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[tale-chaser]

The Black Mysteries - Part Three

Members of the Order of the Black Flame seldom advertise their presence or reveal their identities. 

They learn that the unknown always induces more fear than the known, and through uncertainty they can leave would-be foes at a loss to know how best to act against the Order. ("A confused foe is a weak foe.")

Wherefore the written Black Flame symbols are all most nonmembers ever see of the Order until kukris come stabbing at them in the dark.

Larbran is the only symbol members of the Order ever willingly share with nonmembers. It resembles three dark, filled-in, elongated triangles arranged so the longest one is vertical, point uppermost, and the other two (the same size as each other, and a third the length of the long one) jut out from the base of the long triangle at forty-five-degree angles, points outermost. Larbran means "The Order can be contacted, or messages left for it or received from it, here."

Muzmyr ("MUZZ-meer") looks like a capital letter "E" of modern written English, laid on its back and with a round circle projecting from the "back" or "bottom" of the middle arm of the three arms of an E. It means "Cache of the Order here."

Urude ("OO-rood") resembles a stretched (widened) capital letter "N" of modern written English, with a hollow circle attached to each of its ends. Urude means "Friend of the Order lives here." If two urude are drawn, one "atop" the other with circles touching, they mean "A member of the Order lives here."

Zaerel ("ZAIR-el") looks like a drawing of a single human eye with an "X" where the pupil should be. Zaerel means "This is the place" ("for the mission," which usually really tells Order members "this is the dwelling of the person you're assigned to slay"). If three zaerel are drawn in a line so that their pointed ends are touching, it instead means "Just here is the danger/hidden thing you were warned about." If a zaerel is drawn with lines extending from the pointed ends of the "eye," those lines mark the boundary of some peril (such a ward-spell or baneful magic).

Black Names

Members of the Order of the Black Flame often make use of a common pool of false names when referring to each other. These aren't obvious code-names like "Ember" or "Falcon," but rather personal names, used and re-used so that the work of many agents, over the years, will seem to be the work of one entity. They do this in part to build up the "long-lived, deadly, indestructible" reputation of the Order, and in part to conceal members' true identities.

These "black names" are known to include Baerem Windtooth, Hindul Ahrnstone, Mevvur Iliphond, Durlar Meleer, Orsarrin Mulkth, and Rospur Eldree.

Watchwords

Like any secretive organization, the Order of the Black Flame makes use of recognition words and pass-phrases by which members can know each other, particularly when encountering each other in the dark, or conversing in crowds when to speak plainly would be to reveal too much. These change from time to time, when they suspect outsiders may have learned some of them, but the following are watchwords known to have been valid recently. Recognition words are usually uncommon words of speech slipped into apparently innocent conversations (and answered with other recognition words, to make sure a nonmember hasn't unwittingly used an Order word). Pass-phrases are always answered by other pass-phrases, in a trading-wise-quotations dialogue sometimes "set up" by a phrase like: "Wise sages have said that . . ." or "An old bard once told me . . ."

Recognition Words:

avauntance (boasting) dadacky (decayed or rotten) indubitably lambent meynd (mixed, mingled) smur (light misty rain) teeled (buried)

Pass-phrases:

"Behold a light where there is no brightness." "Black is the devourer." "Dread is the mark of wisdom." "Good is the night that holds both flame and fang." "In darkness, seek a bright flame." "No word is sharper than a whisper." "One lord over bright and dark." "Triumph is a black burning." "Truth is a dark thing."

Oaths of the Order

Members of the Order utter two sorts of oaths: formal "swearings-by" and curses (emotional swearing).

Here are some known formal Black Flame oaths:

"By the flame that dieth not." "Firelord forfend." "Steel within and flame the shroud." Curses used by Order members include the following: "Ashes!" "Bloodflame!" "Burn me!" "Douse all!" "Mark of the god!" "Quench!"

[tale-chaser]

The Black Mysteries - Part Two

First, take a look at thaebra and maeraede.

Thaebra: Thaebra ("THAY-bruh") is a dark blue, sticky paste that glistens when smeared onto a surface, but soon dries and hardens. Despite its blue color, Thaebra doesn't leave a stain. To make it, one boils the roots of certain plants found in the Shaar and adjoining lands (a tall, broadleaf grass; a small bright yellow ground-flower; and a tumbleweed, though precisely which ones are closely-guarded secrets) together in the same cauldron, stirring constantly.

Hardened thaebra is very like dried hummus or badly set plaster, and it can be scraped or rubbed off flexible surfaces such as cloth and flesh. Heat, flame, and impacts do nothing to ignite it -- you must drop maeraede oil on it (see Thaebra-Maeraede Firebirth Alchemical).

Merchants sometimes sell thaebra as a cosmetic because if smeared on skin, left for the better part of a day, and then removed, it takes most dyes and stains with it. It can also bleach to white any known hair, of any hue, when washed in water that contains as much powdered thaebra as will fill a fairly small human palm. Thaebra usually costs 8 gp for a small, palm-sized pot (4 ounces). This price can double easily if both buyer and seller know of the combined combustible qualities of thaebra and maeraede (see maeraede), and the buyer reveals any urgency of need.

Maeraede: Maeraede ("may-urr-AE-dd") oil, a brownish-orange, translucent, odorless distillate of the leaves of a swamp-weed found in the coastlands of the Inner Sea, is usually sold as a purgative. In most mammals even as little as four drops taken orally causes immediate and violent vomiting and diarrhea, accompanied by debilitating cramps that seldom last more than 3 rounds (DC 25 Fort save to avoid; failure means the creature is nauseated for 1d4 rounds). This unpleasantness always swiftly ends the effects of light drunkenness, and often entirely expels poisons, parasites, and food taints from a mammal.

Thaebra-Maeraede Firebirth Alchemical: A mere sprinkling (three or more drops) of maeraede oil on thaebra causes a hot white flame to instantly arise. If the thaebra has been applied to wood or cloth, it sets such substances alight in unless water or other oils are splashed on its flame, which extinguishes that patch of thaebra forever. A thaebra fire causes an intense sensation of heat but no actual damage at first, but ignited in contact with flesh (or clothes directly worn by a creature), with the flames persisting for as many rounds as there is thaebra to feed them. A smear of thaebra that weighs a quarter pound is about as large as a modern hamburger patty and will burn for 2 rounds. Each additional quarter pound extends the burning time 1 round, but doesn't generate any more heat.

Ardrent: Ardrent ("AR-drent") is a purple-brown powder derived from ground-up "leap-bugs" (locustlike hopping insects all too common in lands around the Shining Sea) and is usually sold in 1-pound "handsacks" for 1 cp. Nothing likes to eat it, and it resists molds and rotting.

Osbra: Osbra ("OZ-brah") is the dried, powdered form of the bitter, swift-to-rot tuber known as the tlardra ("Tuh-LAR-druh"). This mauve-skinned, "crooked sausage"-shaped shallow wild plant grows in lands south of the Lake of Steam. Humans consider it inedible but sometimes feed it to pigs and captive snakes, who seem to find it very nourishing. Tlardras rarely fetch more than 1 cp/lb., but osbra (which is sometimes used as a long-lasting, "fast" mauve dye in garment-making) is usually sold in carved wooden "slide-top" flat coffers that hold 4 ounces, for 1 sp/coffer.

Ardrent-Osbra Firebirth Alchemical: Since both ardrent and osbra are found in powdered form, peddlers easily hide them among the vials of spices they offer for sale. The two powders ignite only when mixed together (at least 1 ounce of ardrent, but only a between-the-fingers pinch of osbra is required) and the mixture is then moistened with the spittle of any mammal (human saliva is most commonly used).

An ardrent mix smolder,during which it gives off smoke, due to a reaction with the air around it and not actual combustion, and then flares up. If water or cold is applied to the mix at any time the mix becomes inert and can never ignite. In the 3rd and 4th rounds, the mix deals living creatures in direct contact with it 2d4 points damage. Except when in contact with warm, dry material that readily ignites, ardrent-mix fires rarely spread or persist, so such mixes can burn holes, run along seams, and the like.

Many other, rarer alchemicals are known, but Order members and other clergy of Kossuth try to keep all details of them secret. Observations confirm that many of these are powders that can be thrown into existing fire sources (such as lit braziers in temples to the Firelord) to produce specific effects, most often fierce, short-lived jets of flames that gout in particular directions.

