*Tavern Tales*

[knight owl]

Tavern tales are stories passed from travelers to merchants, visitors to innkeepers, or drunkards to taptenders. Some are handed down from family to family, like old keepsakes, others are spent freely by wandering minstrels or paid for in good coin to be played from the mouth and the instruments of hired bards. These tales are as different as the tongues that tell them: often times treated like priceless gems, minded and kept safe and shown only to those their owner trusts. Some tales are considered to be fluffy fancy, told and heard and then tossed to the wind like so much chaff, worthless.

Tales are, however, most often like pearls: some are found pried from danger, or discovered strung together in a row at the throat of a beautiful stranger. All begin as a tiny grain of truth: rumors or lies or perhaps even truths begin to collect around it, until it becomes a story all its own.

Information is a mainstay entertainment for folks of the Savage North: from Zelbross to Llorkh, to Secomber... to distant Waterdeep... truth or not, as long as it is a good story or one worth retelling, tales are welcome and often expected barter between strangers sharing a campfire or mugs of mead.



For Characters:

The tales that follow should be considered knowledge free for the gathering from any of the taverns, inns, shops or traders that a character might encounter. Some are popular stories told over and over and often, while some are rarely whispered back and forth between incautious shadows.



For Players:

Feel free to add your own tales: perhaps about your own characters, or something they'd like to hear spread around. Whatever the tale, all information presented should be considered speculative and unprovable. Tales can be presented in the format begun or not. Also, please refrain from commenting on other people's tales here. Thank you!

(Note: If you would rather have something posted here anonymously or simply have someone else write it up for you, please feel free to PM the information to me and I will gladly include it.)

[knight owl]

Tale: The River Siren
Tale Type: Rumor
Frequency: Common
Origin: fisher-folk along the Grayflow River
Truth: ?

The River Siren:

This tale is often told to those folk paying to be scuttled up and down the Grayflow River. Barge-drovers and fishermen will mention the tale, especially if the trip is a long one or rains keep everyone huddled and miserable.

The rumor begins that an old fisherman and his fishwife were casting lines from the riverbank one morning. All day they worked, and nothing was caught, until it was time to head back to their little steading. Then, as the sun was setting and the poles and hooks had been packed away, a silvery fish leapt up and caught in the fishwife's skirts. The fisherman shouted at their good fortune, until the fish suddenly spoke! It begged the fishwife to throw it back into the river, and promised to grant her a wish if she would. At that, the fisherman bade his wife to keep fast the fish in her apron, and he ran to fetch the catchbasket he'd already put away. The fishwife held to the fish, which again begged for release back into the water. She lifted it up and asked the fish to make her young and beautiful again. The creature agreed and the fishwife threw it hard over the river to where it splashed into the deeps with a loud sound. The fisherman came running back, basket in hand, and saw what she had done. He shouted at his wife, but his curses fell apart as he saw: the fishwife knelt down by the river and shed her clothes as she fell forward, her legs growing together into a long slender fin of dark color. Slipped under the waters with a wave and a giggle, the fishwife was no more.

The fisherman returned to that exact spot day after day, but never caught another fish nor ever met his wife again.

The magical fish had granted the fishwife's wish, and she'd become a beautiful young mermaid. Half-woman and half-fish, the mermaid swam the river thereafter, slept down in the deep places, and sometimes plucked lost things from the bottoms of the river to leave them as mysteries along the riverbanks.

The mermaid's song, however, is her most curious effect and is as fickle as her heart: she sings brightly to entertain travelers walking along the shore or boating upon the surface, sings playfully as she lulls those same folk lost in the fog to fall into the river or crash their vessels, and sings mournfully to those doomed souls who are caught in the waters... drawing them down, with silken hands and hair and her song, as they drown.


* * *


"Git that godsdamned bint DOWN!"

Burly arms rushed to comply, and the captain's furious visage softened somewhat.

The River Purl slowed then, and turned slightly, and most hands rushed to the side to look down and stare at the frightened faces of those huddled in a small skiff as the huge barge kissed its side and moved past... a near miss, but a miss. With that small danger averted, the captain bellowed and the highsail arm was put back into place.

"What inna nine hells was you thinkin'?!" Captain Ghark was furious. Again. He grabbed Bells and slapped him roughly, then hoisted the boy and pointed, with him: first at Frisker, then to the canopied nest. Frisker nodded and padded to take over the watch, his small halfling frame just as light and wary as Bells'. Captain Ghark turned his bearded anger back to glare down at the boy in his hands, who winced then cowered then winced again. Already, one of his eyes was swelling tight.

The captain frowned.

"Go see if enny thems dockers needs a hand." He dropped Bells to the deck, and the boy scrambled to make his feet and a hasty salute.

"An' see if them cook got enny red meat ta spare fer that eye."

He watched the boy run off before frowning, sighing, then trudging over to the knot of paying boarders-on, who were all watching something off the prow of the barge and gabbing excitedly to each other. One, a part-elven lass whose name Ghark had already forgotten, turned to him as he approached.

