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One Becomes Many
In each of us is more than what we are; Parts and multitudes that form our thoughts, desires, nature itself. Manifold are the creatures inside you - and what you can become when you speak my words is all your parts made manifest. Your weakness can become strength if it is made legion: quaking hearts can find courage in their numbers, the lowliest vermin can humble a goliath if they stand as an army, and a ruin can become a kingdom for one soul made many. Speak Itori mustag thrice. Become your finest self - all of them Raphael. |
On Weapon Coatings
Group of adventurers approached me, their grins docile and earnest, and they needed my knowledge on alchemy to help them differentiate between weapon coatings - they claimed to be giant hunters. Taking pity on these well-meaning morons, I explained the - [This section of the page has been ruined beyond salvage. Annotated in the margin, someone has thoughtfully made the following note:] Poisons - poison the target and sometimes inflict an additional condition Toxins - deal damage over time Oils - these inflict conditions and can harm creatures that are immune to poisons and toxins. Three good twists is all it takes To grind a magpie into flakes That felt good. I've really come to loathe that bastardly rhyme of mine. I'll leave it untouched in previous chapters, but from now on I'm having a bit of fun with it. |
On the Weary, Vol. 1, Father Lorgan
[A collection of Father Lorgan's writings on despondency.] Perhaps the hardest suffering to ail is that which dulls, but does not pang. Weariness sits deep within one's soul, but it casts its miring net across the surface, dampening all errant thoughts and feelings in its wake. Malaise of this sort can rot the heart, if left to fester, but must be extricated carefully. Above all else - the weary soul knows itself better than you can. Do not condescend, do not assume, do not impose. Simply avail yourself as a tool to the weary - let them know you can be used however they might need. |
On the Origins of the Zhentarim
[An excerpt from the ongoing Metatext: Rebound by Iosefa Elgin, a scholar excommunicated from the Church of Deneir for her heretical efforts to reconstruct the Metatext, her god's annal of lost and hidden knowledge.] But perhaps greater still than their monopoly as the continent's largest private army, the true achievement of the modern Zhentarim is in the sanitised image they present to the world. Viewed by most as an efficient - if unscrupulous - mercenary organisation, few would guess at the Black Network's dark origin: as a cult dedicated to the dark god Bane, once bent towards bringing all peoples to heel beneath his creed of tyranny and domination. Many among their ranks scoff when confronted with this fact, citing overblown conspiracies and reassuring me that the only gods to whom the Zhentarim give worship today are the twin deities profit and power. This is not to say the organisation has entirely shed its dark side, however - alongside the clenched fist of their military, another hand works from the shadows to ensure that the Network prospers even in peacetime. For just as vital as the movement of troops is the movement of goods, legal or otherwise, and there is no border or market that is ever truly closed to one bearing the seal of the Black Network. |
On the Origins of Evil
Devils, demons, mind flayers, Drow, Githyanki. What do such creatures have in common? Conventional wisdom suggests that it is that quality we call 'evil'. But how wise is this really? After all, scrape one layer beneath the surface, and one finds that there are other common denominators - perhaps far more common to the individual experience than the ill-defined notion of 'evil'. [The following pages seem to detail various arguments for the origins of evil finding its root in generational suffering, the gods, the self, and the environment, but settle on no firm conclusions.] |
On the Inevitability of Moral Decay and its Benefits
[A lengthy essay on the inevitability of moral decay, the opportunities it presents, and the ways to capitalise upon them.]
Introduction
Chapter I: Morality is Not Absolute
Chapter II: Why Moral Decay is Not Immoral
Chapter III: One Man's Decline is Another Man's Gain
Chapter IV: Those Who Play and Those Who Make the Rules
Chapter V: How to Win the Game. |
On The Greater Healing Potion
As an act of apology for the friend I snapped at the other day, I bought a round of hot chocolates and tried to teach them the useful art of making a strong curattive potion. They looked at the recipe, the hot chocolate, and lastly me. Then they left without a word. Vituperative little shit. RECIPE for 1 Greater Healing Extracts Needed: - Ashes of Balsam - Salts of Chasm Creeper or of Gnarled Tree Bark or of anything, really Method: Oh, just mix them together in a big bowl, who gives a damn... Three days living without pain Would maybe cure this senseless brain I've got to return to the platinum scale. Stop spending my time so frivolously and try something - anything! I need this pain to be gone. I can't take it. |
On Sloth, Gluttony, and Vice
'ENDURE! ENDURE! ENDURE!' So commands Laduguer the Taskmaster. 'ENDURE!' Cry it out as your hammer strikes rock. 'ENDURE!' Shout it as your axe splits your enemies' skulls. 'ENDURE!' Holler as your cane strikes your slaves' backs. Toil is our duty and our blessing! Toil is the reward we grant our sons and servants! Yet beware the great enemy of toil, the scourge that wounds us and ours: the tankard. It is not only ale that pours forth from it, but indolence, gluttony, and a wandering mind. The drunkard is a clan's millstone: too heavy to carry, too idle to contribute. Cast him into the Darklake! Let him sink to the bottom! And once more, call out: 'ENDURE! ENDURE! ENDURE!' |
On Serpent Venom Toxin
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW SOMETHING INTERESTING IF YOU MIX SUSPENSION OF VENOMOUS FANG WITH VITRIOL OF LOLTHS CANDLE (ANY VITRIOL WILL DO!) OUT COMES A POISON DRIPDRIPDRIP when in doubt with alchemy when in need of ecstacy when my throat clicks with scream dripdripdrip is what I dream it did not work the platinum scale plan did not work and i hurt so badly |
On Receiving Her Grace
[Diagrams of bodies twisted into impossible shapes cover the pages while handwritten notes fill the margins.] Be wary of your mortal limitations. While it is tempting to allow pain's ecstasies to sweep you away, particularly during a delicious bout of self-flagellation, broken bones hinder worship of Our Maiden of Pain. Instead, when the body is spent, focus on a whipping or perhaps nail removal (pliers or blade is recommended) to ensure Loviatar may forever revel in your agony - as is her right. |
On Psionic Manipulations and Countermeasures
[A thorough account of how best to protect your mind from illithid manipulation and subsequent domination.] When dealing with mind flayers, remember that it is in their nature to assess the utility, strengths, and weaknesses of those around them, and to manipulate in order to get what they want. The best countermeasure you can take against a mind flayer is simply to avoid it. Any attempts to outsmart it will fail. If that is not an option, then there are three things to remember that may just save your mind: 1. Pay attention to its actions, not its words. Where mind flayers are concerned, it is true that actions speak louder than words. Especially words that are tailor-spoken to fit a mind flayer's manipulative agenda. 2. Strengthen your relationship with others. The greatest thing you can do to offset a mind flayer's designs upon you is to have allies, strong allies. Trust in those you know you can trust, and build your relationships with them - they are the ones who will have your back when you most need it. 3. Even mind flayers have wants and desires. The only circumstances in which a relationship with a mind flayer may be beneficial to you is if you both want exactly the same thing. In the unlikely case that this is true, bear in mind that once you have outlived your purpose to a mind flayer, it will have no use for you. |
On Potions and Elixirs
Today I snapped at a good friend of mine in the Elfsong. I'm embarrassed about it now. Not then. This prickly mood had come over me, because for the first time in ages I was thinking hard about my condition. Ideas for elixirs came to me. It would have to be a very powerful elixir, since they usually only last until the drinker sleeps. Potions are much more limited in their application, not lasting as long. Though you can combine potions for simultaneous effects, whereas the digestive system can only handle one elixir at a time. Remember: Lack of scales is giving me trouble (when doesn't it haha.) Wake up sometimes with a wet pink imprint of my body on the white sheets. Like a crime scene. [Annotated in the margin, someone has made the following note:] Elixirs - only one at a time and last until you take a Long Rest Potions - can benefit from multiple potion effects at the same time, but don't last as long as Elixirs. |
On Illithids, Volume XXVI
Many curious scholars have noted the illithids' disdain for arcane magic, yet do not understand the reasons behind it. In traditional illithid circles, psionics are considered incontrovertible proof of our superior minds, and that which relies on study or bloodline is but a corruption of pure mental power. Yet were it so inferior, it would not be able to subvert an Elder Brain. I have proven that myself, and hope the Society of Brilliance will be able to spread this evidence to the contrary far and wide. My people need not be slaves to the Grand Design - should they will it Divine magic is a more complex matter. Some of our Creeds advance the philosophies of gods like Ilsensine and Maanzecorian, but that should not be taken as mindless worship. If anything, many of my brethren are jealous of these beings, and study their works in order to supplant them in the future. But to be a god's servant, forever yielding? That goes against the tenets of every circle, no matter how liberal their Creed. |
On Goblins: My Life Among the Conquering Host