Black Flame Symbols

The Order of the Black Flame uses a few nonmagical designs as markers so that they can silently impart information. These symbols seldom change, but a ring of dots (some doubled or trebled) often surround them. These dots have meanings that do change -- and are widely suspected to tell Order members that the symbol they encircle is false, or has an additional or altered meaning.

Black Flame symbols are usually drawn on doors, sometimes in cobrascale ink, which is invisible except when heated by a torch, whereupon it flares into coppery orange brightness, only to fade the moment the heat source is withdrawn. 

The true formula of cobrascale ink is a secret known only to certain families in the Thayan tharch of Priador (and, of course, their ruling zulkir) and may have nothing at all to do with cobra scales.

[tale-chaser]

The Black Mysteries - Part One

As the trading tentacles of Thay spread across Faerûn, so do rumors and gossip about the Land of the Red Wizards. Some of the most energetic whisperings concern the Order of the Black Flame, since shopkeepers and crafters chilled by the sneering menace of the nearest haughty Red Wizard find it comforting to know there are folk even Red Wizards fear.

Some wealthy merchants raise thoughtful eyebrows upon hearing that this mysterious Order seems to go looking for faults in even the mightiest zulkirs -- but only when asked to do so by persons making substantial donations to the glory of Kossuth.

Wherefore the time has come to impart more than rumors about the Order of the Black Flame. 

Let it be said first that the belief that a member of the Order of the Black Flame must bear a black flame-shaped tattoo (or preferably a brand) somewhere on their bodies is just a pretty tale, not the truth. Some Black Flame zealots have chosen to have themselves so branded as a mark of piety, but by no means does the Order require it and neither do members make it a popular practice.

Order members are required to make every effort to have on their persons one of three things at all times: a kukri (the curved knife of the Order), or a flame-hued garment, or a means of making fire (such as a flint and a steel striker, a vial of flammable oil, tindertwig, alchemist's fire, or some of the alchemical substances known in eastern lands that ignite when mixed with each other).

The "flame-hued" garb usually serves as an undergarment, except during Order rituals of worship in temples or shrines, and the member need not display it openly to all eyes. Most often, it takes the form of a breechclout or sash of red or orange cloth, usually silk, of a vari-hued finish that can catch "highlights" from nearby radiances. During rituals, most Order members wear only a simple robe with wrist-length, flowing sleeves (put on over the head and lacking fastenings or a "front" that opens) of flame hue.

Members usually carry flammable oils and "firebirth" alchemicals (liquid oils, oily pastes, and powders) in small, ornate glass vials with metal screw-caps pierced so as to not allow air or water to reach their contents, but to allow a fine chain to pass through the cap so the vial can act as a pendant, or clipped to chains worn under clothing.

Red Wizards do not sell firebirth alchemicals, and they never admit or confirm their flame-producing qualities (for the clergy of Kossuth consider doing so as an affront to the Firelord; these clergy believe only they should be dispensing such substances, and all others who do so profane the holy gift of Kossuth). Thus, information about alchemicals is scanty, and supplies are hard to come by. The most often encountered alchemical pairing is thaebra and maeraede because they both have other, "cover" uses.

[tale-chaser]

Safeholds - Part Three

"Nothing," Azoun Obarskyr said at last. "Nothing but this."

He regarded the dusty tangle of string rather dubiously, and then held it out to his queen.

Without hesitation Filfaeril ordered, "Undo the knot."

"What?" Azoun frowned at her, and then at the string. There was a knot, a simple knuckle-knot, at one end of it.

He shrugged and teased the knot apart.

And the featureless dun-hued wall nigh his elbow silently melted away to let dappled sunlight spill into the room, heralded by a faint rustling of leaves and birdsong.

Azoun stared at the oval opening that hadn't been there a moment earlier, smelled the fresh forest breeze wafting through it, shrugged again, and offered his wife his arm.

Smiling very faintly, Filfaeril took it, and together they stepped out into green and waiting fastnesses.

Our royal couple have just stumbled upon one of the simpler "emergency ways out" that the creator of a safehold can devise. Safehold creation definitely bears examination -- wherefore, read on. Where Faerûnians say "knuckle-knot," by the way, we would say "half-hitch."

Safehold Construction

Safeholds can be constructed by epic spellcasters who possess and cast the right spells in the correct (complex) process.

Unless a would-be safehold creator has access to a specific process (either a written record or a fully cooperative creator of safeholds), the character must devise the process -- a difficult endeavor of speculation and trial-and-error that often results in either failure or a spartan, short-lived safehold. 

Available experts on safehold creation (almost all of whom are baelnorn or long-lived elf mages who can wield high magic) are very few -- and safehold experts willing to discuss such matters even rarer. The very best libraries, such as Candlekeep, may hold enough fragmentary hints and references to steer someone trying to devise a process for safehold creation in the right direction, suggesting necessary steps and possible spells (or magical effects to be achieved if precise spells remain unknown).

Safehold creation always involves numerous precise castings of spells and often multiple applications of the same spell. The necessary steps in all successful safehold construction processes can be outlined as follows:

The extradimensional space must first be created and immediately anchored (to a specific spot in the Realms, usually where its entry and exit portal will later be created). Then the space must be shaped (given permanent size and dimensions). Once the space is stable, a specially prepared item (or items, but there must be at least one) must be linked into its "walls" (continuous outer surface), at spots where future expansions or access points are planned.

At least one of these items is then replaced by a portal (allowing access to the interior of the safehold), and the item thereafter is either destroyed or converted -- by still other spells -- into a portal key. (Other items can be left "in the walls" for future use.)

Spells are then cast on the wall (the "skin" or "sphere" of the extradimensional space) to give it specific temperature and humidity characteristics, to link it to Material Plane sources of fresh air, and to give it some measure of permanence and stability.

What's missing from the spell arsenals of most arcane spellcasters today are the vital spells that stabilize a safehold, making it something that persists from year to year (as opposed to being swept away in a matter of days, or twisted into a cavity filled with wild magic or ethereal traits, by planar stresses and energy ripples in the local Weave). These magics were closely guarded elf family secrets even in the days of Myth Drannor's glory, and they are largely forgotten today.

Scarcely better-known are the spells linking walls to fresh air sources, which is why most of the few safeholds of more modern creation instead have tiny invisible portals linked to their immediate surroundings. As one might expect, these holes allow betraying sound and light to pass out into the surroundings, and individuals outside can cast some spells and missiles into a safehold. In fact, those outside can attempt to "smoke out" beings inside the safehold via fires, which can render dead or unconscious those who choose to remain within the safehold.

[tale-chaser]

Safeholds - Part Two

"What will happen if you trigger Vangey's ring while we're in here?" Filfaeril murmured.

Azoun shrugged. "There's one way to find --"

Filfaeril's snake-swift slap stung his fingers.

"First, let's look around," she snapped. "If I have to die, I'd like it to be in a rather more interesting manner than standing watching someone trifle with magic like a fool."

"'Look around'?" The king's voice was incredulous. "Look around where?"

"In the wardrobe, under the bed, the undersides of the chairs, move a knight or dragon on yon board and see what happens -- really, Az! How you lived this long without falling into the habit of checking such places for angry husbands, I don't know!"

The Purple Dragon of Cormyr considered possible responses to his wife's heated words for a moment or two, and found none of them very satisfactory. After a moment he announced decisively, "I'll check under the bed!"

A true safehold is a permanent extradimensional space or "pocket," linked by opaque (and usually invisible) portals to specific points in the Realms. Some points include atop a rock deep in a forest, or between two close-standing forest trees, or even a closet or back corner of a room (perhaps now ruined, or entirely collapsed, to leave the portal in midair) in Myth Drannor or another old elven settlement or structure. 

The Knights of Myth Drannor adventuring band found several safeholds while exploring ruined Myth Drannor, and they were told (by Elminster and several elves familiar with Myth Drannor in its heyday) that the city hosted hundreds of small, hidden, secret safeholds, private to a family, a business, or an individual -- so many, in fact, that they started to intersect, collapse, cause wild magic in tiny, immobile areas, and cause unintended planar inter-penetrations that allowed marauding outsiders to creep into the city and prowl.