"It's wondrous! See?"

Several of them pointed and the captain stalked over to the prow rail and looked.

There were hundreds of them.

Silver trout were no rarity along the deep river channels here, but... so many of them... they moved in a rhythmic cloud, all turning and spiraling forward in front of the barge as one wriggling glittering mass.

Captain Ghark's brow creased and he called sharply up to the watch.

"Ho, watch! You see nothin' 'heads of us? Inna water?"

A few of the travelers at his shoulder dared to smile or chuckle at Ghark's simple words, but then the dark looks of his face stopped that too. The daylight was waning, they'd very nearly crushed a small fishing boat, and now this: the captain was a large man, but even he seemed to take the curious encounter with the silvery fish as something... dire...

"Ho, cap'n!", Frisker called back, only the top of his small head visible from his perch. "Got sumpin' big!... swimmin' along... 'neath them fishies..."

Ghark's frown deepened as he stalked back to the helm, cursing to himself and ordering all hands to deck. As the crew of the River Purl scrambled about, the knot of travelers paying for passage quieted and spread themselves along the prow. The captain watched them for a moment, thanking mighty Valkur and mysterious Selûne that they were calming. He turned to prepare the barge for night travel... if they were lucky, they'd land dockside before the moon was up.

"Ho, cap'n- cap'n!"

Frisker's shout ended in a squeal, and many folks turned that way to look.

A strange but lovely singing reached their ears then, as the first loud splashes began.

Captain Ghark bellowed loudly for his crew to join him as he rushed down to the prow, but of course they were too late.

Their passengers were already jumping off the rail, all serene faces and soundless mouths, into the churning river below.

The singing grew louder.

And lovelier.

[knight owl]

Tale: The Sword of the Summerlord
Tale Type: Rumor
Frequency: Rare
Origin: Adventurers throughout the Savage North
Truth: ?

The Sword of the Summerlord:

This tale is traded amongst adventurers traveling in the wilds to those who visit the various settlements scattered across the lands. Most commonly heard in taverns and inns, this tale is sometimes told by a certain adventurous bard who will regale an audience once payment is met. The story centers upon a fabled weapon: a blade crafted by elves for a lord of their own kind.

Who or what the Summerlord is can only be guessed at, though some purport that the title was held by an elven weaponmaster who desired to wield a blade of the most uncommon craft and equally uncommon look. Couriers were dispatched to the south and east to seek what was desired and, after several years had passed, only one courier returned. From the east she came, bearing weapons of a distant land. One immediately caught the lord's eye: a katana of curving steel, its simple hilt wrapped in brightly-dyed leather and featuring a tail of pale feathers and silk ribbons. This was what the lord sought, indeed, and so it fell to smithworkers and craftsfolk of the elves to construct such a thing using their own magics and wyrds and metals.

What came forth was a magnificent weapon: a single crescent blade of such purity that a single strike would send forth a ringing echo like a musical laugh. It could cut through armor and bone, that blade, and bore a secret magic only its wielder could command.

Pleased and proud, the Summerlord went forth to find battle.

He and his wondrous blade never returned.

(This tale is sometimes told with clear derision towards elves and their aloof nature: a parable featuring a human inability to identify with such deep pride and racial disparity. Most elves scoff at the tale, clearly a construct of non-elves to ridicule what they do not understand. Rarely, an elf might admit to there being some truth to the tale, but if it has been expanded upon none now know it.)


* * *


With a quiet word amongst themselves, the quartet of adventurers got up together from the table. One brushed at his damp shirt before turning eyes to find the barwench, who returned the look guiltily. "Again, sorry about that!", she called, but they were already out the door.

"Rudra!" Though there was only one other patron in the place, and him drunkenly leaning on his mug, Murkimran hissed loudly to the girl who went to clear up the rows of stacked bowls and cups the adventurers had left in their wake. "Woman! You heard?"

The sometimes-servingwench sometimes-fandancer was always keeping her eyes and ears open. That was, after all, her true job. She turned to give the half-orc a quick nod, then bent to gather up the debris of customers. Oh, Murk could be a bastard and often her rear was sore for the fingers of its clientele, but she could be tending worse places than the Ten Bells Tavern, surely.

A glance out one of the dirty windows showed her a clear view of one of the towers of the black temple just up the street.

Surely.

"What do you think?" Murkimran ran a dirty rag over his countertop, but it was just for show. The half-orc was unusually eager tonight... but not without reason. The adventurers had been loud and none too cautious with their talk of strange magics and far travels.

"I think", Rudra said as she thunked down a wooden tub full of dishes down, "That they are chasing folly."

The half-orc snorted loudly. Across the empty tables, the lone patron opened a red eye, looked around wearily, then slumped back atop his mug. Murk's heavy hand shot out quick as a snake and closed itself about the girl's forearm tightly.

He dragged her right up next to him with one powerful flex.

"I think", he said slowly and with careful meaning, "That you had better let me decide what is folly and what is not."

