feasted and blood soaked the earth. Dragons and ogres died, demons were banished and the dead were dispatched to their rest. There was no victor. The armies destroyed each other, and in the eruptions and storms, the drums were lost, buried or taken by dragons as they fled. Emperor and queen, father and daughter, Khalkis and Khere died—she on his blade in single combat, he as he knelt over her body in grief over what he had done. No other mention of the drums occurs in Ogre history, except as a lament for their lost might. It is not known for certain if the drums truly did exist, but the descriptions of their powers would also explain the storms and combat hardiness possessed by the ogres in the second and third Dragonwars, when they served Takhisis against the Elves and the Knights of Solamnia. Rumors have continued to spread of agents of Takhisis crisscrossing the continent, seeking out artifacts of arcane power. Perhaps the Queen of Darkness seeks these drums to lure the Ogres to her banner once more, as she wreaks her wrath upon Krynn. Description The drums are covered in runes and words of power, which glow faintly orange when the drum is played. Some of the runes are inscribed while others are in relief. There are five drums in all, each more powerful than the other as they increase in size. Sangan-akar or ‘Drum of the Warthirster’, is the smallest drum, carried in battle by one ogre. It is roughly three feet long, and is designed to be slung over the shoulder, hanging diagonally at the waist and beaten with one hand. Pictographs show this drum being carried in battle, among the troops, and enemies dying in great numbers. It is believed that this drum inspires courage and valor among those that hear it, giving them the strength and will to keep fighting. Phohemys-akar or ‘Drum of Blood’s Fear’, is a cauldron drum, three feet across and two feet deep. According to the stela’s pictographs, it was created to be placed in a chariot and borne into battle. Armies fled before it in the images, hinting perhaps at an ability to instill fear in the enemies of its wielder. Akar-Tempys or ‘Stormcaller’s Drum’, is a large vertical slit drum, nine feet tall and two feet across. It is stationary during use, but it can be moved quickly on a specially built cart. Both are shown in the pictographs, though the cart may be part of a procession of victory. Jagged forks of lightning rip across the sky and into the enemy forces in the images—it is believed that this drum summons storms and allows the beater to direct them. Vulchasa-akar ‘Drum of the Stonerender’ is a large cauldron drum, three feet across with three beating surfaces. While it is large, it can be played on the ground or when mounted on the back of a titanothere, one of the ancient beasts of burden the ogres used. This drum must be played by several ogres, and appears to summon earthquakes and volcanoes. Jagged lines, chasms and firespewing cones are depicted below and around the enemies of the beater. Mortala-nax or ‘Gate of the Dead’, is the largest of the drums. Its size makes movement impossible, once it has been placed for use. It is a cauldron drum seven feet across, with five great arms rising above the five beating skins. Five ogres beat it in unison. Images show it high above a field of battle, while below, ogres fight ogres who wear the same armor. The only difference is that one side has the ogre rune for death inscribed on their foreheads. Its power is possibly the greatest, for it seems to reach into the realm of the unnatural, raising the dead of the enemy and turning them against their former comrades.