Like the temporary extradimensional space created by a rope trick spell, a safehold is a finite, rather small "hidden space." Creatures in a safehold can't be detected or reached by spells (including divinations), unless those magics work across planes. Safeholds have identical planar traits to the Material Plane (the Realms they connect with), and they can be furnished with materials and filled by items (both mundane and magical) brought from the Material Plane.

Most safeholds appear as single rooms, often lit by a continual flame effect (or similar silent, heatless, fuel-less magic), having a solid, opaque, continuous surface (a wall, akin to that created by a wall of force spell, and usually having the same characteristics and weaknesses) that forms walls, ceiling, and floor. This surface is usually covered by carpeting, paneling (to which lamps, tapestries, and other furnishings may have been affixed), and paint or stucco; some even have interior walls of dressed stone built along the inside of the magical "walls."

The majority of safeholds have just one creature-sized portal for entry and exit, though a few have portal keys(usually command items, command words, or situations involving the moon or spellcastings) that can "lock" the main portal, and reveal or open otherwise-hidden alternate exits and entrances.

Sounds, missiles, and spells don't pass between a safehold and its immediate Material Plane surroundings. However, unlike the extradimensional space associated with a portable hole, air passes through a safehold continuously, providing endless fresh air to its interior, from and to invisible links with the Material Plane that are places where the creator of the safehold has earlier cast particular spells, and then hurled an enspelled stone into midair.

When these recovered stones are later brought to the safehold location by its creator and a series of spells is cast on them, invisible airflow portals the size of the stones come into existence elsewhere in Faerûn, at the highest points in the arcs the thrown stones traced when hurled, and they connect with the interior of the safehold. The wall of the safehold influences temperature and humidity in the safehold interior, creating convection currents and imbalances that encourage airflow. (A safehold created without airflow portals will soon twist out of shape, and ultimately collapse.)

A safehold can usually hold up to a dozen creatures, but it is constructed for the comfortable use of four at most. Many safeholds began as refuges for tending crying babies, lovemaking away from prying eyes, or study areas (casting experimental or battle spells in a safehold can be disastrous), but soon turned into storage: throw-closets for anything broken, presents or contraband to be hidden away until later, or bric-a-brac for which no better "stash space" could be found.

[tale-chaser]

Safeholds - Part One

The King and Queen of Cormyr found themselves in a small, dark room quickening to coziness around them as two glowing globes came to life. One orb hovered above a round bed with shimmering overclothes, and the other overhung a desk. By their shared light, the Obarskyrs surveyed a wardrobe, a knights-and-dragons board set ready on the otherwise spotless and empty desk, two lounge chairs smooth and flowing enough to be elven-make, a carpet of dark and unfamiliar furs underfoot, and smooth, featureless dun-hued walls that curved to become both floor and ceiling -- and displayed a complete lack of doors, windows, or any other visible way out.

"And just where are we now?" The Queen of Cormyr looked less than amused. "Have you no way of controlling Vangerdahast's magic?"

Azoun sighed. "If I did, d'you think he'd be driving all Cormyr wild day after month after year, ruling us just as firmly as he does every last crofter and dung-carter in the realm?"

Filfaeril rolled her eyes -- and then, surprisingly, grinned.

"I meant, lord of my heart, can you control the ring you wear? Or does it take us wherever it wills?"

"It takes us, I believe, from one place to another in a sequence our beloved Royal Magician set. A sequence that I hope -- that he hinted, once -- is a circuit that will eventually return us to the Palace."

"Its dungeons, or his bedchamber, or the room we departed from?"

It was Azoun's turn to grin. "I begin to think none of those Palace destinations is preferable to any other. I'll be even less amused if our bedchamber turns out to be among them."

"Right, I'm having the tapestries that face the foot of our bed taken down tomorrow," his queen said darkly.

"If we get within speaking distance of any Palace servant by the morrow," Azoun reminded her gently.

"Ah, that's my Purple Dragon." Filfaeril's voice was sweet. "The man who heartens and inspires every lass and jack of Cormyr by his reassurances. The overconfident lord whose confidence spreads warmth to all, because he always says the right thing."

Azoun gave her an innocent look. "I see a handy bed -- and privacy. Care to be heartened and inspired?"

"I said 'overconfident,' not 'lucky.'"

Azoun and Filfaeril seem to have been translocated magically into a hidden room: a furnished space intended for the use of humans, elves, or similar creatures, that has no visible physical entrance or exit. Neither of them has yet noticed spells awakening or affecting them, any inhabitants or guardian constructs . . . or bad air.

They kissed each other affectionately, and then turned again to peer at their surroundings, each with an arm still around the other's shoulder.

"So where do you think we are, love?" Filfaeril murmured, hand going again to her dagger.

"A safehold," Azoun replied promptly. "Whose, and where it is, though -- I haven't the faintest."

"A safehold," Filfaeril echoed, gazing at the empty chairs and the knights-and-dragons board.

"A little refuge, a magical hiding-hole. Elves crafted these, in the elder days. Myth Drannor's said to be riddled with literally hundreds -- perhaps thousands -- of them. You remember the Safehold, reached by setting a ladder atop the Standing Stone, and jumping up from it in just the right direction --"

"To break legs or worse if you miss, and crash back to the ground," Filfaeril said darkly. "I know very well what safeholds are. Yet I also know very well what Vangerdahast is. Whose safehold is this, and why has he cause to visit it? Is this where he hides folk he doesn't want us -- or divers murderous nobles -- to find, d'you think?"

Azoun sighed. "Do I have to think about that, Fee? Thinking's what always seems to get me in trouble. Can't we just use the bed and stop fretting about all Faerûn for a bit?"

"No," the Dragon Queen said flatly. "Such luxuries aren't for those who wear crowns. Vangerdahast could be busily marrying both our daughters right now, and declaring himself Emperor-Wizard of all Cormyr."

Azoun snorted. "If he tries, he'd better lash up Tana's tongue and Luse's sword hand, first, or he'll have the shortest reign of any --"

Filfaeril giggled. "Hold that thought, my lord. That's a mind-view I can savor."

The Purple Dragon sighed. "Well, that's one of us."

Azoun of Cormyr is correct: Safeholds were created in great numbers by elves in earlier centuries, but none are made now, because those who crafted them belatedly saw their perils. The presence of a safehold weakens planar fabric, allowing translocation and dimension-spanning magics to penetrate a location more easily, and unintended visitors (monsters) to "slip through the cracks" and arrive unwanted and unheralded.

This was one contributing factor in the fall of Myth Drannor; in the battles of the Year of Doom, both opportunistic monsters and the forces of the Army of Darkness often appeared without warning in the heart of the city, taking folk by surprise and slaughtering them in the most private chambers of their own homes.

Safeholds are called "elf holds" by many human sages, and they are sometimes confused with slightly more common, visually similar refuges made before and (rarely) since the times when safeholds were popular: subterranean chamber networks, tombs, or "landlocked" caches (buried rooms or chains of rooms that no longer have a physical entrance or exit to above-ground areas or adjacent Underdark passages) that are portal-linked to a room or spot in Faerûn.

[tale-chaser]

The Vigilant Baron - Part Two

"At once, my love," the King of Cormyr agreed, using his thumb to turn the ring on his middle finger, his sword still raised and ready in his other hand.

There was a sudden flare of dancing ruby light, and he cursed sharply, shaking his hand in pain.

"Someth -- fell magic!" he snarled. "I can feel a mind reaching for mine, and it's not friendly. Hasn't seen me yet, but it's stopping Vangey's ring from taking us away from here!"

Filfaeril caught hold of her husband's hand, plucked a pendant up out of her bodice, and touched its stone to Azoun's teleport ring.

There was a blinding flash, Azoun cursed again as it smote his eyes -- and a sudden scream echoed in their minds.

Then blue mists were rising around them again, as Filfaeril smiled a catlike little smile.

"What was that?" Azoun hissed, as the chamber vanished, and something more grasslike and uneven came into view beneath their boots.

"One of my little secrets, lord of my heart," the Dragon Queen purred, wisps of smoke rising from the gem in her fingers.

Azoun gave her a sharp look. It was enough to tell him prudence suggested strongly that he now smile, bow and thank his lady.

So he did.