Rudra winced and curled about her trapped arm, mewling. After a long moment, Murkimran let go, and the girl shrank away from him, cursing and holding herself.

"That's going to bruise", she told him through her teeth.

Bastard! she thought to herself.

"You'll have to more to go with it if you don't start talking."

The half-orc kicked out behind him, expertly dragging a stool up to his hip and settling upon it. He looked at her with his heavy-browed eyes, and Rudra nodded quickly.

"One of them had a book", she said softly, closing the distance between them and watching the tavern entry behind them as they spoke. "It was full of strange writing... probably elvish."

Murk didn't speak but reached over and casually drew a mug of bitterstout. He offered it to the girl, who shook her head, before shrugging and tipping in.

"One page in the book had a small map... too small for me to see clearly... but another page they flipped to bore a clear drawing of a large curved sword."

Again, Murk didn't speak but merely watched her.

Rudra hesitated, and then continued.

"The sword had feathers on its end, and strings. There was a word written on the blade, too - but I think that was in elvish as well."

While they spoke, a helmed man opened the entry and poked his head in for a glance before turning away and shutting the door behind him. Folks were always doing that... strutting in at all hours to merely see who was within or to chat up Murkimran and then walk off without another word or any custom. Why, one time someone actually walked behind the bar to tour the storage area and kitchen in back! Both the half-orc and girl sighed together.

"Anything... else?" Murk put a hard edge on that last word, and it made Rudra sit up smartly and swallow tightly.

"They talked about summertime and a lord... and it sounded like they were seeking a pass near where the High Forest meets-"

The half-orc leaned forward suddenly, through her words.

"What about", he grabbed her again, this time by the neck. With one swift movement they were both standing, him holding her straight out and off the floor. "This", he finished, ripping at the girl's apron with his free hand.

The pocket and all came away with a ripping of cloth, and something small fell to the wooden planks between them.

Murk looked down, face dark, while Rudra shook in his iron grip and choked silently, face purple.

A tiny silver pin, worked to look like a harp and a crescent moon, winked back up at him.

The furious half-orc knelt down, still clutching the girl, and swept the pin into his hand. With an unnerving calm, he and Rudra and the Harper's sigil disappeared into the kitchen, and the storage room beyond, where the floor opened to admit rubbish and castoff down into the sewers beneath the town.

After some time, Murkimran reappeared, a fresh cloth in one hand and a worn wooden placard in the other.

Out across the tables, the lone drunk snoozed contentedly.

The half-orc proprietor went and set up the placard in one window, pausing only to eye it, straighten it, then eye it again. He returned to the bar, thinking about the adventurers and the sword they were chasing. He wondered what it might be like, for perhaps the thousandth time, to sell the Ten Bells and ride off to nowhere, seeking whatever.

After a long moment, Murk took up the cloth and began running it over the countertop.

But it was just for show.

[knight owl]

Tale: The Phantom Coach of the Moors
Tale Type: Legend
Frequency: Common
Origin: Travelers along the Dawn Pass Trail
Truth: ?

This tale is popular throughout settlements and adventuring camps all along the Dawn Pass Trail, and is customarily told as a spook-story with high embellish and much polish.

The legend goes that long ago, when the first lord of Waterdeep rose to claim that title, a taxation was proclaimed. In those days, many veteran mercenary groups were paid for by smaller villages and towns to patrol the roads between and around and protect their numbers in times of savagery. As most of these mercenary companies were based and funded by tradehouses out of Waterdeep, servants of Aghairon (later to be known as the Firstlord) were sent out in proper duty to collect taxes from the various mercenary leaders.

(At this point in the tale, many political-minded tellers take the opportunity to deviate into propaganda, and either highly-proclaim or indignantly-condemn the current Lords' Alliance that has since replaced Aghairon's Firstlord Tax. Regardless, the tale continues thus:)

While stopping in Secomber to meet with one of the mercenary groups, the Exchequer's Coach was set upon by townsfolk and local merchants who were furious at the first taxation relevant to them in years. Fleeing the armed mob, the carriage and driver tore down the main road east and quickly put the city behind them.

(Here, again, some tellers will next fill in reasons as to what befell the Exchequer's Coach: some say the driver carelessly rode the horses down until one stumbled for its exhaustion, some say that the coach became lost in the fog-shrouded moors. All agree on what happened next:)

However it happened, the coach left the main road and went out onto the moors, where it trundled down into the bracken and crashed, killing the passengers, driver, and mounts. A sorry end, but not the end of the tale... no. For it is said on moonless nights, when the fog on the moors takes on an unnatural life and seems to caress those fool enough to wander in it, a ghostly carriage devoid of driver or mounts can be heard creaking slowly about. Many, many traders have claimed to hear the coach rolling alongside them as they rode the Dawn Pass Trail as it skirts the moors, the strange companion hidden by deep fog. A few braver folk, and some foolhardy ones who went seeking the tax monies rumored to be lost with it, even say they've laid eyes to the coach... that it appears glowing softly and draped in curtains of moss and has no driver nor horses, that it moves along by itself like a ghost so that one can see the trees and the moors behind it.