[An excerpt from Volo’s forthcoming guide to goblin society, My Life Among the Conquering Host.] It has oft been noted that goblins are cowardly, tending to flee from robust challenges, and scattering far and wide if their leaders are felled. I tell you that it is not always so! The goblins of my recent acquaintance - fine though uncouth fellows by and large - have a fiery courage, fuelled by their love of the Absolute. From the mighty magic-wielding booyahg to the lowly muck- troubling pariah, they seem more willing to fight - and indeed to die - for this new god than even the most stalwart devotee of Helm or Tempus. So far, I have been unable to discover the domain or provenance of this emboldening deity, but with every hour that passes, I come closer to the truth of the matter. For now, know this - priests and trusted devotees of this god, even be they goblins, are capable of wielding more powerful magics than even I can conjure! |
On Educating the Faithful
[An excerpt from a lengthy speech by Grand Matron Tarrae, first delivered in Menzoberranzan and recorded by a Seldarine spy.] Praise be to Lolth, Mother of All Drow. Her web binds us, body and soul, and strangles the unworthy before they can draw breath. Those who stand before me have proven their worth. You shall educate all new converts to Lolth's laws using any means necessary. Many of them fear the goddess - as they should - but their faith is not yet true. Their minds are simple and should be treated accordingly. They must follow the order of every priestess like a sacred decree. They must never cover their eyes and insult Lolth's gift. They must honour the House that raised them from their pathetic, treasonous origins. They must keep our secrets upon pain of death. Ensure that death is public, should the time ever come. Lolth smiles on those who are creative in matters of torture. |
On Death & Resurrection
Of what value is a life? Far too esoteric a topic to warrant any serious critical consideration between these pages, surely - or so it would seem at first glance. But once we push aside the mysticism and dewy-eyed sentiment so often clouding our assessment, it is clear that across all the spinning planes, each and every life does indeed have a quantifiable value. It is simply that not all are equally valuable. Consider: we already know that the destruction of our material form is not the end. If anything, our souls are more free after death, transcending planar barriers in search of a resting place that best befits our deeds, beliefs, and station in life. But even this assessment is subject to market forces: Lord Kelemvor weighing our souls against how thoroughly we have given them over to other gods, empowering them in turn. There is, of course, an alternate route: not the end of the path, but the chance to retread it. Clerics across the Realms wield the power to return life to any soul deemed worthy or willing enough. It is strange, then, that these so frequently intersect with those deemed wealthy enough, for the components for such a spell are beyond the means of most mortals. I have interviewed those who have made such a return, and in truth have found them to be of the most dull and unimaginative sort that I cannot possibly imagine what it is they were so eager to return to. If a true assessment of the journey is to be made, then there is simply no replacement for embarking upon it oneself. Perhaps, one day, this great volume of learning will make me worthy enough to walk that path - and wealthy enough to return. |
On Antidotes
[A deep crease in the spine makes the booklet fall open to reveal one recipe in particular. Neat writing in the corner marks it as 'an antidote for all known potions'.] This is it. The recipe that made me decide to publish my notes. The story might not interest you, but I shall record it for posterity (feel free to skip to the actual recipe). I was sitting in the Elfsong, sipping my usual hot cocoa, the heat soothing the pain in my scale-less hands. A small child - human - stumbled through the door, sick as a dog. All the other patrons seemed like they wanted to help, but nobody could pay for an antidote for a stranger's child. Meanwhile, the ingredients were just lying around, in the kitchen. Every single one of those people could have saved that child, but only I knew how. It felt like a crime. RECIPE for 1 bottle of Antidote ---- Salts of Mugwort ---- Suspension of Bullywug Trumpet Slowly trinkle salts into suspension. Stir clockwise until the concoction's consistency turns almost chewable. It might turn slightly green, but this is purely aesthetic and has no effect on the antidote itself. And remember: |
Oliver's Diary
Dear Diary, Nothing ever happens in this town. I'm ready to go to the Gate. If Mother won't let me, I'll run away myself. She says my lungs are too weak for the smoke. But how am I living at all, when all I do is milk the rothe? Ha, a strange fog is descending over our own tow. Hasn't left in days. Getting hard to breathe. Mother is eating her words, saying we should head out to the city to stay for a while until it lifts. We go at dawn. Day 14: We tried to leave, but there are creatures from beyond the grave, skulking around the outskirts of our land. It's too late. Day 21: The rothe are all possessed, knocking down their fence, battling and bashing one another to death... Dying then fighting again. The shadows are everyone... right outside our window. I can't see more than a few strides out. Day 28: I'm not dead yet. But I'm going to die here, aren't I? I can hardly breathe. Why does it not get into our house? Why doesn't the curse take us already. Day 35: I can't stand this. I've been trying to write a memoir of myself but it's still no good. I'm too weak to pen fine words. I am going to die unremembered, be what may. It's getting pointless to cower in here. There is nothing we can do about this all-encroaching dark. Tomorrow, I will walk out into the fog, and I will laugh. With love, a farmhand, forever to be unknown. |
Old Schoolbook
[A school's attendance log fills the ancient pages. As the pages and days progress, more and more pupils' names vanish from the entries. In urgent script, a note in the margin states that someone has to investigate what's become of the missing children and their families.] |
Old Maintenance Records
Reminder to the caretaker - when oiling the machine, make sure you don't grease the statue themselves. Stone's become loose of late and has a tendency to slip. Novice Peran was rumoured to have triggered a full spin once! |
Old Architectural Collection
[This yellowed book contains a series of architectural plans. One shows an elevator leading from the wilds outside a town called Reithwin to the Underdark.] |
Olam's Journal
Day 2 of Darkness I stood calm as Ketheric uttered his final curse and then withered. As my fellow Harpers dragged his putrid corpse from the battlefield, I allowed myself to feel relief, even solace. A wrong had been righted, an evil thwarted. Victory had come - but I had yet to know its true cost. The darkness shrouded the land like a vast cloak. It began as a chill, as if the Claw of Winter had gripped us. Within hours, every breath was a dagger piercing my throat. I hungered for air like a wolf hungers for meat - yet I could still get my fill, thanks to my armour. Would that the men and women of Reithwin had been so well-equipped. One by one they fell, only to rise as shadows of themselves, intent on extinguishing all light, and all life. The shadows hang less heavy in this place. It still takes some effort to fill my lungs, but better to expend effort than to unite with darkness. My traps should keep me safe - or at least, safe enough. Day 5 of Darkness The shadows ebb and wane. A torch flame is sometimes enough to burn them away, but no light can dispel the deepest of them. I called my familiar Corvin to my side, but he could scarcely take wing. Tomorrow I search, and not just for food and drink. I might find a scroll, or an artefact, or an arcane focus that can ward off this curse. Perhaps I might even find another survivor. Day 18 of Darkness It's a particular loneliness, in these shadows. Corvin shows great affection when I call him, even as he suffers. Those few minutes are at least some comfort, for us both. It is remarkably still in here, and even stiller out there. I have found a few scrolls and books near the House of Healing, as well as some scattered artefacts, but they hold nothing for me. The only answers call out from within the House itself, where I dare not enter. I hear the moans of the anguished, the shouts of the cruel. There are those who make their home in the shadows, but I am no less alone for them. Day 26 of Darkness I called on Corvin yet again, but I cannot bear his torment. Nor can I bear my own. Grey has turned almost to black, and the air might as well be molasses or tar, so hard as it is to choke down. 'All beings should walk free of fear', I was taught. Oh, if only were I granted such a fine fate. |
Officially Unofficial Circus History
[An excerpt from the Officially Unofficial History of the Circus of the Last Days! that documents the last time the circus came to Baldur's Gate.] Dumpy Dumpling was the headline act, as he had been for a decade. His performance was the usual - firework farts, chicken-snapping, and his trademark pie-in-the-ear trick. The crowd laughed, and clapped but Dumpy lacked spark - his heart wasn't in it. Dumpy called for a volunteer. An unassuming man with reddish-hair and a shy smile volunteered. And then everything changed. The man commanded the stage with the sheer joy of his presence. His one-liners were lightning quick, his comebacks even more so. The crowd were enthralled, myself included, as we laughed till we cried. By the end of the show, I had forgotten I was there to see Dumpy. Lucretious, the circus' ever-charismatic leader is no fool. She saw the star this man would be, even in his rough, unpolished state. She offered him a job then and there. When he bashfully accepted, the crowd erupted in applause. I knew, even then, that I had just witnessed history. For Norris Greenie was the man's name. Or, as he would come to be better known... Dribbles the Clown. |
Observations on the Shadow Curse
[This field research on the Shadow Curse was quilled by a cleric of the God of the morning sun, Lathander. They were not particularly clever or insightful in their observations, but whatever nuance is lacking in interpretation is made up for in spades with determination. It seems with an eager and hopeful heart, the cleric set out to reach the deepest part of the cursed area to conduct an analysis, though based on these blood smeared pages near the book's end, you guess they did not get so far as they'd have liked.] |