144 Lost Lore The Othlorx Curse From the Journals of Nalaran of Armach, in the Fourth Year after the end of the Godless Night For many who live on this continent of Taladas, dragons are unchanging, a race that exists beyond time itself. Indeed, even for we elves of the Silvanaes, who count our years in centuries rather than decades, it can seem that the wyrms who dwell in the wilds—the Steamwall mountains, the frozen lands of Panak, the jungles of Neron, and even the blasted wastes of Aurim-That-Was—are truly ageless. This perception is abetted, no doubt, by their mysterious absence from the world for nearly a millennium, which ended less than one hundred years ago. Surely the dragons of the elder ages and those of today were one and the same. Those of us with access to the chronicles of old know different, however. While few histories survived the Great Destruction, when Taladas was broken, those that survived—both among our people and in the ruins of Aurim—tell a different tale. Unlike the few, twisted, reclusive beasts that lurk in the shadows of the wilderness today, the dragons of old were numerous, majestic creatures who, in the words of the scholar Jumaskar of Yush, “did darken the sky with the breadth of their pinions, and their cries of battle were heard the world over.” When we first learned of this difference, the learned believed that the creatures we know as dragons were not the same creatures that once darkened Jumaskar’s skies. Until two decades ago, the leading theory was that they were demons from the Abyss that took shape during the upheavals after the Destruction. Others thought they were, perhaps, stunted descendants of ancient interbreeding between the “true” dragons of old and some lesser beast, such as the tylor or the hatori—or even that some of those lesser beasts had been changed by fell magic so that they resembled the glorious, winged creatures of ancient days. We were encouraged in this belief by the “new” dragons’ own name for themselves: Othlorx, which in the wyrm-speech means “false.” It was the minotaur sage Bragor ath-Kura who put the lie to this, not by comparing the Othlorx to their elder cousins, but rather by comparing accounts of them scribed during the short period after their return. These accounts, he discovered, showed a trend: a gradual degeneration of the dragons, beginning in the 353rd year after the Destruction and continuing at a steady rate ever since. While many stories, particularly the earliest, are considered apocryphal and unreliable, Bragor amassed enough different descriptions that he could winnow out the more fanciful embellishments—dragons with two heads, say, or those who were the size of house-cats—and arrive at a composite that he called the Ur-drake. To Bragor’s surprise, and to that of most other scholars, this theoretical creature bore a closer relationship to the ancient dragons than to those we see today. Bragor concluded that the old dragons and the Othlorx were one and the same, after all, and that some terrible affliction had caused them to deteriorate over the years, changing from majestic beasts to savages. As is the way of things, many scholars dismissed Bragor’s hypothesis out of hand. It was conjecture, they said; without evidence, there was nothing to support the Ur-drake. Furthermore, the existence of a few dragons that did not seem to have degenerated (for instance, the fabled and recently deceased Wyrm-namer of the Hoarspine Mountains), appears to confuse the issue. I confess that I was one of these skeptics, until Bragor himself sent a message to me, inviting me to Kristophan for “a special unveiling.” Intent on proving his theory once and for all, Bragor explained he had embarked on a quest to gather the evidence we all craved. From his readings, he had surmised that a blue dragon was slain by the Uigan barbarians in the Ilquar Mountains of Northern Hosk, around the year 360. Following this lead, he mounted an expedition to the mountains and found the dragon’s bones, still lying in the cave where it had died. With painstaking care, he brought them back to Kristophan and reassembled the skeleton at the Lyceum there. I accepted the invitation, and traveled to the minotaur capital, where I was present at the unveiling of Bragor’s Urdrake. It was, we discovered, a much grander, more beautiful creature than the few blue Othlorx that were sighted during the Godless Night, and bore a greater resemblance to the mosaic Varjath and the Wyrm, dated to more than a thousand years prior to the Destruction. While a handful of scholars—mostly older humans and dwarves—refused to be persuaded, the majority who viewed the bones of the Ur-drake applauded Bragor and accepted his theory as truth: the Othlorx were the dragons of old, but warped by some terrible affliction. After the unveiling of the Ur-drake, Bragor dedicated himself to making contact with one of the Othlorx to obtain a firsthand account of what had happened to bring the dragons so low. While this would ultimately lead to his disappearance and presumed death, during an expedition into the Blackwater Glade five years ago, Bragor did manage to speak with