Legend holds that, regardless of the teller, whomsoever lays eyes to the phantom coach and is not run down by it should soon find monetary fortune befalling them.


* * *


"Hear what?"

Haerult poked at the fire with one foot and looked out beyond to where the ranger stood pertly, outlined against the moonless velvety night. Lochleer's features were made orange and silver as he motioned them all to silence now, cocking one long ear to the darkness.

Haerult frowned and turned to where Jhaana and Murin were still brooding, the dark-skinned lass over her spelltome and the handsome bard over his recent loss.

After a moment, he called out merrily. "Ho Murin... come and sit by the fire." Haerult poked again at the burning logs with the toe of one boot and gave him a grin. "We'll head back to Llorkh come dawn and have your bit back."

Murin stood, dusting off his breeches and frowned at the large warrior. "I- I still cannot believe she stole it." He glanced to Lochleer, who was still pointing his head into the night, before finally giving Haerult a slight smile. "She was an eyebright though, eh?"

Haerult shrugged. "She dippered ya... pocked yer silver bit when you were checking out the lay of her land... and dumpin' a good beer on ya." The both grinned at each other. "We'll get it back, even if I have ta make that tusker tapper half-a half-a halfer... then we'll be back on the trail and find that sword ol' Lochy and sweet Jhaana are hunting."

Their laughter rolled out until Jhaana looked up to see what befell.

"Quiet!"

The ranger was pointing into the darkness, quietly slipping one of his longblades from its sheath.

"Something approaches! Douse that, Haer! Blades out!"

The fire hisses and spat as a leather pail of gathered dirt was thrown across it. All three companions readied themselves grimly, for all could now hear the heavy tread of wagon wheels and the rolling creakings of a large carriage bearing towards them.

That there was no road or trail within many many miles of them made the encounter all the more uncanny.

"I don't-"

"Shh!"

"Don't shush her, she-"

"Shut it!"

They all stood huddled together, weapons drawn and standing out before them, as the night-dark moor lay suddenly solemn all around. Somewhere across the lowlands, a single mournful howl echoed bleakly.

"I don't hear it none mores."

Lochleer turned to face the others, his steel whispering as it whisked into its sheath.

"It appears so," the ranger said softly, "Though I cannot fathom what madness would drive someone to steer their wagon onto the moors." He tapped his foot on the damp loam meaningfully and folded his arms across his chest. "Betimes fog can play tricks with sound, and make something far distant sound like it stands just behind you-"

The ranger broke off as all three simultaneously took a step back.

"BEHIND YOU!"

The coach appeared suddenly, flicked into visibilty as though it had lain in wait all the while: it appeared to be an ancient carriage, dressed in old moorgrass and moss and made entirely of pale transparent glowstuff.

It lurched forward like an angry lion, bearing down upon Lochleer so quickly that it caught the bard's foot as the others fell back in the shockingly-fast attack. The giant coach cracked over the ranger's body, rolling back and forth with a heaviness that belied its appearance and left deep grooves in the ground all around, as though it were filled with water... or coins...

"Run!" Haerult yelped, the quicker-than-he wizard darting past him.

Behind them, the bard was using that wonderful voice of his to scream shrilly, and the sound of sharply snapping bones joined in suddenly.

The warrior heaved as he fled directly out onto the wild moors, Jhaana's pale silhouette already so far ahead of him in the night that he might be following his own imaginings. He panted and strove and tried not to think about how heavy his armor felt.

Behind him, somewhere in the darkness, the creakings of a carriage grew steadily closer.

[knight owl]

Tale: The Gray Mourners
Tale Type: Legend
Frequency: Uncommon
Origin: Townsfolk throughout the Savage North
Truth: ? (true)

This tale is often told between adults, but sometimes is used to warn children or 'foreigners' who may not know better.

Many cultures dwelling native to the Savage Frontier send their dead off to the hereafter in ways other than by a ground burial. Only a burial draws the Gray Mourners, and so this tale is told:

Legend holds that once, long ago, a ranking dignitary was visiting fair Waterdeep with his entourage (some tell the tale that it was a fine princess of a distant kingdom, come to the frontiers seeking a wild mate to tame). While out on a hunting party far east of the city, accident befell the group and the official was killed. With little family to his name and even less popularity, those folks that the man had business with at Waterdeep went ahead and purchased for the fallen dignitary's funeral a cadre of hired mourners (this practise is fairly well-known in cosmopolitan cities but can be divisive and even destructive to more zealous, simple, or traditional folk). Draped in the gray garments, cowls, and veils of their profession, the hired mourners attended the funeral and did as they were paid to do: sang a quiet threnody as guests were ushered in, chanted softly along as the priest conducted a eulogy, and lamented with great show as the body was interred in the great cemetery of the City of the Dead.