The mists rolled away again, revealing rather surprising new surroundings.

The self-styled Baron of Maerantede leaves peddlers, pilgrims, royal envoys, and small caravans traveling overland alone (as long as they avail themselves of the protection of his camp, and pay their fees to do so), but secretly orders -- and profits from -- attacks on large caravans, including many that avoid Maerantede altogether and seek to pass overland well to the north.

Guests in Maerantede Castle are never mistreated, nor do they ever vanish, but most remember having horrible nightmares (caused by the clumsy attempts of Darkyn's mages to learn their current business and what wealth and secrets they're carrying), and depart uneasy as to the morals and happiness of the Baron's knights. Their misgivings, and some observations by travelers who fled from attacked caravans, are the source of the handful of quiet but dark rumors about the "fair new barony."

The keep is centuries old and was built atop large storage chambers hewn out of the ridge by dwarves in even earlier times; Darkyn's wizards called up elementals to repair its walls and roofs, raising up and fusing together shattered stone. The Castle is spartan, cold, and drafty, but the Baron has had a few guest chambers within it, and living quarters for himself and his knights, paneled and decorated with tapestries, fur rugs, and fine furnishings. The coins he makes "lawfully" and openly, in fees for providing a safe haven, can just serve to feed the folk of the Castle, if they gather much of their own firewood and food.

However, the raids mounted by his people while posing as outlaws allow Azadarr Darkyn to make far more coin than that, and he has already hidden caches of gems, weapons, and even magic items (seized from caravans) in various places around his keep.

Robber baron or not, Darkyn is growing wealthy enough to become of interest to various trading costers, the Zhentarim, and even the Red Wizards of Thay. (Once it has more permanent residents to support and feed the Castle, Maerantede's strategic location would make it an ideal enclave.) 

He could well be swept away by someone seeking to seize his keep, or he could grow in power enough to become a blackguard openly and forge his own alliances with Westgate or interests in Amn or Scornubel, and to gird himself against attacks from those who would see him as a threat growing too powerful not to strike down.

Azadarr Darkyn is a glib-tongued, broad-shouldered, stiffly erect man with almost-white blond hair but arrestingly dark eyebrows over smoldering dark blue (almost black) eyes. 

Though born in Calimshan, the Baron of Maerantede is of Illuskan stock. 

The Baron of Maerantede is a skilled actor ("very slick," one Harper termed him), both persuasive and good at seeming to have wise and benevolent aims and motives, tempered with a stern manner and resolve. He will take no action at all against potential targets who pass within reach if he suspects they're adventurers or otherwise more than they seem. 

He prefers to avoid a potential trap set by such folk since a successful one could severely weaken his forces or reveal his true nature for all Faerûn to see.

The name "Maerantede," by the way, is derived from Thalantede, the given name of Darkyn's father, and Maerana, his mother's name. They were weaponsmiths from the Moonshaes, and a Calishite pasha (whom Darkyn later slew) enslaved them before Darkyn's birth.

[tale-chaser]

The Vigilant Baron - Part One

Filfaeril didn't have to hurry far.

The Purple Dragon of Cormyr had stopped at a stone door that rose up into the darkness over his head, though its small stone knob was set at about his waist-level. Dwarf-work, clearly, old and solid and impressive, set into a smooth stone wall that seemed all of one massive piece rather than block-work. It, too, stretched up into the darkness beyond where their feeble weapon-glows reached, and continued on either side of the door unbroken into the darkness.

The door itself was about eight Filfaerils wide, and graven deeply with dwarf-runes: bold lines that crisscrossed each other as intricately as any nobles' monogram rather than standing stark and separate, as both Obarskyrs were used to seeing them. Not a one of them was familiar to Filfaeril.

Azoun had stopped peering at the runes long ago. His sword raised like a torch to help him see better, he was staring at something that had been recently painted across the dwarf-carving.

A circle half as tall as a man enclosed the hookbeaked head of an eagle. That head faced endlessly off to the left, side-on, but stared out at the two Obarskyrs: Gaps in the thick pale paint outlined a neat row of three eyes.

Filfaeril felt Azoun stiffen; whatever this sigil meant, he'd recognized it -- and not favorably.

"Where are we?" she murmured, into his ear.

"Maerantide," Azoun hissed, hefting his sword as if awaiting battle.

"Use Vangey's toy," Filfaeril told him calmly. "Now."

For years, Harpers and sages have speculated as to who might next try to found a kingdom between Cormyr and Amn, on the busy caravan route between the Sword Coast and the Sea of Fallen Stars.

Trolls, hungry raiding dragons, and the fierce Tunlanders have shattered previous attempts, but that doesn't stop the greedy from trying -- usually by occupying and rebuilding one of the score or so ancient, crumbling ruined keeps in the region, proclaiming himself lord of this or king of that, and trying to enforce his will by means of hard-riding, lance-wielding knights.

When those knights eventually perish, turn on them, or flee, the would-be rulers usually melt away, not to be heard from again, and caravan merchants smile in both resignation and relief, mutter about marauding monsters or Zhent villainies or "the gods not wanting such a realm to be," and continue to gird their caravans to defend themselves on the long east-west run through what is once more lawless, open country.

The latest power to arise along the trade-route is Azadarr Darkyn, self-styled Baron of Maerantede, a Calishite mercenary of ruthless reputation who led his company of hireswords to occupy long-abandoned Luhklyn Keep in the spring of 1372 DR, and rebuilt it into a simple, frowning stone fortress he's now calling Maerantede ("May-urr-an-TEED").

From his ridge-top castle, the Baron of Maerantede now controls the best natural campground west of the Giant's Run Mountains and east of Iriaebor, a meadow sheltered by Luhklyn Ridge (to the west) and Ahmaer Tor (to the south), that has a small, drinkable lake at the base of the ridge. Three days' ride southwest of Priapurl, on the eastern edge of the Greenfields about halfway between Easting and the Troll Mountains, it's only a little south of the swiftest route between Iriaebor and Priapurl, and ideally situated to dominate all wayfaring from Priapurl through the Snakewood to Eshpurta (and thence, the rest of Amn and points south).

Darkyn commands over a hundred well-armored veteran warriors and a handful of wizards experienced in battlefield castings. He also has the assistance of a few priests of Tempus and Waukeen, and he is spreading word that his "Knights of Maerantede" will protect all merchants who camp nigh his castle or pass through his barony (though just where the boundaries of his barony lie is a matter of some dispute). Further, he'll grant free land and protection to all smiths, horsebreeders, horse-trainers, and sheep ranchers who settle in Maerantede, so that "this peaceful new land can welcome and aid brave and hard-working caravan merchants who so enrich us all by carrying goods overland between the two Great Seas."

All of this would be well and good (assuming Maerantede survives the inevitable covert Zhent and Thayan attempts to dominate it, and troll raids from the nearby mountains) were it not for a nasty truth Harpers and Elminster have just uncovered. Whispered rumors are true: Far from fighting hard against the brigands and outlaws who've mounted a sharp and sudden increase in attacks on overland wayfaring during 1373 DR, the Baron of Maerantede is both collecting high protection fees from those who camp under his protection -- and sponsoring the "brigands" and "outlaws," who are really his own warriors, shorn of their knights' armor but armed with precise knowledge of approaching prey.

In short, the Vigilant Baron (as his written proclamations style him) is a murderous fraud, that black-hearted creature of so many tavern-tales: the robber baron.

[tale-chaser]

Broadcryers of Waterdeep - Know Thy Sources, Part Two

Our tour of broadcryers continues north up the High Road from Waymoot. From the Forcebar to the Windhowl (the moot of River Street and the High Road, the nearest vendors are allowed to the River Gate), retired drovers and warriors share the cobbles, peddling various special interest broadsheets such as Calagar's Caravans (which advertises caravan musterings, guard-hirings, and folk looking to buy or sell wagons, harness, and draft beasts and riding horses) and Thaeler's Coinwatch (a cynical survey of shipping business over land and water entering or departing Waterdeep, and how "those with big coin" control everything for their profit and the general misery of everyone else).

At the moot of the High Road and Waterdeep Way, dozens of broadcryers hawk every imaginable broadsheet (many having small pushcarts and offering a dozen or more titles), but the High Road between this intersection and the Windhowl, and the Way of the Dragon as far south as Candle Lane, are haunted by priests and lay worshipers dressed in grandiose religious garb, selling the "devout broadsheets" of their faith.