Lost Lore 145 several Othlorx about the matter. They were understandably reticent, and several attempted to kill him (and, I imagine, one finally succeeded), but from his notes on the subject— which he bequeathed to me, should he fail in his quest—I have gleaned the following: The ancient dragons’ disappearance came about because they left the world following a great war on the continent of Ansalon—from where, of course, we Silvanaes once hailed. The details Bragor provided were sketchy, but are in keeping with other accounts of the Third Dragonwar, in which the goddess Erestem—there known as Takhisis—attempted to conquer Ansalon, but was defeated by a warrior known as the Dragonbane. According to the Othlorx, Erestem was banished from the world, and took her dragons with her: the blues and blacks, the reds and greens and whites. To preserve the balance, the metallic dragons—silver, gold, brass, bronze, and copper—also went into hiding, bound not to return unless Erestem and her hordes did. In time, Bragor wrote, Erestem did just that, launching another war against Ansalon around eighty years ago. While no historians I have spoken to know of this war, the timeline coincides with the first sightings of dragons in Taladas in the modern age, so I believe these tales are true. As part of her attack, Erestem called her dragons back from the Abyss and ordered them to fight. Most obeyed, but a handful refused, leaving Ansalon for other parts of the world—among them Taladas. In her wrath, the goddess uttered the following curse, in the draconic tongue: Tsakur aj khavakh, ngarox drosha’im Ssukoth ghat chura u shanku yangorx Taj ku shai u xukhat tsor khasha’im Ngost a ghan kovat u ghan tsu Othlorx. In the common speech, this translates to: Wyrms who shirk duty, who flee from glories, Be it known that they are traitors and must be shunned. Any who abandon war and flee to faraway lands My wrath shall break them, and name them False. Around the same time, the metallic dragons returned to Ansalon. Freed from their oath by Erestem’s treachery, they united to fight her alongside men and elves. Some of the younger wyrms, however, refused to join the battle, and were shunned as a result. Many of these objectors came to Taladas, where they also unwittingly fell victim to Erestem’s curse. This caused many of these good dragons to grow bitter and resentful as time passed. Even after the great war on Ansalon, when their gods offered to return them to their former glory, most rejected that mercy and chose to remain as they were. The changes wrought by the curse were gradual, worsening past the Dread Winter and Second Destruction, and on through the Godless Night. The curse also bred true: when Othlorx mate, their brood bears the curse as well. It is unclear from Bragor’s writings whether they are born already twisted, or whether the curse breaks them gradually after hatching, though one reference in his notes to the “squealing, mindless get” of a pair of white wyrms in Panak seems to imply the former is true. Bragor also believed that some Othlorx have bred with tylors, hatori, and the flying serpents of Neron, to produce even more warped and demented offspring. Such abominations are extremely rare, however, and those not devoured by their parents are almost certainly sterile, so the likelihood of new species arising from this is thankfully slight. Each hue of dragon was affected in a distinct way: Black Othlorx (Shantothlorx) are xenophobic and capricious, preferring to live alone and slaughtering anything that intrudes upon their secluded territory. In recent years, they have shown an increasing tendency to shun light, seldom emerging from their caves before dusk. Blue Othlorx (Kujothlorx) are rare, for most blues remained loyal to Erestem. Bragor estimated there were fewer than fifty in all of Taladas, though this number is sure to swell as they breed. Erestem punished their treachery over time by making their facial features misshapen, and changing the colors of their hides, which range from turquoise to indigo—and, increasingly, mottled combinations of both. The Othlorx consider these changes hideously ugly, and are ashamed of them. The curse has also bound them to feel tremendous physical pain if they do not honor their word, so they tend not to speak, and can only be tricked into making any kind of promise by the truly cunning. Brass Othlorx (Ingothlorx) are much more common than their metallic kin. Social creatures, they were cursed by making them repulsive to other dragons. They exude a scent called naj’uk, which to non-draconic noses registers as a faint aroma similar to burning metal, but which disgusts other Othlorx—including other brasses—the way that the stench of rotting meat might disgust a human. As a result, no other Othlorx will associate with a brass. Desperate for companionship, the brasses often compensate by abducting men, elves, dwarves, and even minotaurs and hobgoblins and keeping them captive. It is not known whether the urge to mate is stronger than the repulsion of naj’uk. If not, then the brass Othlorx are bound to dwindle and disappear over the next few centuries. Bronze Othlorx (Yochothlorx) are even rarer than blues, numbering three dozen at the most. The curse has tarnished them, turning them dark brown and removing their gleam. This has left them evil-looking, and other good races shun them. In their shame, the bronzes choose to