With their business done, the hired mourners submitted their bill. The traders who had hired them, however, forwarded that bill on to the dignitary's estate at his homeland. The issue was bandied back and forth, avoided, until the hired mourners had no choice but to pursue the matter in the legal courts of Waterdeep. The traders could well-afford a cleric of legalities to keep the matter postponed, for by now it had become an argument of pride: they'd only sought to keep the dignitary's countenance intact, while the dead man"s estate refused to let go so much as a single coin to pay for something they did not themselves petition. So it was that the matter was drawn out, for quite some time, until at least one of the hired mourners themselves had passed on. After burying one of their own, the hired mourners decided to act: they went as one to a certain place and called upon a certain power, He who embodies the essence of vengeance. Hoar heard and relented and gave to those who remained the instruments of their revenge. (This part of the tale is often left out by city-bred tellers, who often feel issues of coin as keenly as issues of heart. Simpler tellers, however, enjoy this part of the tale more and usually dramatize what some might view as a business disagreement into a criminal act of vicious and greedy disrespect or with whatever distaste they might view their coin-driven city brothers.)

Much more time passed before one of the traders succumbed to age and died. A group of gray-clad mourners attended the man's burial, and when the service was done they drifted away with the rest of the crowd. The next morning, custodians of the City of the Dead found the trader's crypt damaged, with the stone door in halves and his coffin cracked open... the remains within had been partially eaten, and all personal effects buried with the man had been taken. Since that time, many folks have spotted the Gray Mourners at funerals, and not just those taking place in Waterdeep. Always huddled together in a small group, never speaking or singing or making any noise, the mourners simply attend a ceremony from start to finish. At some point after the conclusion, however, the remains of he or she who passed on are violated and stripped of anything with monetary value.

None know why flesh of the dead is eaten, nor why valuables are taken, though the sightings of the Gray Mourners grew so frequent in Waterdeep that at least one person confronted them. The Mourners do not speak and do not react to emotion, though they will defend themselves if attacked. Often, those who seek to touch or violence to the Mourners are seen to stiffen as if stung by something. Once, the Gray Mourners appeared at the funeral of a high-ranking temple priest. When ordered to leave by a fellow cleric, the group complied.

(The truth: it is suspected that the Gray Mourners are undead, and that is partially true. Hoar did indeed enact His vengeance on their behalf, and made the Gray Mourners into a type of ghoul: they feed on the dead, but can also regenerate their own wounds, and can only be truly harmed by magical weapons or spells. As part of their binding fashioned by Hoar, they must retrieve monetary compensation for their 'attendance' at any given funeral, so that if they are interrupted in doing so they will return night after night until the task is completed. All once being bards of entertainment, albeit of a solemn kind, the Gray Mourners now make no noise whatsoever. If they so choose, however, the group can chant a curse song together. The Gray Mourners will use this power to pacify or deflect any group of attackers. They will avoid large combats, but will defend themselves as they retreat or if they are directly attacked. The Gray Mourners conceal the valuables they claim in a single secret location that none have yet discovered, but that may well be tied to the deity they made petition to.)


* * *


It was a lovely day.

The springtime rainclouds had drawn apart, letting down golden warmth and showing slips of bright blue promise if one looked up.

The captain looked up.

All across this part of the massive heavy-browed stone bridge, gathered gays of bright flowers tethered the solemn black ribbons now fluttering in the breeze. The river churned and muttered below, and lent a certain proper background drawl to the occasion.

The bodies were propped upon wooden ease-stands, usually used to tote coffins and sculptures, there were simply too many dead to have them lain out and so they were stood up and lined along one of the stretching stone rails. The travel lanes were narrowed to a single one-at-a-time affair, and even now a cartload of blinking farmers gawked and gogged as it passed.

"Loverly day fer it, cap'n."

Captain Ghark didn't look down but nodded as Frisker poked at one of the bouquets, then stared out across the river and pointed. In the distance, the River Purl rested serenely in berth at Loudwater's largest dock.

"Loverly."

All heads turned round as a trio of mannered, golden-garbed priests of Waukeen marched forth with chains of lit censers strung between them. Soft wisps of pearlescent smoke drifted out from them as one of their number spoke, leading the ceremony with an invocation to the Merchant's Friend. Ghark listened and pursed his lips but did not speak. He glanced back to the River Purl and then to the fashionable building standing along the cityline beyond: he regretted that the temple of Waukeen had been the closest and most willing to help with the mass funeral, for they claimed a high fee. His eyes moved along the cityline. Any other temples of the city would have proselytized the crowds for a good hour on at least, so... at least that was something avoided.

Ghark turned and raised his head back to the spring sky, closed his eyes and looked at the sunlight.

"Who're thems, ah wonders."

He opened his eyes at the halfling's words and turned to see what Frisker was watching. There, beyond the edge of the gathered city-folk, stood a small number of heavily-clothed folk. They all wore gray robes and cowls and had gray veils hiding their features. Captain Ghark stared at them a long moment.