Notes on Mind Flayer Anatomy
Insights gleaned from research: Mind flayers must consume the brains of humanoids in order to stay alive. It is said that the act of devouring a humanoid brain results in a state of euphoria and contributes to the thin glaze of mucus that coats a mind flayer’s skin. Some researchers go as far as to claim that it is possible to deduce how recently another mind flayer fed and indeed the health of its victim from the viscosity of that mucus. Little is known about what a mind flayer’s brain contains. Some have argued that their skulls are filled with eggs that will later become the tadpoles with which they enthrall their victims. Others propose that the brain is in fact a cluster of pure cerebral nerves. Since mind flayers procreate by tadpoling humanoids, they technically have no need of genitals, but I have been unable to verify this in the absence of any written record. |
Notes from a Soothsayer
[Each chapter of this book details a unique case study in the soothsayer Jeraldine Haverlowe's illustrious career. Its twenty-third chapter is conspicuously dog-eared.] Chapter 23 The Frightened Noble and the Ochre Omen Hereunder I have transcribed a conversation between myself and a young nobleman of my lifelong acquaintance. Typically he came to me for guidance in matters of love and fortune, but his visit to me on one particular occasion stands out particularly in my mind. Himself: Madam, please - what I say to you is true! Myself: Perhaps you'd be so kind as to repeat it - for the record. Himself: The fellow I met was ochre of skin, with ears like an elf and the nose of a half-rotted corpse. Markings like those on a fawn's hide decorated his skin. Myself: I see. And what did he say as he approached you in the - what was it? - misted glen upon your lands. Himself: The fellow - the creature - the man came to me slowly, a blade in his right hand. I was transfixed, as though stricken stiff by some magic. He held the sword below my chin and asked me something I could not understand. I can see it now - the blade, silver as the moon, as a the moon in a lake, beneath my chin - Myself: Calm yourself, sir. You are quite safe. You say you could not understand what the fellow said? Himself: At first, no. No, at first I knew not what tongue he spoke. But he seemed to glean my confusion and tried in Common instead. And he said, 'Tell me now - which plane is this?' It was then I lost grasp of the ghost and fainted directly to the ground. Myself: And then? Himself: And then, when I woke (I know not how much later), he was gone. And I flew to you. Myself: I understand, child. Be not frightened, for you have been visited by a most auspicious omen. Your crops will yield twice their wealth this year. Himself: Truly? But who was he? Myself: He was a figment of your inner daemon, a messenger from your deepest intuition. And he came to inform you of your impending luck. And I tell you, it was so. |
Note About the Shield of Silvam
Thanks to Gortash's Steel Watchers, it's becoming more and more difficult to have eyes on what is going on in this city. Hear me out - what if we make a play to reclaim the Shield of Silvam? If it can keep a beholder at bay, surely it can do something to get around those damned scrying eyes? |
Nocturne's Journal
[The earlier entries of this journal have been erased or heavily redacted, before settling into a normal rhythm.] I am Nocturne. I think as her. I see her when I look in the mirror. I can't remember the last time someone called me by the wrong name - Shadowheart has been swift to gently correct slips of the tongue, and even swifter in challenging those who'd use my forsworn name in malice. I'm lucky to have her as a friend. They took Shadowheart's memories again - more than they took before. But I know what to do now. I know she'll be frightened, and that she won't remember much - not even me. I can take her to our hideaway and remind her of herself. I'm getting better at it each time; I love seeing that look in her eyes when she finally remembers me. Why must the Mother Superior do this to her? Why must she grind her under heel like she does to no other? They are grooming her for a mission, and will soon take away her memories again. I need to see her again while she still remembers me. I need to tell her to stay safe, and that I'll see her again. It's been days, and no word. Shadowheart and the others could be alive or dead - even the Mother Superior does not seem to know. I'm sick with worry. I can't even bear to write any more. |
No Price Too High
Years have passed, and still she refuses to be easily moulded into what Lady Shar wishes her to be. She questions my teachings, hesitates when she should be pitiless, and longs to venture the world like some guileless animal. So often, her behaviour makes a mockery of the name she has adopted - Shadowheart. That Lady Shar believes that she shall one day become the perfect embodiment of her will makes my gorge rise. Have I not proven myself worthy? Did I not sacrifice everything in order to please the Nightsinger? I had built something great in her honour, in Waterdeep. All gone now. Those who followed me have been embraced, and I am left with honing a child of the Moon Bitch's followers in Lady Shar's right hand. I will not give up. I will remake her, or I will break her. The Nightsinger shall know who is her most loyal servant, one way or another. |
NO CAUSE FOR ALARM
[An illustration of a burning city introduces this book's frenzied summary of Elturgard's recent history.] PEOPLE OF THE SWORD COAST - THERE IS NO CAUSE FOR ALARM You have no doubt heard of the HARROWING EVENTS that befell the city of Elturel. An entire city DISPATCHED TO THE HELLS! Perhaps you have also heard the DERANGED GOSSIP and rumours that a similar CATACLYSMIC ATROCITY may befall the city of Baldur's Gate. HAVE NO FEAR The so-called Holy City of Elturel has in fact long been a FOUL PIT OF DEVIL-WORSHIPPERS. From the ruling classes to the common folk, the citizens were all TOUCHED BY THE INFERNAL. Whether it was in their BLOOD from birth or they were seduced by its power, they were EVIL TO THEIR CORE. ELTUREL INVITED ITS OWN DOOM Baldur's Gate is FAR FROM PERFECT but ANYONE who believes the ROT runs as deep as in Elturel is either MAD or an ELTURGARDIAN PROPAGANDIST. The Fists will defend our city WITH THEIR VERY LIVES if they must and I promise you that no INFERNAL CONSPIRACIES infect the MINDS AND SOULS of our noble Dukes and Patriars. A HISTORY OF CONTEMPT Have we already forgotten that before this latest MADNESS, Elturel was INFESTED WITH THE UNDEAD? Should we forget the AGGRESSIVE EXPANSION of Elturgard? They have NEVER been our friends. VIGILANCE WILL PROTECT US DO NOT BE ALARMED |
Night-Night, Pirate Ship
[This well-thumbed collection of nursery rhymes opens on a dog-eared page.] Umberlee Remembers Toss your coin on whispered prayer, Down, down, down, Spare us Sea Queen, blessed and fairr, To your depths we're dragged with care, Down, down, down. |
Needle's Points: Tips for Top Stories
Reporters, keep this pamphlet handy. Ettvard Needle's three key points on what makes a good story for Baldur's Mouth. First, does it have a hook that makes it personal - could a reader imagine it happening to them or their neighbours? Second, does it have a controversy that makes it juicy? Would just about everybody have an opinion about what happened? Third, will it have a follow-up that will sell tomorrow's broadsheet? How long can we spin this story out? Before you waste my time with another weak column, ask yourself if it answers these three questions. If it doesn't, use your wits and make something up. They aren't called 'stories' for nothing, you know. |
Necromantic Codexes, Their Enigmas
[Stamps in the endpapers indicate this book was once part of the library of the High Heralds when they occupied Moonrise Towers. The librarian's summary reads as follows.] Very old scholarly treatise about obscure necromantic tomes and codexes, their mystic and arcane locks, and how to unlock and decipher them. [At the end, the librarian appended the following note.] Urgent request from 'researcher' Ilyn Toth to borrow this book officially DENIED. Stated 'casual interest' in the notorious Necromancy of Thay is a clear warning sign that his interest is anything BUT casual. In any event, this isn't even the book he wants, that's the Tharchiate Codex. |
Myth Drannan Amphigory
[Here is a copy of Elminster's Myth Drannan Amphigory. It's a good edition, well-kept and stiff-spined. Reading an excerpt, you can see Elminster's style coming through the heavy notation scholars have added after the fact:] I attended a lecture yesterday by an elven sage about the eclipse-logic theory of magic. Sweat beaded her brow. I got the impression she was new to the pulpit and the greedy eyes of ambitious students. The eclipse-logic theory as framed by her gives the impression that a big enough personality is imbued with a kind of unique magic. Think of an eclipse, with one astral phenomenon obstructing the other, and with variant states of eclipse resulting in the abatement of light and the creation of new and interesting shadows. Transformation by encounter. Personality, this elven sage posited, is like that. On one hand she's demonstrably right. But while identifying stars she's missed the shape of the galaxy. Stepping back a moment, we see that while certain iconic people have achieved great things by magical means, the qualities we would ascribe as their personalities are not fixed, though the extent of their prowess is (if not aligned) then comparable. So while emotion holds power, and significance, the scope and weight and taxonomic signifiers of that power eludes us like the darkr side of the sun-darkening moon. |
Mysterious Moonshae
[This book gives pompous but informative insight into Moonshae Isles, an archipelago located west of the Sword Coast. One excerpt reads:] Connomae, a Queen of the swollen-muscled giants called fomorians, found her way to the Moonshae island of Oman. Along with her loyal kin, she proceeded to conquer Oman. In this author's humble opinion, the continued transgression of the Faewild (such as Connomae's incursion into our realm) is a slight upon a rational thinker's pride. The duty should fall to capable individuals to boat or fly (or swim, so long as they move) to Oman and any such fae- infested place, and rebuke this impertinence with great verve and vigour! |