146 Lost Lore avoid all contact with men, elves, and the like, to the extent that most have forgotten to speak tongues other than their own, and those of the animals who dwell near their lairs. Copper Othlorx (Vakhothlorx) have also tarnished, taking on the greenish hue of verdigris, which makes them very difficult to spot among vegetation. They consider their punishment unfair in the extreme, and have rejected all but their own kind, choosing to torment both humanoids and other Othlorx. Green Othlorx (Ngurothlorx)are the most vile and malevolent of the broken dragons, and are extremely territorial. They never leave the immediate vicinity of their forest lairs, even to breed; unlike the brasses, there is no doubt that their number is in decline, and young green Othlorx are extremely rare; those that do hatch are often devoured by their mothers, who perceive them as threats to her territory. During the Godless Night, the greens’ coloration changed to a drab olive hue, with mottlings of brown, giving them almost perfect camouflage. Some recent accounts also mention that their wings have grown stunted and useless, and that their young are in fact born wingless. Red Othlorx (Ashothlorx), once the most fearless and belligerent of the evil dragons, have grown timid and cowardly because of the curse. Their coloration had faded and dulled to the hue of rust, and they will do anything they can to avoid a fight—though they will still defend their lairs and young if cornered. They prefer cunning, trickery, and ambush to open battle. The red Othlorx have a scrawny, malnourished look to them that disgusts other dragons. Silver Othlorx (Xondothlorx) are wracked by guilt, and their hides have grown tarnished by the curse, turning dull, dark grey. Unlike other formerly good Othlorx who grew reclusive as a result of their curse, however, the silvers chose to assuage their overwhelming need for remorse by fighting a ceaseless war against evil. They know little mercy, and those evildoers they catch invariably end up dead. They prefer to take human or elven form most of the time, assuming their draconic shape only when necessary. Even Bragor did not know how many such creatures dwell now dwell among us, but he was certain they were more numerous than anyone might suspect—as, I might add, am I. White Othlorx (Chakothlorx) are perhaps the most terribly afflicted of all the broken dragons. Cruel and spiteful even before Erestem’s curse took hold, they are now vicious and insane. They have lost the power to speak, even in their own tongue, and can only communicate through snarls and shrieks. As a result of their muteness, they also cannot use magic. Some believe the curse made them witless, but Bragor discovered evidence—geometric piles of boulders in the frozen wastes of Panak—that indicate that they are have retained their intelligence, and have been growing more malicious and enraged as the decades pass, to the point of sheer derangement. When confronted, they attack with fury beyond reason, often resulting in serious injury or death to themselves as well as their enemies. Every white Othlorx older than a hatchling bears some terrible scar earned in battle and many are crippled or disfigured. This tendency toward self-destruction is countered only by their prodigious breeding, and the large size of their egg clutches: some among the Snow People of Panak worry that in a few generations the Othlorx’s numbers will grow so that they completely overwhelm the frozen north. There are no confirmed gold Othlorx, though Bragor did hear rumors of a lone example, known as Skythas, who was purported to dwell in a cave within a rocky spine of an island several miles off the coast of Baltch. Skythas was said to be wildly capricious: furious and vengeful one moment, blithe and merry the next, and then dour and standoffish right after, almost as if he were three beings instead of one. Whether these rumors are true, and if Skythas still lives, remain a mystery. Of course, all the above are generalizations, and—with the possible exception of the crazed white wyrms—do not stand for all Othlorx of a given color. Anyone who encounters one of the broken dragons should be aware that he is dealing with an individual, whose personality may be quite different than one might expect from reading this or other texts about them. As Bragor said, the only certainty when confronting an Othlorx is the need for caution. Bragor theorized that the changes in the Othlorx would continue indefinitely, as Erestem’s curse continued to alter their bodies and minds. Not long after his disappearance, however, the Godless Night ended and Erestem herself was slain. While some debate that this has no effect on the Othlorx curse, it is my belief that, with the goddess’ death, the power of her words is broken. If my guess is correct, the curse is no more. What this means for the Othlorx is a question that only the passage of time is apt to answer. Will they remain as they are, but no longer decline? Will the dragons return to their old glory? Add to this the rumors of a vast purge of dragons in Ansalon during the Night, and the possibility also exists that some of Taladas’s dragons will depart to fill the void there. The future is highly uncertain, and may not be known for decades—or centuries—to come.