Overhead, the sunlight was shut away as springtime clouds spread and a few drops came down.

"Gonna chat 'em up an-"

Captain Ghark reached down and snagged Frisker by his collar, hoisting the halfling back to his side and trying not think on just how similar lifting the hin felt to lifting a boy. He swallowed tightly, but guilt had made a lump in his throat for days now, lodged in there and would not budge.

He glanced back once at the group of gray-clad mourners, and swallowed again.

That lump never would leave him, now.

[knight owl]

Tale: The Tombwatch Tree
Tale Type: Legend
Frequency: Rare
Origin: unknown
Truth: ?

The legend of the Tombwatch Tree predates the first human settlements along the Delimbiyr River, and has long been thought to be a construction of dwarfen lore. Often, elvenfolk who are around to hear the tale will comment that there is no such thing as a Tombwatch Tree, and that the very notion borders on insult to the various plant-based deities who might be offended.

The Tombwatch Tree is said to grow only atop barrows and burial mounds, and sometimes in graveyards that have run to ruin. The tree itself is always large and foreboding, with a great spread of leafless branches and a misshapen trunk. The tree appears dead, at least as described by those who claim to have seen one, though it never topples or deteriorates. Some have said that a Tombwatch Tree grew seemingly overnight, while others have told tale that the tree they saw was once green and lush and for some reason twisted and 'died'.

The tree itself is said to be impervious to natural damage: lightning merely glances off of its surface while fire and flood have no effect. Even an earthquake is not enough to shake its roots to toppling. Unnerving to look upon for very long, many who trade the tale say that Tombwatch Trees feed off the lingering energy of the recently and not-so-recently interred among its roots: that these energies sustain the plant in a manner totally alien to nature. This turns the sap of the tree to a dark and viscous red, and the hard wood beneath its bark to a dirty bone-white. Rumors persist that wicked druids will sometimes encourage such growths, going so far as to plant saplings atop barrows and hoping for one to turn into a Tombwatch Tree.

Another very rare story deals with the creatures that might make a home of such a tree, and range in wild fancy from angry, malevolent black squirrels to evil dryads that try to lure men near so that they can grabbed and drawn into the body of the tree itself as a food source.

Whatever the truth to this legend, it is widely-known that such trees actually exist: tall, broad-branched specimens that appear twisted and black, with no appreciable normalities of other trees other than that it has roots and a trunk and branches. There are numerous mentions of the Tombwatch Trees in dwarfen literature, calling the plants by all manner of strange names of their own invention. The dwarfen expression 'better bared to stars than feeding a tree' is less a curse than a warning and indicates a preference for their remains to be left open to the elements than to be buried near one, if customary means are not available, and is thought to be derived from experience with the Tombwatch Tree.


* * *


"Halt!"

Everyone stopped and looked to the charge leader, who waved his standard about before striking it into the soft earth at his feet.

"We'll halt here for the night."

The group of soldiers was spare and most were afoot since their encounter with the griffons. Horribly hungry beasts, they'd eaten two of the outriders and their mounts before the bulk of the patrol caught up to them. A rushed defense against them proved fruitless and, in the end, the archers among them were called forward to keep the creatures at bay while the rest of the patrol abandoned most of their mounts and fled back up the vale to where they'd passed a road. The trick had worked, and while the griffons feasted on horseflesh the soldiers escaped without further casualties.

Jaunter looked at the remaining pair of mounts, now loaded down with shields and hangars and bags, and frowned. When the commander at Loudwater heard of this, he would probably receive a punishment... horses were not exactly cheap, these days.

"Ventol, you and Buck can take two others of your choosing and fetch water." He tilted his head and pointed. "I can hear the stream from here."

The rest of the soldiers began laying out a camp around the small dell. It had been a rough patrol, going up against many orc groups all the tenday long before meeting the griffons on their way back. They'd been lucky at escaping with just two deaths.

"Cap'n Jaunter sir? Where'd ya want the lamp?" One of the newer recruits, a youthful gangly lad whose name escaped the captain just now pointed across the dell to where the ground rose gently up a hillock to where a great tree stood, blackened and leafless. The lad's eyes followed and strayed to the many ropes that had been tied to many branches, now hanging dully to rot away. Each ended in a frayed cut, but all the soldiers knew a hanging tree when they saw one. Was probably orcs that used it for such.

"See to the cookfire after, will you-", Tylder, that was it, "-Tylder. Thanks."

Tylder went and retrieved the camp lantern and climbed up to where the tree's huge roots coiled and looped. Several of the patrol soldiers were already squatting around them, sharpening weapons or trying to clean themselves as best they could out of canteens and with spare rags. One of them said something quietly as Tylder reached up and began tying off the lamp to one of the dangling lines. Laughter abruptly broke out.

The lad kept to the task however. During the melees with the orcs, Tylder had first broken his charge spear without it even tasting a foe, and then had lost his hip blade sometime during the flight with the griffons. He was new and young, granted, but it was the other soldiers' duty to give a proper ribbing when one was due. Besides, he had more than enough to keep him busy... another perk of being the most recent addition to the patrol.

