By Rajaad

To Legends Treatises

Every province has its myths and legends. Some are made up of truth, others of fiction, but most hold something of a true mystery in their hearts. The Old World’s myths were born of the blending of two cultures – the mystically-minded Northerners and the civilized Masallans. Some of the mysteries, originating from the Northern way of life, have faded into antiquity as a result of their purely verbal methods of passing down traditions and stories. Others have persisted.

Here are a few of those that have remained.

The Ravensong

Once, long before the arrival of the Masallans, a pretty Northern girl became lost from her village, and found herself wandering, alone, deep into the night. Her heart was trembling with fear from the sounds of the night, for it was as dark as dark can be, the moon so new that it was not to be seen at all. She wandered until she came upon a grove of cedars, looming out of the darkness from damp, rich soil that slid between her toes. And that is when she heard the song. It slipped from the darkness as if it had been there all along, whispering from among the trees and moving, ghostlike, over the ground. It seemed all about her, and yet she knew where to follow, and she stepped quietly through the trees toward the unearthly music.

When finally she came upon the source, she saw a large, dark bird, singing in a branch of the cedar tree. She had come very silently, and as her footfalls came too close, the bird suddenly stopped, looked toward her, and flew away into the darkness, cawing as birds of that brethren usually do. For the bird had been a raven.

The song had impatterned itself upon her heart, and she hummed it softly to herself as she stood there, so as not to forget it. But forget it she never would. And the song held some old magic, for she found at once that her mind felt clear, that she knew the way home without err, and that her true being and nature was known to her within the notes of that mystical song.

For many generations the Northerners passed on the song she had heard, utilizing it in magical ceremonies, and its notes served to emerge a person’s true nature and magical self. But sadly, the song was wearied by time, and slowly it shifted and changed and lost much of its power.

Though many of the tribes, upon the arrival of the Masallans, still had their ‘Ravensongs’, most of the magic was lost from them. Yet the legend remains that on the darkest of nights, when the sky is clear and the moon is black, the deepest parts of the forest will be moved by an ancient, potent melody. It is the ravens, perching in their trees and singing the Ravensong, a music that connects us with our Fae roots and lets us see the truth of our actions. In the song lies one’s destiny.

The south of the Old World is composed of great, vast forests, mostly unexplored. When the Goddards decided to banish lycanthropes to the isle of Saravai, a few intrepid folks decided that they might establish a settlement on the southern edge of the Old World and make some gold off the sailors who were patrolling down there. It seemed a fine idea, and they built a sturdy little village on the southernmost shore. Most thought they would thrive, and talk began of establishing a small city or barony in the area. And then, when the sailors came one day, they found the village destroyed.

Cabins had been torn out, always on one side, and the insides ruined. Other buildings had been similarly entered. And no living thing was left, for every person, every sheep, and every horse had been killed. The sailors found no bodies, but instead saw a great trail of blood, as if the bodies had been dragged off into the woods. Fearful and well armed, they followed, only to find a great cache of flesh, both human and animal, much of it well-eaten. And nearby were found large, strange tracks.

The sailors fled.

As the moons passed, many reports filtered back to the north – stories of how ships had passed the ruined village and seen an immense, furred beast with monstrous black claws sniffing about the buildings. It was larger than any bear or dire wolf, and looked like nothing they had ever seen. Lacking a name, they called it the Kírjaan, a word in Northern which meant ‘the beast’.

The beast was not seen until fifty years later, when a hunting party south of Kern came upon ‘a creature of immense proportions. It was feasting upon a huge cache of bear, deer, and forest dragon when we came across it, and upon seeing us it bared huge, yellowed teeth and loped toward us. We fired our great bows, launching arrows into its dense fur, but the long, thick shafts were but thorns in its hide. We scattered, all ten of us, fleeing for our lives. Only eight later regrouped, and we eventually counted our two lost companions as dead by the beast.’

Then, only eight years before the rise of Aranor, came this report –

‘We were riding toward Selarum, about eight leagues out, and had crested the ridge so many use for camping along that route. Far below, we saw a large form moving among the boulders, and I immediately took out my scope to see what it might be. It was an animal of the like of which I had never seen, huge and furry, with large feet sporting dark claws. It was of such a size that it was carrying a full-grown bear in its maw, and seemed not troubled by the weight.’