Lost Lore 147 The Phaethon Cultural and Religious Practices During and After the War of the Lance Presented on the occasion of the 70th birthday of Lord Galsworth uth Minton, rector of the College of Anthropology, University of Tarsis, at the Symposium of Ansalonian Cultural Studies, on the 23rd day of the month of Yurthgreen, 380 AC. Presented by Fulbright Ak Farshoon, Mayor of Lantern Township, and Heather Alind-Say, Aesthetic. Transcription of the speech follows. Honored guests, scholars, and patrons, we thank you for attending the birthday celebration of Lord Galsworth uth Minton. As we all know, his dedication and devotion to the path of racial scholarship has created a vast new world of understanding and empathy for the various peoples of Ansalon. Indeed, without his years and years of hard work, the Draco-Dwarven Ale Wars would still be progressing in mead halls, inns, and rest houses across the continent. So it is in his honor that I present to you the cultural and religious practices of the Phaethon during the War of the Lance. Some of you in the audience may remember that it was a very young Lord Galsworth who led the Solamnic diplomatic delegation to meet with the Phaethon after their dramatic entrance into the war in the Spring of 352, so we in the department felt that it would be properly celebratory to document that culture and the environment that gave rise to this historic meeting. Background on the Phaethon Culture The Phaethon, as we know, are an offshoot of the Kagonesti elves. Their legends say that they are descended from the Kagonesti elf Phaetholos, said to be the son of Habbakuk and an unspecified elven woman. Phaethalos’s tribe were deeply religious, and moved with him to the heights of the Khalkists to a spiritual commune, where they dedicated their lives to the Phoenix God’s service. These early elves kept no written records, and minimized contact with outsiders and nonbelievers, so we have no way of knowing when or how their transformation occured. Indeed, the first mention of the Phaethons as we know them now—fiery wings and all—comes from a Qualinesti merchant’s travel log dated about 150 years after the end of the Kinslayer War, where he mentions that one of his underlings disappeared from guard duty near the border of Silvanesti and Blode. The merchant sent out a search team that discovered the missing guard a day later, and found him nearly mad, raving about elves with wings of fire. Soon afterwards, the Phaethon made contact with the leaders of Silvanesti and Qualinesti, and established documented colonies in the Khalkist and Kharolis mountains, though stopped short of opening full diplomatic ties with either elven nation, seemingly for fear of religious persecution. The Qualinesti cleric Halanthalas visited a Phaethon village near Thorbardin some 1500 years later, and recorded that “these bird-men, supposedly blessed by Blue Phoenix himself, worship no gods that civilized people would recognize. Their worship centers around a pagan fire, and some nonsense about the eternal cycle of life. When told about the wonders of E’li and the true gods of the elves, these backwards heathens merely shrugged and ignored the teachings! They are no better than humans, or Kagonesti.” Needless to say, the Phaethon cut off contact with the elven nations soon after that, and indeed their westernmost colonies all but vanished. The next time the Phaethon enter recorded history is during the time of the War of the Lance, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. First, let us discuss the lifestyle and habits of the Phaethon, to provide proper context for the heart of our discussion. Phaethonic Life Every aspect of Phaethon life is dictated in their scripture, the Tasthala-Shastra. This document was said to have been recited by the three main aspects of the Phoenix (the spiritual center of their religion)—Phaenar the Risen, Sirithos the Flame, and Kinthalos the Fallen, and recorded by Tasthalan, a dedicated monk and scribe. His work, meant to be read, memorized, and recited in religious ceremonies, is a masterpiece of poetry, full of musical notations, memorization cues, and distinct sections and voices that would put any work by the great bards of Ergoth to shame. Even now, hearing the words of the Tasthala-Shastra sung are enough to move even the most hardened to tears. Indeed, during the early era of the empire of Istar, portions were routinely sung during the ceremonies dedicated to Habakkuk. During his inquisition, Revered Son Shambo of Taol said that, “though you may flay the skin off my bones, and string me up like a Blödean sausage, I shall swear before the most holy that there is no greater scripture than that professed by our winged brothers in