Ventol and Buck returned to find the dell in full camp, and with dinner already bubbling away on a fire. The lantern that was hung in the huge old tree cast deep shadows, and turned the strangeties of all the dangling nooseless ropes into dancing snakes whenever the wind changed. This led to some energetic fright-tales told among the soldiers from their ring of bedrolls around the fire, until at last Jaunter motioned for Tylder to produce the calling horn and bleat out the few brief notes that called for the camp to douse the lights, dim the fire, and get to sleep. Several of the soldiers snickered openly at all the pomp, but it was Captain Jaunter's way to adhere to protocol no matter where his patrol was, no matter what circumstances his patrol endured. Eventually, they all slept with young Tylder taking the first watch.

The first few hours passed easily, though clouded skies made the dark starless and moonless and difficult to see in. Still, it was quiet in the dell. The only sound that kept the lad company was the gurgle of the nearby stream.

Abruptly, that changed.

Tylder felt the change first... felt a ripple of cold air turn his exposed arms to gooseflesh.

Then came the sound.

It was as though a giant was sighing, though it had an offness about it that caused the lad to turn and look... the massive tree was moving.

Tylder blinked and stood.

The tree wasn't moving after all. Perhaps it had just been a trick of the wind-

-and then he saw.

Among the roots of the trees, something had indeed moved. Where loops of man-thick root had been now gaped a dark opening. The lad stared at the sight, almost not believing what he was seeing until he realized that some of the other soldiers were stirring from their sleep. All at once, a face appeared in the dark opening, and arms followed. Impossibly long and horribly thin, those arms reached out and snatched at one of the half-awake men, giving him time for a faint yelp of surprise before jerking the entire soldier back and down into the hole.

Tylder and those soldiers now roused fully by that stared at each other in shock.

The hole exploded with movement, vomiting forth a sudden mass of writhing corpses that stretched from where they'd landed, then rolled about seeking the living. Soldiers began screaming, and some leapt up and began beating at the creatures attacking them.

Tylder ran for the cookfire and kicked a jar of tindertwigs into it, so that they flared up into fire and cast light all around.

The creatures were everywhere, limbs entwined with those of their victims, locked in desperate combat. It was almost silent, which was horrifying, but the worst part was that many of the creatures clearly sported rotting rope nooses about their bloated necks. The lad ducked through the melee, shouting.

"Captain! Cap-" His voice left him suddenly when he spotted Jaunter, his eyes open and dull and one of the wights squatting atop him tugging at the man's scalp fitfully. Tylder turned away as the ripping began, catching sight of the tree. The huge thing was moving, he could see now, slowly twisting and swaying and making a deafening chorus of loud creaks and snappings as its branches swung about.

The lad turned and fled, then.

The slaps and grunts of battle followed him, along with fresh screaming now, deep into the night...

...but it was the terrible creaking and popping he could never seem to stop hearing, ever after that.

[knight owl]

Tale: The Mushroom Serfs
Tale Type: Legend
Frequency: Uncommon
Origin: Throughout the Unicorn Run Area
Truth: ?


Every now and again this tale rises to popularity among storytellers across the regions. The Mushroom Serfs are said to be a diminutive folk, much like forest spirits such as brownies or sprites, who dwell in deep woods and make their homes in mushroom rings. Some folk say that these tiny beings will reveal themselves only to those who possess a kinship with such creatures, as those with elven blood or gnomish blood do. Others say that only if one is quick or clever enough will they be able to meet a Mushroom Serf, much less see one. No matter the reason, all tellings voice the same opinion: these creatures only seem to be seen or met when it suits them.

A scholarly work of Silvanus called the 'Natural Bestiary', popular among educational curricula across the north, interestingly possesses an entry for the creatures under Mushroom Svirf (inadvertently lending credence to the idea that the Serfs are cousin to the gnome race). The book notes that the Mushroom Svirfs are tiny gnome-shaped men, colored like the sky reflected in a pond and wise as they are mischievous, and value highly the merits of any berries they might encounter. Oddly, the finish of the entry in that book notes that the social structure of a given Mushroom Serf village is extraordinarily ordered: there is a role for each member of the village to fill, and only the village elder has the final say to any question.

Being a rather uncommon sort of telling, folk-tales are even rarer. Some bits that are more widely-known and spoken of are thus: that Mushroom Serfs are kin to xvarts, though they are barely a quarter their size; that the creatures are natural vegetarians but tend to eat only food assembled from raw ingredients, much like any advanced society would, with any sort of berry at all (even holly 'berries') being an exception; that the Serfs' blood is a prime component in the alchemical pursuit of turning substance into pure gold; finally that, for all their lawfulness, Mushroom Serfs to a one enjoy a good practical joke.

Nomenclature for these beings is as varied as the tales told about them: M'Serfs is, by far, their most popular name across the Savage Frontier and elsewhere, while some of the more arcane-leaning peoples call them Boon Midges, after the creatures' charming self-reliance and benignity.