What the Kírjaan is, no one has yet determined. Some immortal beast, or a breed yet undiscovered by our sages? Whatever it may be, the stories tell of something huge, ferocious, and mysterious haunting the deep woods of the Old World.

Ruins are not uncommon in the Old World forests. But what are we to make of this? For there lies, two leagues north of the small village of Heron’s Rook, upon a high knoll of stone, the unmistakable wreck of a galleon. Mind you, this is a good twelve leagues from the nearest seawater.

On its side can barely be distinguished the name "Sun’s Glory", a name not yet found in any shipping logs (though logs are not kept according to universal principles, and the age of the ship has not been determined). The ship is large, with numerous rooms which were long ago stripped of their furnishings. But it is still a favorite place for adventurers and residents of Heron’s Rook to explore and ponder the stranger things of the world.

In the mountains near Kern there lies a most unusual place. You have to imagine yourself scaling up a rocky face that at last breaks open to reveal a huge, open expanse, ringed in by sharp, towering peaks. It is a stinking, foul place, with muddy ground and treacherous sinkholes, a few wide-rooted, squat trees, and patches of grass which have managed, by throwing down roots, to secure some semblance of hard ground beneath them, forming small islands among the sludge. And here and there are odd monoliths, black stones sometimes taller than a man and formed of clearest obsidian, emerging from the morass.

Those who camp on the edge have seen dancing lights after nightfall, and there are stories of slurping movements coming from beneath the mud. But with so few who go to the place, little more is known of Blackrock Moor, except that it represents some odd terrain not documented anywhere else in the world.

The Northern tribes, according to their oral histories, emerged from a single tribe that lived near the present site of Liramelle. From there they spread throughout the Old World, adopting different traditions and methods of living depending on their environment. But for centuries after the tribes split, they returned to the birthplace of the tribes with their dead, and buried them in a sacred place. In the north-eastern corner of the plains near Liramelle, and spanning out into the encroaching forest for nearly half a league, there remains the burial grounds of the Northerners, with literally thousands of graves. Each is marked by a stone, carved by the family and placed over the site of the burial. The stones were made in the likenesses of various animals, spirits, or magical objects, each one representing something intrinsic about the person buried beneath. To walk through the plains is to walk among a vast scattering of the carved figurines, most about the size of a melon, and many created from beautiful stones.

When Liramelle was founded, collecting and selling the burial stones became quite popular, until the peasants, most of strong Northern descent, began to protest and set guards to patrol the Plains of the Dead. Still, many of the burial stones are lost to private collections, and it is not unheard of for grave-robbers to dig down to the ancient bones in order to unearth the old Northern artifacts concealed there, such as knapped stone tools or golden ornaments.

One such grave-robber sold a sword to a collector, who later hired sages to examine the weapon. It was of a fine alloy, comparable to fine Rel Morde steel, and was forged in a make unlike weapons of Masallan descent. That a Northerner might have possessed such a blade before the arrival of the Masallans creates some intriguing questions about the possibilities of earlier, advanced civilizations coming to the Old World before the Masallans did.

Connected to the Blackrock Moor, this tale tells of an explorer who chipped a piece from one of the monoliths. Taking it home, he found that under certain conditions, such as when the stone was illuminated by the full moon, certain inscriptions could be discerned within the rock itself. But his studies did not bring much to light, for soon after, his journal writings began describing peculiar nocturnal visitations by strange, haunting entities. Soon after he disappeared. The stone was sold by his family to a museum in Jalpa, where it was displayed in a glass case for two years. And as you might have guessed, soon after its arrival strange happenings began to haunt the museum, including numerous accounts of artifacts, during the night, seeming to switch places so that they were displayed under the wrong labels. The curator refused to bow to superstition and would not part with the stone. But when it was stolen after two years, the haunting of the museum ceased.

For fifty years or so, the rock was not heard from, until it was purchased in Selarum by a nobleman with a fondness for odd gemstones. Not a passage after he bought the thing, his life began to crumble. When he learned of the stone’s history, he angrily took a hammer to the rock, shattering it into a thousand shards and discarding it in the ocean, thinking he had destroyed its curse. But the shards soon began to wash up onto the shore, some, after years had passed, polished to smooth edges. And it became a favorite pastime of Selarum children to try to find the strange, pretty stones on the beach.