148 Lost Lore the name of their flame.” Sadly, almost all of the translated versions of this text were destroyed in the aftermath of that session. The content of the work is even more interesting. It spells out how to lay out a Phaethonic village, down to the dimensions of the buildings, and which direction entrances should face, and how best to farm the land and rotate crops. All Phaethon villages are designed according to this text, with entrances that face the sunrise, and homes in the form of narrow, onion-domed spires. The temples, which are the focal point of the village, are remarkable. They are square, open-air pavilions, with a square, three-step fire altar in the center. Above the altar is a giant, elaborately carved pyramid-like tower, decorated with images of the gods and other spiritual symbols. This tower is also hollow, with a hole at the peak for the smoke of the fire to escape. Visitors coming to the village see these towering cupolas from miles away, often as their first glimpse that there is a settlement near by. During the final battles of the War of the Lance over the Khalkist Mountains, Knights of Solamnia would often wing over these temples while flying on dragonback, as the towers would poke through the tops of the cloudbanks, and offer a stunning glimpse at the gods. Knights found these vistas to be incredibly calming and fortifying, and found that their minds were eased before their highly pitched battles. Surrounding the main temple plaza are various buildings dedicated to arts and craftsmanship. As part of their religious beliefs, all Phaethon learn a creative skill, either in music, or arts, or drama, or some other form of expression, and practice it in addition to their normal duties. Because the culture is isolated from the world, these requirements become vital to their lifestyles, as the only pots, the only clothes, the only furniture, and so on, come from other Phaethon who have trained in that skill. Indeed, many of those Phaethon who are found outside of their communities work as artisans and architects, though this has slowed to a trickle in the years following the Cataclysm. Phaethonic homes are removed from the central townsquare area, often on the sides of mountain peaks, closer to the farm valleys where the winged elves work during the daytime. These homes are always on the sunrise side of the mountain, and rise up like mushroom stalks from the cliff sides. The towers, generally two or three stories tall, are all built in roughly the same style, based on the directions of the Tasthala-Shastra—entrances face the west, with a sitting room and kitchen below, and bedrooms above, surmounted by an onion-style dome. Those families graced with a Verda elder have their third floor converted to an open-air terrace, for the elder to come and go as they please. Furniture in these homes is made in the various craft centers in the town.

Lost Lore 149 Indeed, Phaethonic architecture was rather widely known in ancient times, especially in the south of Ansalon, near the now-abandoned Kharolian colonies. The merchant-queens of Kharolis summoned the master architects of the Phaethon and had them design and build the new capital city of Tarsis, as well as some of the more outlying cities, such as Lantern and Twendle. The spiraling minarets and soaring towers of these southern cities owe their existence to the Tasthala-Shastra, and we have extensive records from Kharolis backing these claims, especially from the diaries of Queen Kalina, who took the Phaethon master artist Atisha as her lover and close confidant during the early stages of the second war with Ergoth. The valleys below these homes are fertile farmlands, where the Phaethon grow garlic, onions, leeks, and other root vegetables, as well as squash, wheat, and lentils. Other pastures are dedicated to goat and sheep farming, as other livestock can’t survive well in the climate. Phaethonic food tends to lean heavily on hearty stews cooked in clay pots, and roasted meats cooked in stone ovens that keep the heat locked within. A standard preparation involves taking chunks of lamb, coating them in yogurt and spices, and skewering them, before placing them into the oven for lengthy periods of time. This is then eaten wrapped in soft unleavened bread. More interesting, however, is the food eaten during funeral rituals. A whole goat is prepared and buried in a clay-lined pit, and a fire is built above it, and allowed to burn down to coals and ashes, before being covered again. The meat is then cooked by the residual heat, representing the cycle of life, with the soul (represented as heat) living on despite the ashen residue of fallen life. Far removed from the core of the village is the monastic pavilion of Sirithos. Here, orders of martial monks embrace the chaotic and dynamic tenets of Sirrion, unlike the intensely disciplined monks of Majere. They train their bodies to attack and defend in beautifully fluid forms, with emphasis on creative reaction. While there is a unified core skill set to be learned in this martial art, the chaotic flame shows through in individual practice, as each student is expected to evolve and develop the art in his or her own unique fashion. The most adept fighters eventually break off and form their own schools, thus ensuring that the art remains fresh. Phaethonic People Each community is led by a small group of elders known as Verda. These are Phaethon who, after a certain age, are divinely inspired to fly to spectacular heights, generally on clear nights while Solinari is in high sanction, and come back to the village changed. Their hair, normally reddish or brownish, is now shocking white, and their wings go from

(ENG) D&D 3.5 Ed. - Dragon Lance - Lost Leaves From The Inn of The Last Home - Flip eBook Pages 101-150 (2024)

References