The most popular are Thy Daily Luck, dedicated to Tymora but really to local investments and gambling, and the Merchants' True Friend, consecrated to Waukeen. Many nondevout Waterdhavians occasionally pick up a copy of The Eternal Dawn, the Lathanderite broadsheet, because it concerns itself with new ventures, new organizations, near-future plans, and probable politics just ahead. Like the "gilded broadsheets" of the rich and noble, the devout broadsheets tend to cost three nibs to a shard per issue.

The tendency of many sailors to make rough sport of broadcryers by shredding their wares has resulted in most of Dock Ward being forever free of street crying. Interested readers must travel to a main street location elsewhere or visit Ralagut's Wheelhouse, a sundries shop on west-front Snail Street half a block south off Shesstra's Street.

In the rest of the city, broadcryers work in the Market and on its boundary streets of Trader's Way and Bazaar Street, all along the High Road, on the Sutherlane and Julthoon Street, and the lengths of the Street of the Singing Dolphin, Stormstar's Ride, and both the Street of Lances and the Street of Glances.

On pleasant evenings, the Street of Whispers sports a few "silent" broadcryers who are actually employees of the festhalls, sent out to peddle a few broadsheets to provide an excuse for the timid to venture down the street -- and to sell steamy chapbooks to folk too timid to enter a festhall.

Most popular in the northern half of the city are two broadsheets: the solemn, "nothing but the facts"Vigilant Citizen, trusted by the majority of Waterdhavians but taken by very few as their only reading thanks to its dry style, and the light, sunny, and sardonic The North Wind, a recent broadsheet specializing in lots of illustrations of fashionable garments and easy-on-the-eyes folk wearing them, "lucky winner" contests with prizes as large as 66 gp (but usually averaging around 25 dragons), and arch commentary on the airs of the wealthy and "crusty old nobles."

Those nobles and ambitious coin-rich social climbers have their own broadsheets, many supposedly sold only to "deserving personages" but really available to anyone willing to part with enough coin. The truly noble broadsheets consist of Lady Amaranth's Falcon (for the young, fashionable gently born lady), The Anklet (for her more conservative mothers and aunts, who demand the very height of good taste and literate fare -- which some critics define as "gossip dressed up in ruffles to hide the long, raking cat claws"),Burnstel's Oracular (the hunting, riding, and sober sneering-down-upon-all-others publication of senior male nobility), The Sword in the Sun (for young, vigorous male nobles and rebellious she-nobles who favor revelry and pursuits frowned upon by their elders, many of whom refuse to "have that waste of coin in the house!") and Hulbrant's Record (a bland but exhaustive catalog of who was seen where and wearing what, or will be seen where and with whom).

The wealthy who want to become nobles read as many of the truly noble broadsheets as they can. However, they also support The New Waterdhavian, which regards nobility as "the outdated, pretentious decadent affectation of lazy holders of 'yesteryear's money,'" and the rising wealth of the self-made citizen as the true strength and splendor of Waterdeep. Also read by this set is Halivar's Lords and Ladies, which reports all the news and nasty gossip about the "Old Nobility" in a cynical manner, but fawns upon the "New Nobility" of the wealthy but not yet ennobled.

Waterdeep also sports a variety of short-lived "flaming broadsheets" that say very rude and inflammatory things about Lords, Palace officials, nobles, and other socially prominent citizens. The seldom seen Mouth of True Waterdeep and The Mocking Minstrel are the most notorious of these.

One satrical broadsheet that mocks well-known Waterdhavians in an endless broad satire that lampoons deceits and vanities by portraying real people as lust-crazed swindlers, with names only slightly changed from their real ones but with every single line of dialogue heard "for real" but misapplied to bawdy fictional situations is the infamous The Blue Unicorn. 

This broadsheet enjoys a strong following in every ward and social stratum of the city; old copies even sell well as sheer "laugh at Waterdeep" entertainment in distant cities.

[tale-chaser]

Broadcryers of Waterdeep - Know Thy Sources, Part Two

Our tour of broadcryers continues north up the High Road from Waymoot. From the Forcebar to the Windhowl (the moot of River Street and the High Road, the nearest vendors are allowed to the River Gate), retired drovers and warriors share the cobbles, peddling various special interest broadsheets such as Calagar's Caravans (which advertises caravan musterings, guard-hirings, and folk looking to buy or sell wagons, harness, and draft beasts and riding horses) and Thaeler's Coinwatch (a cynical survey of shipping business over land and water entering or departing Waterdeep, and how "those with big coin" control everything for their profit and the general misery of everyone else).

At the moot of the High Road and Waterdeep Way, dozens of broadcryers hawk every imaginable broadsheet (many having small pushcarts and offering a dozen or more titles), but the High Road between this intersection and the Windhowl, and the Way of the Dragon as far south as Candle Lane, are haunted by priests and lay worshipers dressed in grandiose religious garb, selling the "devout broadsheets" of their faith.

The most popular are Thy Daily Luck, dedicated to Tymora but really to local investments and gambling, and the Merchants' True Friend, consecrated to Waukeen. Many nondevout Waterdhavians occasionally pick up a copy of The Eternal Dawn, the Lathanderite broadsheet, because it concerns itself with new ventures, new organizations, near-future plans, and probable politics just ahead. Like the "gilded broadsheets" of the rich and noble, the devout broadsheets tend to cost three nibs to a shard per issue.

The tendency of many sailors to make rough sport of broadcryers by shredding their wares has resulted in most of Dock Ward being forever free of street crying. Interested readers must travel to a main street location elsewhere or visit Ralagut's Wheelhouse, a sundries shop on west-front Snail Street half a block south off Shesstra's Street.

In the rest of the city, broadcryers work in the Market and on its boundary streets of Trader's Way and Bazaar Street, all along the High Road, on the Sutherlane and Julthoon Street, and the lengths of the Street of the Singing Dolphin, Stormstar's Ride, and both the Street of Lances and the Street of Glances.

On pleasant evenings, the Street of Whispers sports a few "silent" broadcryers who are actually employees of the festhalls, sent out to peddle a few broadsheets to provide an excuse for the timid to venture down the street -- and to sell steamy chapbooks to folk too timid to enter a festhall.

Most popular in the northern half of the city are two broadsheets: the solemn, "nothing but the facts"Vigilant Citizen, trusted by the majority of Waterdhavians but taken by very few as their only reading thanks to its dry style, and the light, sunny, and sardonic The North Wind, a recent broadsheet specializing in lots of illustrations of fashionable garments and easy-on-the-eyes folk wearing them, "lucky winner" contests with prizes as large as 66 gp (but usually averaging around 25 dragons), and arch commentary on the airs of the wealthy and "crusty old nobles."

Those nobles and ambitious coin-rich social climbers have their own broadsheets, many supposedly sold only to "deserving personages" but really available to anyone willing to part with enough coin. The truly noble broadsheets consist of Lady Amaranth's Falcon (for the young, fashionable gently born lady), The Anklet (for her more conservative mothers and aunts, who demand the very height of good taste and literate fare -- which some critics define as "gossip dressed up in ruffles to hide the long, raking cat claws"),Burnstel's Oracular (the hunting, riding, and sober sneering-down-upon-all-others publication of senior male nobility), The Sword in the Sun (for young, vigorous male nobles and rebellious she-nobles who favor revelry and pursuits frowned upon by their elders, many of whom refuse to "have that waste of coin in the house!") and Hulbrant's Record (a bland but exhaustive catalog of who was seen where and wearing what, or will be seen where and with whom).

The wealthy who want to become nobles read as many of the truly noble broadsheets as they can. However, they also support The New Waterdhavian, which regards nobility as "the outdated, pretentious decadent affectation of lazy holders of 'yesteryear's money,'" and the rising wealth of the self-made citizen as the true strength and splendor of Waterdeep. Also read by this set is Halivar's Lords and Ladies, which reports all the news and nasty gossip about the "Old Nobility" in a cynical manner, but fawns upon the "New Nobility" of the wealthy but not yet ennobled.