My Own Deal
Ridiculous old Dizby and his portents of doom - but this time, maybe he's right. Though everything would be fine if Harfang had made me quartermaster, as I deserved, instead of giving vthe position to that old coot. But she went and did it, so when we anchored at Crone Island I slipped ashore and made my own deal. I'm a smart one, I am. |
Murder, Be My Muse
[A book of various poems attributed to Invoker Grimlark] Song of the New To grip the axe firm: a duty most kind, To hold and to hope in the heft of the blade. Know well your victim before it's unmade: Walk in its footsteps and stand in its mind. Watch it meander 'cross paths intertwined: Learn places and people, tunes yet unplayed, Then when the day's done and sun starts to fade Hold firm that true axe, and swing from behind. Now the deed's done you must run from the place Bleating and wheezing, tongue thick with the taste Savour it now, for it will not last long. Stand near a mirror, behold your own face: Bloody, new-knowing, and clean it with haste - The city awaits a new killer's song. |
Moxy's Mixology Manual
[This book is a crass but very comprehensive guide to mixing drinks. There's a huge amount of virtue placed on gin-and-whiskey based drinks, and an equally larger amount of denigration of vodka, vermouth, and rum based drinks. Also, it advises mixologists (expert and budding alike) not to identify oneself as a mixology in conversation. Say you're a bartender, the text advises, or a cocktail maker if you must. Mixologist makes you sound like a pillock.] |
Mother of Halflings
[This text is brimmed full with charming short stories concerning Yondalla, the Matriarch Protector and Sovereign Creator of the halfling species. Here is one:] Once there was a community of young pucks and prim-pretty halflings called Lurmilakes. They were none of them old yet, having only newly formed their community around being virile and strong so all could contribute to the upkeep and tidying and fixing and mending (and so on, halflings have a great many activities like that). So it was a big shock when an old woman came and asked to join the community. They told her she wasn't welcome, and when they turned her away, politely but very firmly, she went into the nearby woods. Now the Lurmilakes couldn't have known she was going to take shelter there, so don't think too badly of them. But take shelter she did. When the werewolf men who lived there came to rob the old woman, Yondalla invested the old woman with knitting needles of impeccable swiftness. She knitted the werewolf men clothes that would expand to accommodate their monthly changes, and they escorted her back to the Lurmilakes, who accepted the old woman, and who took their lumps and scoldings too from the werewolf men, not at all amused at the halflings' lack of sympathy for such a clever elder as this. |
Moonhaven Logbook
[The book is filled with pages and pages of observations, tracking travellers and people in the village. You turn to the final pages.] 26 Eleasis. Oliver Synge - merchant - arrives in Moonhaven. Departs next day. Calishite. 7 Elient. Stranger - name unknown - passes through. Not Thayan. (Rashemi?) 14 Marpenoth. Three men in black armour pass through. Not Thayan. 2 Uktar. Hackett - journeyman - passes through. Not Thayan. 30 Uktar. Raid! Black armoured soldiers. Some damage. Not Thayan, but dangerous. 14 Nightal. The book's key gem has gone missing. Familiar ordered to watch my apprentice. 14 Nightal. Synge passes through. Doesn't stop. 15 Nightal. Familiar reports apprentice disappeared near well. Will observe. 18 Nightal. Raid. Same soldiers as before. Townsfolk taken. 20 Nightal. Smoke on horizon. Raid? |
Mistress of the Night and Friends
There once was a beautiful woman. Men and women alike travelled across the land to earn her hand in marriage, but none could win her heart. Her mother despaired, for she wished for her daughter to find love and happiness. And then her mother died. The woman cried and cried. Her suitors stopped calling. Her friends stopped writing. And still she cried. 'You poor child.' Shar whispered in her ear. 'They only wanted you for your beauty. For your charm. For your grace. Now that grief has replaced your charms, none care for you. None but I.' The woman spoke to Shar, who listened. She prayed to Shar, who answered. For the first time in her life, the woman had a true friend. And then Shar asked her to take a vial. A small vial. An innocent vial. She took the vial to a man. The man filled it with a liquid and told her to drop it into a well. The woman did. She wanted Shar to love her. To be proud of her. And then people became sick. People died. But Shar loved her. And the woman loved Shar. Now men and women alike travel across the land to see her. Not because she is beautiful. Not because she is charming. But because she is a High Priestess of Shar. And her word is law. |
Mistress of Souls' Research Log
Experiments on the First One - Day Four Again, I have noted a fluid leakage from the oral cavity and have ascertained the cause. Due to the unusual method of parasitic insertion, the secretions of the creature within are leaking out, rather than being absorbed by the brain, as we have noted in other thralls. I cannot say why the parasite is evacuating this oil, but it has the scent of garlic we now know indicates it has fed on the host's brain-matter itself. I have collected a sample of ear fluid. Day Five Vivisection day today. Showed no sign of pain as I was unraveling the long intestine, but instead grabbed the organ as if it were a rope, reached to wrap it around my neck as if to strangle me. But all the strength in its poor arms is quite gone. Had to thread the guts back into the body. Will try again another day. |
Missives of Candlekeep
[A select collection of the most notable letters sent from Candlekeep. Many are dry reports of celestial movements or incomprehensible details of arcane rituals. However, this letter catches your eye.] To the Sage Elminster, Over the past year, I've delivered many of your letters to Master Gorion, so I wanted to be the one to deliver this sad news. Alas, he is with us no more. Gorion and his ward left Candlekeep soon after your last letter to him arrived. They departed in the middle of the night, but were waylaid shortly after on the road to Beregost. The Gatewarden tells me that Gorion saw to it that several of his attackers joined him in the next world before he was struck down. I hope this brings you the same grim comfort it brings me. Of his ward, there was no sign. In some better news, I received your letter to the library and was able to find much of the material you requested. It has been carefully secured and will travel with this letter. Yours in honour, Trystan P. Shale, Librarian at Candlekeep PS. I hope you'll forgive my curiosity, but might I ask - why do you need so much information about Bhaalspawn? What exactly are you working on? |
Meticulous Notes
[The tiny, ink-smudged scrawl in this notebook is squeezed in so little space as to nearly be illegible.] ... truly fascinating. My observations on the myconids mirror what I discovered while researching mind flayer telepathy, despite only one being transmittable (the spores). Both of these are of biological origin, in contrast to the telepathic bond ritual. How does innate telepathy impact the structures of the brain? And beyond that, how does the presence of another's mind within one's own affect the body? What may seem like mere thoughts and images could cause extremes of fear or pleasure if they are embedded deep enough in the recipients' psyche. If such an experience leaves behind a permanent memory, is that part of your mind still truly your own? Whatever the answer, I must harvest - gently acquire - more of the myconid spores in order to continue this research. |
Merchant's Almanac: The Trade Way
[A book advising merchants on trade routes by one Roger Highberry.] The Trade Way. So named for the rather fortuitous offerings it has in store for folk of our vocational breed. My first piece of advice - rest not on the mountaintops. This will be tempting, as the path up them will be arduous, and the path down will look steep, and the views are oh-so-stunning, but it's a fool's mistake. Rocs, bulettes, and all manner of other nasties roam these fickle peaks, and a midnight bandit ambush atop a tall drop is a terrible way to wake up. [The rest of the writing continues in a similarly ambling, but ultimately helpful manner.] |
Merchant's Almanac: The Coast Way
Now, you'd be forgiven for thinking "I've made it on the Coast Way - it's plain sailing to Baldur's Gate from here." That's where you'd be wrong, my friend. While it only spans from Bereghost to the great Gate itself, the Coast Way is more tricksy than you'd expect - and it's a prime spot for ne'er-do-wells and ruffian types to prey on understanding mercantile folk on account of the Cloak Wood's proximity. |
Memory Book
[A diary filled with anecdotes throughout a child's life, spanning twenty years.] I stubbed my toe and he laughed so hard he farted. Found a dead rat and insisted we take it home for a proper burial. Came home from school in tears because a 'rude' child scared a butterfly off a flower. |
Memoirs, Vol 1, Sister Clarwen
[This book details the path in faith of one Shirra Clarwen.] "Moving from the light" is how he always phrased it, which I thought was a bit much. "A ray of morning light dims this day," he would insist. I just can't really see it the same way. I can comfort, I can listen, I can heal - of course my talents are best suited in worship of Ilmater. I have no ill will towards the Morninglord, indeed, I think a shaft of his light will always shine in my heart. I worry, too. There's something that glimmers in Pa's eyes when he talks about the light - and it's not something I like. I alight to Baldur's Gate next tenday - to the Open Hand Temple. Maybe they'll know what ails him. |
Memoirs of My Death
[This is a memoir describing in detail the visions of Bhaal seen by Sarevok Anchev after his death in the Bhaal Temple, centuries ago.]
The brethren often ask me: what was it like to die? They expect me to present a warring conflict: the humiliation of defeat against the honour of sacrifice. But once dead, it is impossible to think of oneself, of life, for you are in Bhaal's own embrace.