Recently, a priestess of a local homespun goddess (Shiallia, and 'homespun' according to more-cosmopolitan areas like Waterdeep or Cormyr) has been including a short say-so regarding M'Serfs at the end of her sermoning. In particular, she praises the industrious nature of the gentle Mushroom Serfs and warns incautious woodcutters and ambitious alchemyia-pursuing wizards alike to leave such creatures be should they meet any.

For those interested, here is the excerpt copied out of the 'Natural Bestiary':

Musherum Svirf
This pere-humain creature standeth of hethtu nigh an apple of smallysh sise and is baering gnomysh limbes. It is bluely of flaesch as a springan sky reflectent en a calm ponde, and enjoien to waer garments of unspoilt whyte. Of utmoste importanse to theyse folke aer any sort of berye, too they do enjoye berdes of any sort. It is saed thet theyr aer no femayle-svirfs, and thet the laeder is called fader-svirf and he waers garments of derk cremesin.

(Here follows a small illustration of a toadstool bearing a tiny porch, door, and windows set into its stalk.)

Lyfe en a musherum svirf village is of extraordinarie orderlynesse for eall who dwelle theyr. Ech village membre is predestinatened to fullfyllan thaer duete, as is alottened bae the fader-svirf. Theyr is nae lagu, saven thet of the decre of the fader-svirf.

(a short translation is scribbled into the margin here:) 'this demihuman creature is near the height to a small apple and looks like a gnome. It's skin is the blue of a spring sky reflected in a calm pond, and likes to wear clean white clothing. Most important to these folk are berries of any sort, and they enjoy all birds. It is said there are no female svirfs, and that the leader is called 'father svirf' and that he wears dark red clothing. Life in a Mushroom Svirf village is extraordinarily ordered for all who dwell there. Each villager is born to their duty, as doled out by 'father svirf'. There is no law, except the decree of 'father svirf'.'


* * *


They were following them into the dell.

At first, the adventurers had snuck in all quiet-like. The largest of them, a well-fed warrior who was so powerful he needed no armor save his skin and clothes, lay a wicked-looking trident across one knee and bent to eye the trampled grasses before them. A pretty but cold-eyed lass held fast to a glittering axe and stood just behind the warrior. She laid a hand on his shoulder and gestured when he turned. Ahead, the smallest of them had scuttled to the nearest tree and was coolly signalling them with his hands. Slim and shadowy and disguised with smears of dark earth, he pointed out what they'd been hunting: the small blue figure might have gone unnoticed in the flowered dell grasses had it not abruptly turned, its motion giving its position away.

The xvart had led them down into the valley from where it had first spied the trio: a farmlad with his father's hay fork, a sneak-about dressed in dirty rags and a pocketful of throwing stones, and a wild-haired girl no older than a maid who brandished a hen-killing axe with a cracked handle.

The creature snorted softly and then made a signal of its own.

High-pitched screaming echoed through the dell as the xvarts rose up from the grasses all around the trio of villagers, raising their tiny but accurate bows and blades and swarming them.

They hadn't stood a chance.

After the killing was done, Pugnose and Biletongue immediately began fighting over the hay fork.

"Success to the people of the ruins!"

Most of the xvartlings returned Sharpchin's cheer.

"Loot the tallsie folk! Return to the ruins!" Sharpchin then went over and soundly stabbed at Pugnose's calf before claiming the hay fork and raising it for the others to follow. Pockets were turned out, clothing carefully cut from bodies, and all items no matter how big or small were seized and held aloft as the war party began the hike back to the village. The bodies themselves were left for the beasts of the valley to scavenge: at first the wolves would come and take their fill. Then the birds and insects. Finally, the wilds themselves would grow over the remains.

Two small eyes watched the unmoving corpses as a lone howl echoed down from the north side of the vale.

"Father!"

The tiny blue creature let go the milkweed stalk and landed with a hop before darting off into the nearby berry thicket.

"Father!"

Several tiny blue heads turned to peer as their plaintive brother darted past the Old Stone meeting spot and into the ring of Homes. All the broadcaps and butterns trembled as the minature windows or doors set into them opened at the ruckus.

"Diligent serf!", the sole bearded creature greeted. "What brings you running and calling?"

Diligent explained the situation and in some small time a group of the mushroom serfs, led by Brazen, went to view the remains of the battle. They paused just outside the thicket to watch as a pair of star doves called softly to each other and winged slowly above. At the stand of milkweed and kingthistle, Diligent showed them. The curious serfs made room for Father to look, and the group of them surveyed where the bodies lay for a long while as Brazen and round-eyed Observant kept a watch. At last, Father stroked his beard and nodded thoughtfully.

"They will make a good addition", he announced at last.

The group of serfs returned to the thicket with much laughter and talk of the coming spring. They all knew with that season would come a bounty of rainfall and warm sun.

After all, adventurer-remains cultivated the best mushrooms.