Waterdeep also sports a variety of short-lived "flaming broadsheets" that say very rude and inflammatory things about Lords, Palace officials, nobles, and other socially prominent citizens. The seldom seen Mouth of True Waterdeep and The Mocking Minstrel are the most notorious of these.

One satirical broadsheet that mocks well-known Waterdhavians in an endless broad satire that lampoons deceits and vanities by portraying real people as lust-crazed swindlers, with names only slightly changed from their real ones but with every single line of dialogue heard "for real" but misapplied to bawdy fictional situations is the infamous The Blue Unicorn. 

This broadsheet enjoys a strong following in every ward and social stratum of the city; old copies even sell well as sheer "laugh at Waterdeep" entertainment in distant cities.

[tale-chaser]

Broadcryers of Waterdeep - Know Thy Sources, Part One

The most aggressive broadcryers take up stations inside the city gates (Waymoot near the South Gate being the busiest), places many Waterdhavians visit daily (such as the Market), and strategic locations like the moot of the High Road and Waterdeep Way, the northerly moot of the High Road and the Way of the Dragon, and entrances to the City of the Dead around highsun (when many Waterdhavians enjoy their midday "highsunfest" by taking portable viands to the cemetery's parklike setting).

Some broadcryers strike deals with inns and taverns (particularly those near city gates), who allow them to sell in the lobbies without the usual calling of headlines. Almost all other broadcryers, save the few who deliver broadsheets personally to the villas of the noble and wealthy, cry out headlines on the streets -- which usually irritates folk living or shopkeeping nearby.

As a result, any citizen can complain to any Watch officer to have a broadcryer (or any street vendor) "moved along," and the Watch officer is bound to promptly issue such an order.

This will always be "at least onto the next street," and is good for about half an hour unless the vendor wants to be detained and frowningly questioned for an entire morning or evening (losing a lot of trade in the process). Because of this, only the quietest broadcryers remain stationary in their vending locations. Young children selling broadsheets may even run to intercept or catch up with persons who seemed interested in their cry but in a hurry to accomplish some pressing task. Few broadcryers sell on the streets before dawn or after dusk -- and those who try to "cry headlines" at such times will be arrested by the Watch, taken to a Watchpost for a stern (and time-wasting) lecture, and then sent on their way without charge or punishment.

Due to this set up, any survey of broadcryers can give only likely or usual vending locations. So let's take a tour of broadcryers on a fair summer day, starting at South Gate and keeping to major streets.

The City Guard keeps the immediate vicinity of all city gates clear of vendors to avoid impeding traffic or providing cover for any attack on the city that might begin with the destruction of gates, so the first broadcryers to be met with are half a dozen leather-lunged sellers at Waymoot. Most are usually casual hires and street urchins, but among them will always be One-Legged Alram, a great giant of a man with a black beard, an eyepatch, and frankly piratical garb of colorful coat, large flopping seaboots, and a broad-brimmed wreck of a hat. He sells his own broadsheet, Straight Talk from the Docks (which he bills as "the seafarers' forum, where all dirty truths are told"), and is also known to contribute salty or sneering-at-the-wealthy "Seen on the Streets" notes to one of the most successful city broadsheets, the oddly-namedWaterdeep Wazoo.

The Wazoo was named for both its founder and its first sponsor. The lass who started it was "the Wondrous Wazarra." She has retired from her hospitality profession due to the aches and wrinkles of age, but now pens an ongoing and very steamy amorous revel-and-bedchamber saga of "Myrandra and Her Adventures Among the Nobles" for its back pages. Armagus Zool was a carpet and tapestry merchant of Amn who sponsored Wazarra's broadsheet after becoming one of her most steadfast clients. He perished of shaking fever seven summers ago. His niece Sartrara Zool edits and prints the Wazoo every second day, keeping it full of jokes and catty gossip.

Proceeding up the High Road, the stretch between the Waymoot and the Forcebar is the battleground of many street urchins selling divers broadsheets, and another of Waterdeep's colorful printers: Astel Turjan, owner and writer of Turjan's Trumpet. Turjan is a handsome, debonair "young blade about town," and writes a dashing, light-hearted broadsheet concentrating on telling other young gallants where to be seen, what to wear to be best seen in, where to have fun, and where to find the best (looking and willing, that is) young lasses to have fun with. The Trumpet is popular among many Waterdhavians of both genders and all ages seeking to know "where the latest action is" so they can show up there for their own purposes.

A few broadcryers along this stretch sell religious broadsheets, but these hit their real stride farther north, closer to the Plinth.

[tale-chaser]

Broadcryers of Waterdeep - Perils and Presses

Although magisters of the city have firmly applied the "blasphemy against" laws to broadcryers who misquote Watch, Guard, and city officials, broadcryers are otherwise free to print what they like, unfettered by good taste or laws forbidding the spreading of lies or the damaging of reputations.

However, both guilds and noble families have hired thugs to "silence" printers who publish damaging things (true or false) against their patrons. Usually these "long hard arms" smash presses and beat printers senseless (breaking hands, arms, or ribs in "accidental drunken brawls") rather than resorting to murder or arson. Usually.

Interestingly, attempts to intimidate broadcryers into being only purveyors of fanciful entertainment, perhaps with veiled comments slid into the mouths of fictional characters, have failed because of two surprising things.

First, the haughty broadsheets (those read by the wealthy and noble) persisted in publishing such news and commentary anyway, daring the thugs to act. This was followed by Lord Piergeiron saying that as long as printers quoted all sources (himself, any citizen or outlander regardless of rank or position, and other broadsheets or writings) with strict accuracy, the Watch would be sent to "energetically" investigate all acts against broadcryers with the assumption that the persons and organizations they printed news about were to blame. Guilty parties would face the usual penalties plus the burden of all printing costs for that broadcryer for a year.

This edict caused an uproar in the city (and a few attempts to "frame" rivals by attacking printers so that someone else they'd written about would get the blame for the attack), but after some months of wild gossip and staged stunts to get florid news coverage, Waterdhavians decided they liked it -- and denunciations of a broadcryer, these days, tend to cause citizens to buy more of the next broadsheet put out by the denounced, to "see what was being complained about."

Though they prefer to churn out endless short chapbooks of torrid love tales and tearful romances (which they'd been doing for years before the rise of broadsheets and broadcryers), many gnomes and halflings of the city have been happy to help Haumbroad and his imitators and successors to produce broadsheets, using their small "frame presses." Some folk believe several thousand frame presses would now be found in Waterdeep, if one day, without warning, everyone went looking for them. Frame presses consist of a table on which rests an adjustable frame, and it is usually made of stout wood with clamps at the corners. A single page at a time is assembled for printing by placing illustrations carved in wooden blocks, and rows of script, in a "cast" (we would say "layout") with the use of many odd-sized wooden shims and wedges, often modified on the spot with a deft hatchet-blow.

The rows of script are formed in thin metal by laboriously "punching" individual letters with hammers and metal punches whose points are worked into the shapes of reversed script characters, so the punched characters "stand forth" (are raised up) from the strip. When all the elements of a page are clamped together into a frame, ink is rolled onto the cast, and pinned-flat-on-paddles sheets of parchment are laid on the inked result to print one page at a time.

A good printing establishment has lots of clean room to lay out drying broadsheets, a plentiful supply of thin sheets or strips of metal, and several sets of script punches with skilled "hammerwords" who can turn them into script speedily. Popular poems, sayings, jokes, and good tales are kept for re-use, though Waterdhavians are unforgiving when they see the same text twice in a year -- they will notice such "coin skimming" (a popular city term for small acts of swindling).

The sage Irbryth Authamaun (his home and office stands on north-front Sashtar Street, just across from the Thann noble family villa, North Ward) once defined Waterdeep's broadcryers to an outlander as "folk who stand in the streets crying torrid and dramatic headlines and selling both sides of a long strip of paper, usually rolled into a scroll, that have been printed with crude summaries of the latest news and gossip."

Most Waterdhavians would agree with that definition. They're quite used to "broad cries" like these (heard on a short North Ward street a few nights ago):

"Festhall lady revealed as doppleganger! Make sure your husband is truly your own!"

and:

"Thousands of dragons missing from Castle vaults! Masked Lords to be arrested!"