Bhaal's domain is a red waste land(sic) in a starless sky, halted in time before the collapse of the final sun. There I wandered, tasting the end of all things. I was dragged back from the precipice, bound to a living husk again by my mocking sibling. I resented it at first. I had forgotten how to breathe, to eat, all the animal functions of the petty who cling to life. But when I was cruelly resurrected, my faith was bolstered more through my death that it could be through life. I would bring about Bhaal's perfect finale. The melting of the crimson sun above the lakes of blood. It will happen. This world will be carved in his image. |
Memoir Notes with Recent Addenda
Memoirs by Gortash, Outline for Chapter 4. - I reestablish worship of Bane in Baldur's Gate as a hidden cult. -I realise the secret worship of Bhaal is also on the resurgence and acquaint myself with the local leader, an actual Bhaalspawn. -The Bhaalspawn and I work together on a heist from the House of Wonders and, discovering common goals, forge an alliance. -In dreams, the Bhaalspawn and I are visited by Bhaal and Bane, who name us their Chosen and command us to seek out and ally with Ketheric Thorm, the Chosen of Myrkul. - Visiting Ketheric at Moonrise Towers, I learn of the mind flayer colony in the Underdark below and conceive a plan to conquer its elder brain using the Crown of Karsus. The Bhaalspawn and I employ a diabolist's services to gain access to Mephistar and steal the Crown. - We three Chosen use the Crown to enslave the Colony's elder brain - but during that raid, the Bhaalspawn is betrayed by the Bhaalist second-in-command, Orin the Red, who usurps the Bhaalspawn's power and declares herself Bhaal's new Chosen. - Following my master plan, the new trio brainstorms our grand hoax of the Absolute. - Note: Where to put in the Astral Prism and the adventurers who took it after its theft from Vlaakith? And when to admit considering taking them as my new allies? |
Meditations, Vol. 1, Father Lorgan
[This record, penned by Rector Yannis, consolidates various sermons of Father Lorgan, High Priest of the Open Hand Temple.] Do not, breathen, mistake the wonders of gathered society for the decrees of those atop it. It is the duty of a faithful tormented, it is your duty, to know when these decrees beget unjust suffering. It is not an easy duty, it is a duty that will scar your hands from carrying it - as it well should. [...] We must at all times recall a central fact - to suffer is not holy. To suffer is a consequence of holy duty made practice. Ilmater does not enjoy his pain, my friends, he endures it because it is just. Our own pain is an acceptable price to pay - but it is not a good in itself. Some may ask of you - if you are loved by your god, why does he allow you to suffer? Why does he allow anyone to suffer? The question is strong rhetoric, but it has an answer. One cannot be healed without first being hurt. One cannot truly know joy without knowing its absence. But to live a life full of absence, full of suffering - would be to know only one thing. We enact balance in the name of the Lord on the Rack, for it is right and it is just. |
Mastodonian Memoirs, Vol. 1, Investigator Valeria
[This lightly crumpled personal missive, parchment humming with Mount Celestia's radiance, boasts sporadically recorded entries in a hollyphant's life.] Bloody planetars. I tell them every time they deploy her: if you send someone to observe the Blood War, there's a danger they could be recruited. Every time they say it's a 'minor heresy.' Why? Zariel wouldn't be the first to fall - Lathander's light doesn't reach that far down the planes. They say crime doesn't pay around here. They say that in a world of purest good, who'd have motive to do evil? They also say the path to the Hells is paved in good intentions. So which is it? Of course they don't really know. Hypocrites, the lot of them. It's just one bloody adage after another up here. But if you ask what any of them mean? Why, who, what? No one's interested. Lulu's no help either. She's a model hollyphant (a perfect example, my superiors are quick to remind me), and she's fallen for Zariel's act - hook and all. No, it's not an act. Zariel believes what she's saying, she's just wrong. Foolish. And Lulu's a fool to believe it too. It's official. I depart for Baldur's Gate at the earliest opportunity. Spreading conspiracy, disorderly drinking (first, I didn't know there was a prohibition in place, second, if you don't want me drunk, don't send me to the Feywild! Gnomes have the best mead!) - and all the other allegations weighing against my person have tipped my reputation. Over the edge of a cloud, down to Toril. Of course, it's not phrased like that. 'Your sense of justice is needed by the mortals!' 'Baldur's Gate has a lively tavern scene!' Piss off. I know what they're really thinking. Pains in the trunk, the lot of them. Not to say 'I told you so,' but my connections tell me Zariel's broken code to intervene in the Blood War. If ONLY someone had warned them! Apparently she killed a horde of Yeenoghu's gnolls running rampant down here in Toril. Her heart's in the right place - it's a shame her sword isn't. She's too reckless to be let near the Blood War, and I reckon this is just the beginning. But alas - I've picked up a rather handy new phrase since setting up in Baldur's Gate: 'That's none of my business.' |
Masters of the Painterly Arts
[A catalogue of great painters, historically and contemporary. The spine is bent in a particular spot, and the book opens on the following page.] OSKAR FEVRAS Fevras may be best known for the calibre of his clientele, but should really be commended for his attention to detail. Each portrait illustrating the oft-elusive Baldurian patriars is rendered with exquisite accuracy - the most minute of details from the curl of a smirk to the eye's knowing glints are present in his work. Though he has garnered the reputation of a flighty dilettante, he is a young master worthy of watching, to be sure. |
Mason's Log
- How quickly things change. The Thorms are Selûnite through and through - or so I believed. Perhaps Ketheric only converted for Melodia, and with her death - and then his daughter's - his faith died too. But to turn to Shar? It beggars belief. - Ketheric's Justiciars are growing greater in number, and more determined to rout out any traces of Selûne in Reithwin. Why do they think this town was built? One cannot rip out the foundations of a building and expect it to remain standing. - Brother and I remain the last two bastions of Our Lady of Silver in the town. A few - the trusting few - come to worship in secret by moonlit nights. Others - converts, all. Whether they truly believe, I cannot say. Impossible, isn't it? - Sick of standing idle while Justiciars gain power in our humble town. What will become of us if we allow it? I met a man who was no man. Touched by a devil. Or maybe worse. But he offered me something I couldn't refuse - help. - The time is now. Ketheric's Justiciars, their stronghold in the temple below - they will be wiped out. All of them. I didn't ask how. I just want them gone. Let the Harpers have at Ketheric now. They'll make short work of him. |
Manuscript
[This book, the completed manuscript of an adventure story in draft, is covered with notes in Nansi's hand. A few red-inked phrases stand out amid the chaos.] This isn't landing. I don't buy it. Doesn't ring true. Did you mean to do it like this? Could do with another pass. Hah! Get rid of whatever this is. Good flow. All right, I buy it. Seriously? Ah... like this? No. It will be good. But it's not there yet. |
Manual of Hilaritie for the Trulie Unfunnie
A Thorough Indecks of Hilarious Topicks 1. Punnes 2. Air emitted from the southernmost Hole 3. Coincidence 4. A Funnie Face 5. Publick Houses and their Vagaries 6. Pratfalls and other Fysical Prancks 7. Funnie Little Creatures 8. The Misfortune of the Other 9. Stinck |
Mantras and Meditations of the Sun Soul
'I am the embodiment of radiant light, shining forth with the power of the Sun.' 'I walk the path of the Sun Soul, radiating love and compassion to all beings.' 'I honour the Sun as a symbol of life and creation, embracing its energy as my own.' 'With each breath, I draw in the Sun's energy, renewing my strength and resolve.' 'My inner fire burns bright, empowering me to overcome any obstacle.' 'I embrace the brilliance of the Sun, letting its rays guide my actions and decisions.' 'Through selflessness and service, I bring the light of the Sun to those in need.' 'I am a vessel of divine radiance, channeling the Sun's energy for the betterment of all.' |
Manipulations and Motivations: Sacrifice
How far might one individual go to save another? Where is the threshold of sacrifice? We separated twelve offspring of various species from their parents and established them in adjacent cells. The offspring were subjected to steadily increasing levels of physical and psychological torment. The parents were told that by pulling a lever, the torment would cease, but would result in their own deaths. All twelve pulled the lever, with test case five lasting the longest - he died around midday. |
Manifesto
[Written on leathery parchment, the document has a fetid, metallic odour...] MANIFESTO: 13 Uktar 1482. I, Orin, called the Red by the Shallar, daughter of Helena, granddaughter of Sarevok Anchev, do vow in the name of Bhaal my Lord of Murder to serve his unholy will. I shall become an Incarnation of Slaughter, and the pain and humiliation inflicted upon his temple by the ignorant masses of Baldur's Gate shall be REPAID A THOUSANDFOLD. This do I swear and attest with my own heart's blood. |
Magmar's Record
Night One Just a few sips of Slow Spout and I was perspiring piss, swear to Laduguer. It was pitch black till the mind flayer came, so real I heard its tentacles writhing. 'Strip!' it commanded, straight in my head, and my hands peeled my rags right off like they had minds of their own. 'Take it!', it said next, and held out a dagger, black with old blood. I watched as my fingers wrapped around the hilt. Then came the final command. 'Carve!' I cried out and shook my head. 'No, no no!' - and then shot straight up, sticky with sweat and caked in shit. Just a dream, Pist told me, but it didn't feel like one. More like a memory. Night Two Kept down a whole mug of it before my head hit the stone. I stood naked and shivering, my right hand gripping that grugning dagger. Couldn't move my legs even a fingerwidth, like they were case in iron. The mind flayer's claws caressed my face from behind. I screamed and shook as my own hand brought the blade to my chest and sliced across it. When my hand removed the blade, the bloody likeness of a mind flayer remained. Woke up in a flash, with Brithvar looming over. Lingering memories of our illithid enslavement, he said, from back when we were dwarf-folk. Then he gave me a good wallop for sucking down ale. 'Drink won't lead no place good', he said. But that shit sure feels good going down. |