The stones may have been smaller, but their potency remained, for many are the stories regarding the possessors of the stones encountering the strangest and most horrific of fates.

Most of the remains of the Ghostrock are lost now, but it’s said that you can still find them, on occasion, being sold in old curiosity shoppes.

Everyone knows that the fierce Sereg are common in the wilder lands of the Old World. And we know their habits well – that they dwell in communal villages, and are intensely social creatures. What, then, do we make of the stories, not uncommon, of encountering lone Sereg, living peacefully in the woodlands?

It is told that the Sereg, when they grow to a certain age, leave their villages and go off to die. The lifespan of the Sereg is said to be one of quicker growth than humans, so that a Sereg of seventeen years will be fully formed. They then remain largely unchanged until they reach their late thirties, whereupon they suddenly age, losing their vitality within a year or two. When this loss begins, the Sereg leaves his or her village and retires to the woods, giving up their warring ways for a final year or two of quiet contemplation. Since men tend to die early in battle or raids, most of the lone Sereg are said to be women.

Whether the stories of lone Sereg are truth or fiction is anyone’s guess, but the reports are common enough to make one wonder if this violent race might actually have a quiet side.

It’s found here and there in explorers’ journals, and it’s said to lie somewhere north and west of Aranor, near the mountains. But no one’s given a good map to it yet, perhaps because they don’t want the secret known. It’s called Summer’s Pond, and the journals tell of a large pond, complete with a small island and crystalline clear waters, where the winter never comes.

The waters steam with a basking heat, and willows and flowers grow all about it. Here and there trails of silver bubbles sprinkle their way to the surface.

Where the pond derives its heat is a mystery, but it is said to be so radiant that the island and surrounding banks remain free of snow even during the most frigid of winter days, and stories abound of faeries and even Sereg making their way to the pond during the coldest moons to partake of the warm air and waters.

When the Northerners were conquered by the Masallans, they became peasants and hunstfolk, and their old myths and legends took on new flavours. One of their favorites is of the Huntsman’s Lodge, an immense log structure, greater than any ever built, lying somewhere in the woodlands of the Old World. It once was the home of the most respected of huntsmen, and every night saw music, dancing, wenches, and endless wine and roasted meats. Then some ancient curse drove them out, and it has lain abandoned for hundreds of years, awaiting the arrival of new hunters to make its great hall ring with merry laughter once again.

On the road coming into Selarum from the west, there are many high, rolling hills which rise to the south and the north. And on certain days, trailers of smoke or steam can be seen rising up from certain places upon the hills.

The children’s legend quickly grew – that dragons haunted those hills, and the trailers of steam were really tendrils of rising smoke from the dragons’ maws. But no dragons have been seen in those hills for many a year, and explorers offer another possibility – that caves, issuing cold air, can belch forth the strange, rising clouds. And indeed, one or two caves have been found among those hills, often deep ones with twisting passages and steep drops. But it’s harder than one thinks to trace the streamers of smoke to their sources, and so far as I’ve heard, no one’s said for sure what makes those hills breathe forth their steam.

You’ve heard of Selarum, Jalpa, Aranor, and Liramelle. If you’re more savvy about this province, you can also probably name Kern, Bardé, Cirané, and maybe even some lesser known towns like Ritual or Shaky Crossing. But who’s heard of Fendeep?

Sixty years before the founding of Aranor, when things were really beginning to go bad in Antara, a group of mystics and magicians left to found a new settlement. They were into darker magics, and no one was sorry to see them leave Antara. The group wandered off into the southlands of the Old World and little was heard of them for twenty years or more. Then came a letter, addressed to King Goddard, that announced the presence of a new town in the Old World. Fendeep, it was called, and they claimed to be users of powerful magics, and said that they had discovered something in the swamps near their village – something of concern to all the civilized world.

King Goddard must have been in a foul mood that day, for he reportedly tore the paper up and ignored the entire affair. And nothing has been heard of Fendeep since.

Is the place real? Where did the magical settlers make their home, and what did they discover that they thought of such importance?

If Fendeep exists, no one I have ever heard of has managed to find it.

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