[tale-chaser]

Broadcryers of Waterdeep: News for Sale

Only the most wealthy and powerful Waterdhavians can afford large private libraries of bound tomes. Though the majority of citizens can read, and they do so often both for pleasure and to feel "on top of Mount Waterdeep" (which means commanding a view of current events, politics, trade activity, and near-future business opportunities), most citizens own a few well-worn chapbooks, some scrolls, and a large selection of the "short scrolls" commonly known as "broadsheets."

Chapbooks are pamphlets about two human-handwidths across by three handwidths high, and they consist of parchments sewn into hide covers (sometimes stiffened with very thin "reject" ceramic tiles or metal plates). Rarely having more than thirty pages, they often sport as few as a dozen. Apt to contain about anything from poetry to furious arguments against guilds, governing policy, or methods of tiling roofs, chapbooks are most often devoted to memoirs and to romantic tales of either the tearful (for goodwives) or bawdy (for jacks old and young) variety.

Traditonal or "long" scrolls tend to have writing on one side only, and they are the form of choice for setting down religious texts, accounts that are maintained over time (large ledgers are favored for official coinkeeping, however), and spells that will be cast directly from the writing. Although long scrolls can be printed by mechanical methods, "block after block," they are usually handwritten.

"Short scrolls" or broadsheets are what we call "newspapers." Usually strips of parchment no longer than a human is tall and of widely varying widths, from chapbook width to thrice as broad, they are printed by mechanical means on both sides (at different times; that is, after one side is printed, it's left to dry before the other side is printed). Their vegetable inks tend to run when wet, no matter how long ago they were printed (a few of the more exclusive broadsheets are baked to inhibit this effect), and at times cause certain neighborhoods to reek when many hearth fires are started with their crumpled carcasses at the same time. To Waterdhavians, these short, written newsheets are known as "broadsheets" after Haumbroad "the Humble," a now-dead tireless producer of them, who through years of sheer persistence trained the folk of the city to seek out and trust this form of news.

Older Waterdhavians remember Haumbroad as a wizened, untidily bearded old man who stood hunched over on many a street corner along the High Road, day after day, calling out to passersby to "trade a nib for the wonders of the world!" Many broadsheets still cost a single copper coin today, though most of the better-known ones are priced at twice that (until a vendor wants to be free of them and elsewhere in a hurry).

Haumbroad certainly started something popular. On a given day, thirty to forty regularly produced broadsheets are for sale on the streets, and some shops (notably the stall of "Sharkroar" Horth Shalark in the Market, and Berendarr's World of Words on the High Road, west-front just a few doors up from the Waymoot) even specialize in broadsheets. (The older ones are rolled and thrust into wall-shelves, and more recent offerings hang from the ceiling on clips like so many miniature tapestries.) Most old broadsheets sell for two to five per copper coin, but a few that contain especially salacious tales or notorious rants are sought after by collectors and fetch prices of as much as a dragon each!

Many Waterdhavians are fans of particular broadsheets, preferring the political rants, sly social comments, jokes, and serialized "adventures" (often bawdy or pranksome) they contain. New issues of most broadsheets appear on the streets every three or four days, and important events always trigger floods of "extras." The most haughty broadsheets (favored by the wealthiest and most noble clientele) publish once-a-tenday, and these concentrate on overviews of unfolding events and the best-written serial tales of entertainment.

Broadsheet vendors are usually young street children or the printers themselves, and they are universally known as "broadcryers" for their common habit of calling out headlines. "Learn who's behind the mask! A hidden Lord revealed!" is a frequent cry (almost always denoting a fanciful tale used when there's little news of worth to be told).

Other favorites used in place of "real news" include the following:

"Noble lord kidnapped into slavery years ago; impostor wears his boots!"

"New undead among us! They don't stink, you can't tell, they stay alive by taking part in the activities at festhalls!"

[tale-chaser]

The Realm of Nimbral - The Nimbral Lords

The Nimbral Lords rule Sea Haven, and they speak and act through their Heralds and Knights while almost always remaining inside the enclave of Selpir that was for so long their prison.

Studious and introverted, the Lords have grown extremely powerful in the arcane arts over centuries of magical research -- activity that still dominates their time today. The Lords are a tightly knit, loyal family of twenty-six archmages (aided by sixteen apprentices). Intermarried for generations, they have abandoned surnames. Led by five Elders, they jealously guard the isolation of Nimbral and their personal secrecy, fearing attacks from magically powerful groups such as the Red Wizards of Thay if knowledge of their power ever leaks out.

The Elders and their fellow Lords  have created a huge variety of magic items. 

They don't use the standard forms in most of them (no Nimbral Lord makes a ring of blinking when she can craft a bracer of blinking), they magically disguise them as something else (that bracer resembles a bloodstained bandage), and they also magically link them to a select group of Lords -- so that they either remain inert or erupt with full harmful effects on anyone else trying to use them.

However, the Nimbral Lords appear in battle only as a last resort -- either when a being begins wantonly destroying living things in Nimbral and is obviously too powerful for citizens or Knights to deal with, or when an intruder enters their refuge to attack or steal from them directly.

Lords of Nimbral tend to be quiet-spoken, sober, gentle individuals, always "thinking ahead" to possibilities and aware of consequences. They continually watch for signs that suggest trends in the thinking and future deeds of magically powerful mainland beings.

Whenever possible, the Elders arrive at decisions by discussion and consensus (following established policies when swift action is needful and debate impossible), but they decide disputes by voting. Apprentices get no vote unless they unanimously agree on a position, in which case they collectively receive a single vote. All Lords have a vote each, except Elders, each of whom can cast two.

The established policy to deal with intruders who are members or agents of any magically powerful group is to remain hidden as much as possible, to give the impression that the Lords are hermits surrounded by tales of spell-use, rather than truly powerful mages. If an intruder starts prying or attacking Nimbrese with magic, they are whisked to Starshot by teleport or portal-trap immediately, to try to convince them that all the Lords are dead or gone mad in the dangerous wild magic ruins.

The Lords dwell in the linked stone towers of Selpir, which rise in the midst of huge old trees without fields or walls. Selpir is a vast warren of many linked living spaces, pantries, spell workshops, and storage rooms, defended by golems and other constructs, and by wards that detect -- and can forcibly teleport -- intruders. 

The skyships that brought the Voyagers to Nimbral are built into its towers, but only a few of the present Lords know how to awaken them. (If they flew away, Selpir would be shattered.)

In the forest nearby is Nimbral's only "dungeon": Starshot, where a shattered skyship lies overgrown in the woods, atop a labyrinth of underground rooms built by a long-dead, mad Voyager archmage. 

Raging wild magic that twists spells into deadly and spectacular unintended effects dominate these monster-crawling cellars.

[tale-chaser]

The Realm of Nimbral - The Knightse Character

The Knights of Nimbral patrol the skies and coastal waters of the realm in patrols of 3-6 pegasi riders (typically including one or two novices). Patrols fly in one of three daily shifts: dawn to sunsigh (that moment after highsun when the sun has clearly passed its highest point), sunsigh to dusk, and dusk to dawn. Most Knights assemble at a maerntop moot every seven days to join in a larger Hunt (of 2-40 Knights), which takes them on patrol over all areas of the realm. Including novices, the full muster of Knights is probably just over 75. 

Like the magic employed by the Heralds, the magic items used by the Knights (in armor, weapons, steeds, and horns) are made for and given to them by their masters: the mysterious Nimbral Lords.

In the event that a Knight sounds a "general cry" on an alarm-horn to denote a threat to the realm, larger Hunts muster on particular maerntops. The Knights rarely sound the general cry; more often heard is the "rally-call," which signals for individual Knights to race in as reinforcements to deal with a lone problem.

The Knights have three ranks: Commander, Knight, and Novice. Commanders lead patrols and hunts by virtue of experience, but they wield power very much as "first among equals" rather than brook-no-disobedience authority figures. (The decrees that aren't to be gainsaid come from Heralds and the Lords.) Onlookers can immediately identify novices by their nonglowing "practice suits" of armor, but Commanders wear neither special badge nor identification.

Knights of the Flying Hunt wear magnificent spired and curving full plate magic glass armor. Only the Lords (and certain Halruaan wizards) know how to make such armor, which is as hard and yet as durable as the finest battle-steels. 