Magical Histories, Volume 4: The Chosen of Mystra
To be the chosen of a god is to be empowered with their very essence, and to be the chosen of the goddess of magic herself is to possess unparallelled mastery amongst mortals in manipulating the Weave. Some would consider such beings to be demigods, while others would see them as servants - powerful and rare ones, for sure - but servants nonetheless. In the current age, Elminster Aumar is known to be a Chosen of Mystra. It is fitting, of course, that the finest wizard known to most would claim such a title - but was he chosen for his magical prowess, or is that prowess derived from his chosen status? Some embittered scholars claim Elminster's favour is rooted in an amorous past with Mystra herself, but this author finds such a feat to be no source of shame, if true. For a lowly mortal to seduce a goddess? Bravo, sir. One can only suppose that the bunk beds of Candlekeep twitch with dreams of repeating the act. |
Magical Histories, Volume 3: The Second Sundering
In the years following Mystra's assassination, the planes of existence were in upheaval. Lord Ao, the Hidden One, overgod of all deities and mortals, sought to rebalance what had been thrown into disarray, by renewing the Tablets of Fate - those most sacred of artefacts between order and chaos. The very portfolios of the gods were rewritten, and several who were thought lost found themselves returned to life and power. Heralded by the wizard, Elminster Aumar, Mystra found her magic restored, and portfolio returned to her. Once again, the rightful goddess of magic found herself to be custodian of the Weave. |
Magical Histories, Volume 2: The Spellplague
In the infamous, calamitous year of 1385 DR, a conspiracy between the goddess of darkness, Shar, and the god of trickery, Cyric, sought to end Mystra's control over the Weave and influence over the realms by cravenly assassinating her. But instead of merely breaking the goddess of magic's dominance, her death threw the Weave into utter chaos and collapse. Magic spells faltered, or failed entirely. Countless spellcasters were killed or driven insane. A vast storm of blue flame arose from the Mhair jungles and swept the continent, churning and reshaping the land, and leaving whole regions devastated. For the murder of Mystra, Cyric was sentenced by a conclave of gods to a thousand years imprisonment. Toril would face nearly a hundred years of upheaval before Mystra could return once again, reinstated as goddess of magic in 1480 DR, thanks to the efforts of the legendary wizard, Elminster Aumar and the events of the Second Sundering, to be fully explored in the next volume... |
Magical Histories, Volume 1: The Origins of Mystra
To know of Mystra, the goddess of magic, we must first consider her earlier incarnations, beginning with Mystryl. The Lady of Mysteries was said to have come into existence during a conflict between the goddesses Shar and Selûne. In their efforts to best one another, the twin sisters of darkness and light inadvertently forged a portion of their opposing energies into a new being of pure magic - Mystryl. As an embodiment of magic, Mystryl laid claim to unparalleled control over the Weave - the very fabric by which magic could be channeled and harnessed - for it was but an extension of her being. For her, to use magic was as natural as it would be for another to draw a breath or curl their finger. It was in -339 DR that Mystryl gave way to Mystra, when the former had her powers seized by Karsus - a Netherese lord, and perhaps the most powerful and ambitious wizard to have ever lived. Yet Mystryl sought to deny him his ill-gotten prize - sacrificing herself so that for a moment, the Weave faltered, and all magic briefly ceased. Karsus's Folly brought about the destruction of Netheril and the end of his ambition. Yet the Weave would not go unattended for long. Within moments, the goddess of magic was reborn, as Mystra. |
Magic of the Weave - An Introduction
Few try to understand the Weave - a true pity, for only they who are truly attuned to the Weave can rightly call themselves spellcasters. Thus comes the question: What is the Weave? It is an essential element of the universe. It runs through everything in unseen threads. It is what makes magic possible. It is also, though I will not go into further detail here, the goddess Mystra herself. (See Magic of the Weave - Mystra and the Spellplague). The Weave isn't magic, precisely. Rather, it is the raw material from which magic is woven, not entirely unlike how a collection of threads is shaped and formed into a garment. Those with the necessary talent and skill can manipulate the Weave and perform magic by casting spells. Developing this skill takes years of learning and constant practice. You might have heard of those who can cast spells because they are born with an innate connection to the Weave (commonly called Sorcerers), or worse, because they struck a bargain with an otherworldy creature (also known as Warlocks). Do not be deceived. Their magic is unpredictable, uncontrolled, and in some cases, not even rightfully theirs. No, to truly know and manipulate the Weave is an Art. But those Wizards who master it will know the limitless power and beauty the Weave provides. |
Maggie's Recipe for Perfect Cookies
[A lovingly preserved cookie recipe scrawled in a child's handwriting.] Best cukies by Maggie age 6 Ingrediant butter shugar egg flower chokluts 1. mix ingredients 2. make cukie shapes 3. put cukies in stowve 4. yum yum yum! |
Madeline's Ledger
[The words 'For the Attention of Dark Justiciar Netasha' are written across the top of every page. This is an excerpt from the last page.] Morning, day fifteen: Szymon Nowak. Said Ketheric wouldn't "hold onto Moonrise Towers for long at this rate." Evening, day eighteen: Imanni Aatakni. Claimed it was unfair that the Thorms had "the cushiest jobs." Night, day twenty-two: Marc Jacobs. Benjamin Blanchet. Made jokes about the Thorms, especially Lord Ketheric. Said he was a "misery guts", a "weeping nutsack", and discussed exactly how his wife would have "liked it." I know what Marc and Ben said was just plain awful, Lady Netasha, but they're some of my best friends, and I've never heard such talk out of them. They were upset over their wages being cut, and were the drunkest I'd ever seen by midnight. I know it looks bad, but hand over heart, you've never met two gents more devoted to our Lady - I swear it. [A different, more elegant script appears beneath it.] Our Lady of Loss would be proud of you, Madeline. Do not worry about Marc and Benjamin. Myself, and your two 'gents' are simply going to have a little chat. I promise. |
Lunar Dark Lies
[This scroll is filled with soothing, persuasive arguments, encouraging the sick-at-heart to turn themselves from Sehanine worship. The Moonmaiden, as the Goddess is called, will whisper naught but lies. No problems solved. Only a sense of fondness that is as cold as the lunar marina, seas of empty pale dust, and even that gradually fading for the worshiper. As an alternative, the scroll speaks of Shar, who whispers only truth. Her fondness is warm, unexpectedly so for a Goddess of darkness, grief, and nihilism. But why should that be unexpected? The sick-at-heart will find only succor and blessings in the embrace of She who understands them best.] |
Lower City and Upper City
[A guidebook written to assist newcomers in grasping the separation of the Upper and Lower parts of the city of Baldur's Gate. It describes the Upper section as the home of the Patriars, who are city's nobility caste. It is well-patrolled, and its immense wealth shows itself through wide well-lit streets shining proudly on buildings of elaborate and elegant decoration. By contrast, the Lower section of the city is a tangle of narrow streets, compact buildings, patrolled not by many guards, but a cornucopia of merchants, craftspeople, chancers, dancers, fools, fabulous vagabonds, cutpurses, young men and women of negotiable affection, barkeeps, beggars, knights and knaves.] |
Logbook XII: 1371
[This hefty book is labelled '1371' and stamped with an elegant stag against a dark green background.] 6 Uktar: Sent two druids, some of the newer recruits, up north. Village there has had two years of failed crops and are unlikely to survive the next winter. 9 Uktar: A group from Baldur's Gate arrived. They've set up camp on the edge of the forest. Two bears and a fox came by. Their territory has been burned out. Half the fox's cubs died. Paying this new group a visit tomorrow. 10 Uktar: Visit did not go well. After telling me where to shove it, they said they'd cut down half the forest and burn out any wildlife that dared to stick around. Claimed they were going to 'farm the land and make a new city of their own.' Time to get creative. 12 Uktar: Mudslide did the trick. Buried half their farming equipment and made the rest useless. They won't be back any time soon. Got reports of a Red Wizard in the village south of here. Sending three rangers to investigate. If they catch even a whiff of a red cloak, I'm contacting the House of Silvanus. |
Logbook of Sendings
[Marked as reference material for the temple archive, this logbook contains transcripts of magical sendings from the temple to the depths below. This record seems to be an exchange dating from near the temple's foundation.] Jarrus—enough foolishness. A new temple with settlers to guide, and you'd rather scrabble in the dark below? We're clerics of Selûne - act like it. - M Morna—the Lady lights the way. What is this Underdark but a path her Light hasn't touched yet? Come: we can debate theology in the new chapel. - J New chapel?! Those materials were meant for the temple proper, not your playground down there. What am I to tell the House of the Moon? Tell them to start packing! There are caverns down here to dwarf the Inner Cathedral. The builders are almost done, and so we go deeper. Enough, Initiate! The Underdark is no place for games. Those are novices with you, not Silverstars. Return. Immediately. Initiate, don't ignore me. I know you took ample components for a sending. Respond. Jarrus—Respond. M—Fortified what we can, but wards won't last. Seal the tunnel, and do not follow. You were right. This place belongs to them. Jarrus—Hold fast. Whatever it is, I'm sending reinforcements. Just hold on. No. No more death. Ordered novices to collapse tunnel. You'd be proud of them. Forgive me—we only meant to spread her Light. - Jarrus, High Initiate in the Lady's Light |
Log of Visitors to Rosymorn Monastery
[A list of names, documenting all visitors who came to Rosymorn Monastery on a pilgrimage, year by year, ending on the year the monastery fell.] |
Lo! A Most Joyous Sensation!
For the Eyes of Father Sormal of the Open Hand Temple ONLY Field Report - Bentan the Devout - Marpenoth 12 - 1368DR Today, a roughshod group of adventuring sorts happened upon my little patch of Firewine Bridge, so I naturally espoused the benefits of our shattered saint unto them. Can you conceive of what they said to me, Archsuffer? After I had warned them of the evils of the most perverted of magics, this group of degenerates claimed to house sorcerers. Sorcerers! They would not heed my warnings about this degenerate magic, nor would they cast off all earthly belongings and join our flock! The feeling in the pit of my stomach as they cast pitying eyes across my pathetic form... What exquisite, holy suffering. |
Life of Beaky
The pigeons in service of the communicators of this city deserve far more renown than that which is afforded to them. Take Beaky, for example - a pigeon, aged ten, a great-great-great grandfather, and a noble upholder of his tremendous duties. Orange of beak and charcoal of wing, rare is the Baldurian who has not glimpsed the flash of his wing darting hither and fro across our fair city. Beaky has carried Duke's writs, marriage announcements, emergency notices, and more with nary a complaint from his coo-ing beak. Who among us can claim a more stalwart dedication to so important a profession? |
Level Up Your Life
Life going down the latrine? Wondering why nobody likes you? Losing out on love? Wondering what's wrong with you? The short answer is: NOTHING. You're just lacking a little charisma! It's a common misconception that charisma is something you're born with. The truth is, charisma can be learned, and by purchasing this book, you've just taken the first step on the path of becoming the best version of YOU. |
Lessons of Helm
[In this text you come across the bull-necked, hard-spined doctrines of the God Helm as transcribed and interpreted by a Paladin called Thou Shalt Not Suffer The Doom Herring To Live O'Reilly. He chose that name after being convinced that the Xanathar organisation was not led by a many-eyed beholder monster, but by something called a doom herring. The doctrines are the usual religious fare, only mildly distinguished by Helm's focus on the provision of protection to those who need it, forming a shield of steel as well as sympathy for the meek and downtrodden.] |
Lessons from the Boiler
[An ancient selection of correspondence between two members of the Flaming Fist about the installation of a machine called 'The Boiler' atop Wyrm's Rock.] Gauntlet Dee, Our generous patriar benefactors have delivered unto us 'The Boiler' - state of the art defence technology already implemented in some Upper City estates. It boils lots of oil and then tips it out - fairly self-explanatory. Attached are instructions regarding its installation and maintenance. See to its quick and seamless installation. - Blaze Leo Leo, You must fucking kidding me. Have you SEEN the size of this thing? Just because you got the promotion instead of me, doesn't mean you can task me with impossible nonsense. Yours in abject disbelief, Gauntlet Dee You appear to have confused my missive for a request. Put the damned cauldron atop the damned fortress, and don't write me back until you have. To my most esteemed commanding officer, Does our wartime reparations policy cover grevious oil burns? Asking for a friend. - Dee No. It does not. [The correspondence ends here.] |
Lessons for Sensible Living XII: Zariel's Fall
[The foreword to this brief account of Zariel's fall captures the tone of the entire text.] Greetings, Sensible Folk. Already, I can detect grumbling and the agitated rattle of pipe-stem against teeth. 'A Lesson dedicated to an Archduke of Avernus? Has Harrington taken leave of his senses?' Quiet your complaints - I assure you I have not. It is true that cosmic occurrences are often Insensible by their very nature, but the tale of Zariel strikes close to home. In her downfall, you will be reminded of those haughty, do-gooding neighbours and acquaintances who rightfully arouse your suspicions. One moment they are suggesting you grow turnips rather than potatoes on that fallow patch, and the next they have their kitchen knife strapped to their belt and are suggesting you explore the abandoned crypt behind the Giles' farm. In short, Zariel was a celestial being tasked with monitoring the ebb and flow of the Blood War (of which more in Volume XXI: Matters of Little Importance to Sensible Folk). Observing was not righteous enough for Zariel though and she took it upon herself to become directly involved. Like the oaf who sees two fellows fighting over a spilled tankard of ale and, rather than applauding their efforts, cracks their skulls together and causes a tavern-wide brawl. She invaded Avernus, was defeated, and now rules there, corrupt and wicked. What can Sensible Folk learn from this foolish tale? It is obvious! Do not strive to correct what cannot be corrected. Look not to distant lands and conflicts, but to your fields, your family and your friends. There is nothing but misery to be gained from interfering in the hardships of others. Harrington Nethalin |
Lessons for Sensible Living IV: Cities and How to Survive Them
[The first page summarises the contents. The remaining pages clumsily elaborate on them in great detail.] I. On Not Going to Cities. The simplest piece of advice for Sensible Folk is to avoid cities entirely. II. On Marketplaces. People often tell me - 'Harrington, my fleeces and turnips are worth more in a city market than at the local village fayre.' Fools. To them I say, your fleeces and turnips will be robbed long before you reach the market square, and you will have only a few lumps and bruises to take home. III. On Taverns. All Sensible Folk enjoy draining a mug of locally produced ale in the company of their friends, but some of you may have heard tell of the extravagant taverns that populate the cities of the Sword Coast. If bawdy names like The Blushing Mermaid and The Wizard's Stave were not sufficient warning of their impropriety, let it be known that you will be robbed long before you finish your first tankard, and will have only a few lumps and bruises for company. IV. On Sewerage. Belike you keep a pot by your bedside and cast out the leavings into a communal pit of a morn. Sensible and cleanly behaviour. Many cities have dispensed with such simple methods of hygienic living, and instead the waste of the inhabitants comingles and flows through great channels beneath the very streets. A breeding ground for mucky creatures. V. On Becoming Lost. Cities are far too large and you will become lost almost immediately. A fellow once told me that Baldur's Gate is actually three cities in one - an outer, an inner, and an upper. I believe he thought I'd be impressed, but I simply spat in his eye and sent him on his way. |
Lesser Oil of Sharpness Recipe
Today I snapped at a good friend of mine in the Elfsong. I'm embarrassed about it now. Not then. This prickly mood had come over me, because for the first time in ages I was thinking hard about my condition. The friction of cloth on my scaleless, malformed flesh has escalated into a sharp tug. Can't get that word out of my head. shhhhhaaaaaarrrrp. Ended up scribbling a tried-and-tested oil formula, just to busy my throbbing hands. Reading it over, I grin, which hurts almost as much as writing. Stir Salts of Viridian Crystal into any Vitriol, and you will produce an oil good for putting on weapons, making their edge keener. The oil is called Lesser Oil of Sharpness. Never was good at naming alchemical products. Not exactly imaginative. Well, to hell with it. Holding my hot chocolate, one of the few comforts I've got now, in the scratching, numbing, pinching, peeling, maddening ache of the everyday. |
Leon's Diary
[Diary of Leon Onufrio] [Final Page] Ever since the master Turned me and forced me to bring Victoria along into the palace, I've had to be his best hunter just so I could stay in here with my daughter and keep her away from the other spawn. I don't like the way Violet looks at her, not at all! When I ask the master what he plans to do with Victoria, Cazador just gives me that wicked smile. Next time I get out on a hunt, must talk Figaro to finalise the deal for Victoria's escape disguise. If only there's enough time before the 'ritual' the master talks about! |
Ledger: Blood Donors
Cazador's finest - When you're on the hunt, take prey by preference from the city's lower classes. Patriars may smell better, but it will attract unwanted attention if too many aristocrats vanish when they're out slumming. In the last month you already brought in a Dlusker, a Jhasso, and an Oathoon, and now three wealthy families are up in the arms. Watch it. -Chamberlain Dufay |
Ledger of Production: Explosives
GOODS DELIVERED: - Steel Watch Foundry - Rivington's Toymaker - Wyrm's Rock Fortress Payment on delivery. Restock scheduled for two tendays hence. |
Leather-Bound Book
This book has all but crumbled to dust, making it impossible to read. |
Last Notes of a Monk
To whom it may concern, if this is found, this is the journal of Brother Wellan, novice of Lathander, documenting the githyanki attack on Rosymorn Monastery for posterity. The githyanki launched their attack at dawn. A few of us managed to barricade
ourselves in a room, and summoned a Guardian of Faith to protect us, or at least buy us time to figure out what to do to get out of here. No ideas yet, but we have faith. Lathander will preserve us in our time of need. The githyanki seem to have backed off - Morninglord be blessed! They haven't hammered on the door fora while now, but it’s hard to say if they've given up their attack altogether. Need to wait it out to see. I knew it was too good to be true... A githyanki managed to make its way through the window! Fortunately, the Guardian of Faith took care of it, but I'm sure that others will come. Still, that smashed window is giving me an idea of an escape plan... Still trapped. Just heard a roar. I think it might be dragon. If it is [The rest of the journal has been burned away.] |
Larethian