When a Novice attains full Knighthood, the Lords bestow what is known among Nimbrese as "Storm Armor": the glowing glass armor of legend. (Its hues and patterns have nothing to do with rank or awakened magic, but they shine and shift entirely as the wearer desires, gaining brightness as their rage or excitement increases, and going dim as consciousness or physical vitality fails.)

It is thought that a Lord sometimes rides with the Knights so that he can cast a variant of mass teleport that snatches the entire Flying Hunt from the skies above Nimbral to mainland Faerûn or isolated islands in the sundering seas between.

Knights of Nimbral fight with swords, daggers, "hurl clubs," and heavy lances. 

Knights follow a strict code of loyalty to the Lords, and chivalry to all otherwise, ever mindful of the power they wield.

[tale-chaser]

The Realm of Nimbral - Of Heralds and of the Nimbrese Character

Heralds of Nimbral wear distinctive black-with-white-piping "triangular" tabards over black breeches and high boots. The tabards are identical belted black robes dominated by an equilateral triangle-front having one point at the belt, the other two giving the wearer wide, impressive shoulders. This triangle echoes Leira's holy symbol, but no Herald will be pleased to be told this. Every tabard magically resists mold and soiling, and has stronger magical powers equal to those of a winged shield. (There is evidence Lords often temporarily confer additional magic on a tabard, for the wearer's use in a specific task).

The breast and back of a Herald's tabard display the symbol of the Nimbral Lords, which is also the Sign of the Realm: a white three-pointed star with one point straight down and the other two at forty-five-degree angles to upper left and upper right. The downmost point is a fish, snout up to the center of the symbol; the left point is a stout tree, in leaf; and the right point is a human left hand, fingers and thumb spread, with tiny stars floating above the end of each digit.

Twelve Heralds are stationed in the ports; the other four (?) wander the interior except when relieving the stationary Heralds (usually for nine days of "off duty" time in small, secluded forest cottages that each Herald builds and eventually retires to). Heralds may be on a first-name basis with neighbors, but when "working" use only their names of office.

In order of seniority, the heraldic offices are Fyrefelen (stationed in Ormen); Ohndivur (Tethmor); Ramrath (Curstallyon); Durlance (Nimsur); Mhanrued (Esdul); Lyaparce (Bromtor); Skannajh (Rauthaven); Hoathal (Sombor); Statharn (Nimith); Ultaunt (Vindal); Taerash (Suthhaven); Thuldroun (Arevar); and the wanderers: Maunthar; Vorlmaer; Culree; and Honthallow (and possibly more). The origins of these names are lost in antiquity, but many think they were once nicknames of prominent leaders of the Voyagers who came to Nimbral long ago (from Halruaa).

All Heralds live simply, presumably as directed by the Lords. They're encouraged to have hobbies, some of which seem odd to outlanders (the collecting of human skulls, for instance). They tend to be grave, soft-spoken, firm folk rather than haughty or officious; Heralds who exhibit these latter traits soon disappear.

To Be Nimbrese, and How Things Got This Way

Brief strife marked the fall of the Church of Leira in Nimbral after the Time of Troubles as the hitherto all-powerful Priests of the Deceiver were slain or driven from the realm by the wizards they had subjugated for generations. (They had shut away the wizards in spell-workshops in the guarded enclave of Selpir, whose fortress towers also held Nimbrese driven mad by the constant deceptions).

Life in Nimbral before the Loss of Leira was two-faced: on one hand the simple, necessary labor of fishing and forestry, and on the other the neverending "dream deceptions" practiced by all Nimbrese upon each other. These always-changing games of falsehood and deception were spun with lies, playacting, illusions, physical disguises, and hallucinatory drugs added to most drinkables and cooked dishes. Priests took pride in being the "Master Dreamweavers" of manipulation, causing Nimbrans to do strange things through false perceptions and beliefs. (Taking the place of a person's mate unnoticed, for instance, was a favorite practice of the clergy.) Nimbrese engaged in this ongoing game with enjoyment, seeking to uncover the falsity and weavings of others while spreading their own deceits, large and small.

Since the Fall, the ever-reclusive Lords have succeeded in causing revulsion in Nimbrese for life-wasting, pointless deceptions, turning their love of invention and spectacle into interest in tale-spinning and in harmless false impressions of décor. (One such example is a sort of painting known in our real world as trompe l'oeil, which Nimbrese apply to surfaces in their dwellings and to their ever-present cloaks, typically giving the latter large and fanciful beast-faces on one side, and nigh-perfect camouflage on the other.)

The Nimbrese of today glean excitement and enjoyment in life from things of beauty, from clever tales and entrancing music, and through loving and befriending alert, alive, witty people. Inventive fashions and cuisine are encouraged, but ridiculous extremes in either are just that: moments of whimsy to laugh over together and then set aside in favor of the practical work that must be done. 

As local sayings put it: "A life lost in dreams is a life wasted" and "Time spent deceiving could better be spent achieving."

[tale-chaser]

The Realm of Nimbral - Laws and Heralds

The laws of Nimbral, known as "the Tellings," are, simply put, the wills and decrees of the mysterious, seldom-seen ruling Nimbral Lords. They are codified and posted (with updates) at all inns and port offices of the realm.

The Tellings include voluminous Lords' judgments on individual matters (for example, "Thaldon Immertree shall touch or cause to be moved no boundary post of Faerond Mallow, or suffer the breaking of a finger and the payment of forty silver coins or more, per marker shifted"), but follow these general principles: instantly and utterly obey any Knight, Herald, or Lord or face a period of imprisonment; give (if one is a Knight or Herald) no overly ruthless, foolish, or needlessly tyrannical orders or face prison time; steal not, attack not, despoil not (trees and crops as well as citizens); and set no fires or perform other destruction -- or face both fines and longer imprisonment (depending on the degree of damage done).

Prison time in Nimbral is spent gardening or, for the worst prisoners, mining for copper and gems (mainly emeralds, but moonstones and sapphires also come to light) in mountain mines. The mines tend to be narrow, dangerous shafts and crawl-tunnels down which lone miscreants in harnesses are lowered on ropes to work with prybars and picks, in the light of enspelled glowstones.

Murderers (of Nimbrese citizens) are either slain or set to mining until they die or survive twenty summers. Folk who maim others often find themselves treated to the same disability they visited upon a victim. Those deemed to have slain or maimed whilst defending children, the wounded or sick, or in desperate self-defense, are usually given lighter sentences (often four or five years of mining, or service on a long and perilous Nimbrese naval journey). 

The Tellings place a high value on leaving alone growing things, and not harming or causing fear in any Nimbran, and a lower value on property -- and include many instances of "punishments fitting crimes." (A Nimbran who liked to beat his wife, for instance, was beaten in like manner by a larger woman, to collapse, every day for nine days; a Nimbran who continually stole from her neighbors had all of her belongings seized and distributed freely among folk of a distant port, and so on.)

It may take a visitor to Nimbral some time to notice that Nimbrese continually tell little lies (especially about their own pasts and deeds); this is a legacy of the realm's longtime state worship of Leira, as is the love of tale-spinning. Since the fall of the goddess in the Time of Troubles, the Nimbral Lords have sought to remove all power of illusions from the general populace, and to make lying about "things that matter" (current behavior, items and their amounts and whereabouts, things and events observed) extremely frowned upon. The Lords promote the idea that all organized worship is founded in deceit, and is therefore a bad and self-limiting thing. Therefore, no state religion or organized priesthoods are allowed in the realm, only small shrines and individual priests (whose doings must never offend against the Tellings, upon risk of exile after more usual punishments are administered). No law deems lying a crime, but all Nimbrese know that Heralds (and presumably the Lords) can tell truth from falsehood. Most don't know that this ability is conferred by rings of truth telling all Heralds wear.

Heralds of Nimbral do not discuss their specific duties, numbers, and orders with non-Heralds, but they seem to number sixteen or so. They deliver warnings and guidance (based on their exhaustive knowledge of the Tellings and the intent of the Lords), decide what matters to take to the Lords for judgment; deliver Lords' judgments to others; and can command all Knights as enforcers, bodyguards, and peacemakers.

Every Herald receives ongoing, specific operational orders as "voices in their minds" directly from the Lords, in a mental contact they have no control over (they can mentally "speak back" to a Lord when in contact, but can't "call" a Lord).