[The introduction to Larethian by Palmer Junisugga reads:] It is no exaggeration to say that Corellon Larethian is the primary figure in the pantheon of elves. It is said that his tears mingled with those of Sehanine Moonbow actually created elves[sic]. As in all myths the physiological reverse oblation (God gives to his people) is interesting. The elven people are not formed from Corellon's hip bone, his throat, his testicles. Instead they arise from an expression of sorrow. Some scholars frame them, then, as an antidote to his pain (Corellon was, at the time, experiencing loss and feelings of betrayal). More traditional thinking (and here I quote the elven sage Aephir Loquellan) places elves, 'as sad as a species can be.' This rings truer for me. Life, after all, deposits its fair share of difficulties on those burdened with living it, and elves endure a long, long time... |
Lady Jannath's Journal
Kythorn 13 Where is Oskar? He promised to be gone no more than an hour, yet gateclose has come and gone and still he hasn't returned. I shouldn't fret. No doubt he's caught up in sketching in the eventide light. I'll make sure Mnemonis has the candles lit for his return. Kythorn 14 Still no sign of Oskar. Perhaps this is the 'artistic temperament' Mother warned me about. Oskar would never leave me without a word. Something must have happened. I'll ask Mnemonis to look into it. Quietly. Kythorn 18
He's been gone five days now, and Mnemonis found no trace. Gods, I hope no ill fate has befallen him. Perhaps a donation to the Flaming Fist will encourage them to treat the matter with the appropriate urgency. |
Lacie and the Modrons
[A tale crafted by the Sisters Macabre. In it, we follow Lacie Youngerplum as she is drawn from a chaotic and frightening party in which her parents get too drunk into the clockwork realm of Mechanus. Mechanus is an orderly place, totally different from the party. she's escaped The little Youngerplum traverses this realm of sublimely singular Law (with a capital 'L' indeed), befriending a chubby spherical monodrone she names Mister Bobbinbees, and making an enemy of Primus, the master of Mechanus.] |
Kozakuran Dictionary
[The book is a dictionary of the ancient Kozakuran language, from the distant land of Kara-Tur. Flipping through the pages, you find certain words and phrases underlined - "Open", "Enter", "Beware", "Forbidden", "Sealed".] |
Kobold Journal
[A collection of drawings, some cruder than others. Most of them feature kobolds in varying degrees of nakedness, some performing sexual acts on themselves, and some on each other. The final pages, however, feature more varied subjects: a soaring red dragon, githyanki of various ages, and surprisingly detailed depictions of wine bottles.] |
Judge of the Damned
[An excerpt from the book in which Iphigen Mohgros discusses the strange theistic history of mortals becoming gods.] There have been many Lords of Death who cast judgement upon souls lost and found alike. Among them was Kelemvor, a hard man of harder convictions. As a mortal man he was a mercenary with a paladin's stoic beliefs hidden under a crust of scowls and grumbles. As Lord of Death, he was forced to mellow both aspects of himself, for the impulses of a man and a god are not consummate. Mortals are allowed caprice, but immortality wears that stone smooth quickly, and Kelemvor chose cool prudence over cold malice. |
Journey Through The Jungle
The sun had just fallen below the horizon when I first heard its call - a thousand reed pipes at once, whistling a single beautiful, terrible song. 'Uluu Thalongh', said Jaw. 'It's coming.' Jaw dropped her pack and scurried up the nearest bytter. With a bit more effort, I climbed a tree of my own, and the two of us surveyed the grassy ground beneath. Ah-wooo! There it was again, above and beneath and all around, so close my skull vibrated from the sound. The ferns and foliage under me rippled and swayed. Jaw held a finger to her lips to demand my silence - and in one motion, it snatched her. A vine? A tentacle? It hardly mattered: the hunter had found its prey. Jaw's screams swelled, then faded as Uluu Thalongh dragged her away. I leapt down to give chase, but the creature left no mark behind - the grasses were untrampled, the shrubs unbroken. I had only the memory of that harrowing call to guide me. |
Journal of Magthew Budj
I remember our life as country surgeons back in Nashkel—we only ever wanted to be the best. To learn how to staunch any mortal wound. How did we get here? Kressa hasn't been herself since her pet True Soul was shipped out on that Nautiloid. I haven't been able to so much as touch her, I find myself growing green at the thought. My own wife revolts me with those experiments. Not really my wife any longer. I thought that getting that favourite creature dispatched would bring her back to herself, but she pines for that damned feral corpse with aching need. If she finds out I ratted out to Balthazar that she was keeping it, and got it sent away, she might kill me. |
Journal of High Initiate Jarrus
It always felt vainglorious, to think my deeds worthy of a personal journal. But as I watch the drow mass outside our gate, I realise my arrogance is already of a far costlier sort. I see no harm in tipping the scales a little further. Not for me, but for those who followed me down into the dark. They deserve to be remembered. - Initiate Norn Remys, lost in the deep tunnels as we fell back from the drow. - Initiate Thulk of the Northern Wastes, grazed by an arrow and succumbed to poison. - Initiate Bree Brekka, who stood against a drider with only her mason's hammer. And Initiates they are, the entire company - for they have seen and suffered too much to be called novices. ———— We've collapsed the tunnel behind, and have made ready to open the gate. Perhaps we can carve a path through. And if not, I enclose a list of names - let the annals show that whatever their end, the cause was the same: one High Initiate Jarrus wished to stamp his name in the history of his Church. He sought to forge a path through the darkness, not realising there are some places the light was never meant to touch. He was a fool. |
Journal of Gyldro Angleiron
It's been almost fifteen years since I bought this forge from old Gossoon, and in that time I thought I'd seen everything, but I was wrong. The scimitar that Rivington Rat brought in yesterday is the third weapon made of infernal iron I've purchased in the last month - the only infernal weapons I've seen since I've been here! Of course, I sold them all pronto, probably getting less than I might have if I was willing to sit on them for a while, but that's something I am NOT willing to do. Mama Angleiron didn't raise any fools. But still, I have to wonder: Where are these diabolic weapons coming from? |
Journal of Enver Gortash
I knew it would be risky to give one of the netherstones to that loose catapult Orin, but when I look in her eyes I feel something, though I'm not sure what to call it - and after all, what's the point of a grand alliance of the Dead Three without old Bhaal? I thought I could depend on that aged stump Ketheric, however, it never even occurred to me he could be brought down by a random collection of shabby adventurers. Obviously, possession of the Weapon was the key element, but do the vagabonds possess the Weapon, or does the Weapon possess them? It's just as the great sages say: a plan will take you only so far, and then you have to fall back on principles. And inasmuch[sic] as control is the guiding principle of the committed Banite, it's axiomatic that I must be in control of all three netherstones. The solution is obvious - pit the vagabonds against the loose catapult, and once they bring me the other two netherstones, we'll find suitable positions for them in the new order to follow. Not the illithids' Grand Design, of course, but the Golden Reign of Gortash. Yes, that has a nice ring to it. Then we shall deal with our naughty Absolute brain and its growing propensity to throw petulant psionic tantrums. It's no accident that I chose to place it in a domed cavern beneath the Upper City - the location is perfectly formed to concentrate the psychic force of the netherstones, concentrate it to such a degree that not even our Netherese-enhanced brain will be able to resist my commands. Once I control all three netherstones, naturally, and the sooner the better. |
Journal Log of True Soul Korliss
Journal Log of True Soul Korliss: Day Four. Scouting mission dispatched by Ketheric Thorm to Shadowlands. Objective: Locate nest of Absolute non-believers. Reached outskirts of village. Disturbing sounds echo throughout the shadows. Must evade pursuit. Preparing to create a light barrier for protection against lurking monsters and deadly darkness. May the Absolute guide me. |
Journal
[This old diary contains thousands of short entries describing the writer's doings in short, factual sentences. One entry catches your eye.] It was introduced to me as 'the Emperor'. Surprising. But its information was good; its ideas, brilliant. I'll not turn up my nose. A boon to the Knights, I think. |
Jhessem's Journal
[A stunningly-rendererd doodle of a young elven girl sitting on a throne. Faint eraser marks indicate that her crown got more jewelled and elaborate with every iteration.] 'Queen Jhessem I of Tethyr, ruling over the lands of ??? [look up Tethyr] |
Jake's Encyclopaedia of Eels
Foreword: 'No one wants to read about eels', eh? You stuck-up Candlekeep gits can keep your books on 'magic' and 'demons' and 'celestial bodies'. People are practical folk and they want to read practical things. Can't make a pie outta stars, can you? No. Eels is important. Right. Let's get one thing straight: giant lightning eels? Not technically eels. They look like 'em, sure, and everyone calls 'em eels, but the shape of the head? The bone structure? You can't tell me that's the same as a Giant Moray. Now, where can you catch eels? Bloody everywhere! From Neverwinter to Elturel to Calimport - you can find an eel. But where do they breed? And how? Well, you probably heard the stories that they're just snakes that learned to swim, or they're baby leviathans, or they're Underdark spies, but that's all bunkum. They breed in the Sea of Moonshae, I'm sure, and then swim all over Faerûn. And if those pricks in Candlekeep'd give me the money to sail there, I'd be able to prove it! But no. They're too busy studying demon puzzle boxes and mumbling 'bout whatever Alaundo said years ago. Bet Al couldn't tie a good fishing knot for nothing... [The book carries on like this for several pages, before finally returning to the topic of eels.] |
Subsets and Splits