Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

While is is a well-worn fact that, so long as they are loyal to the Emperor, his feudal subjects may do as they wish, both the Imperial Chancery and the Church acknowledge that it is important to treat serfs and smallholders well. Sadly, not all learn this lesson or take it to heart, and the Landgrave of Stonn is an unfortunate example. He levied ruinous taxes, conscripted men for mercenary service, and was unmoved by the suffering of his people during the Long Famine or the Red Death.

Eventually, this led to a peasant uprising, led by a former farmer that went by the nom-de-guerre of Harvester. He had reportedly taken up his pitchfork after the death of his family and slain one of the Landgrave’s tax collectors in cold blood, an act which galvanized his fellow serfs to do the same. After leading them to victory at the Battle of Duerstadt’s Mill, the revolt in the Landgravate became serious enough to attract the attention of the Imperial Chancery.

Around this time, his fellow rebels began to notice strange things about the man they called Harvester. His horse never seemed to tire, and indeed had begun to radiate a strange stench. Despite capturing a quantity of high-quality arms and armor at Duerstadt’s Mill, Harvester refused to stop carrying his pitchfork in battle, and refused to don armor. They also noticed that, despite his insistence that no harm come to the civilians and soldiers captured by his troops, the nobility that fell into the rebels’ hands tended to disappear rather than being held hostage or ransomed.

Eventually, the Imperial Chancery intervened and forced the Landgrave of Stonn from power, passing his lands to the Graf von Tuninfor, who promised general amnesty in return for improved conditions and lower taxes. Most of the rebels took this agreement, but not Harvester, who continued to attack and slay nobles with an ever-diminishing band of followers. The former Landgrave of Stonn was eventually slain at the country home to which he had retired in luxury, and many other minor nobles throughout the area, including the Graf von Tuninfor’s nephew and heir, fell to his pitchfork as well.

It was around this time that observers noted the unhealthy cast of Harvester’s skin, and the sloughed and mummified appearance presented by his horse. The only thing to show no signs of decay were Harvester’s clothes, and his pitchfork.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
It seems clear to me that a dark bargain was made here in haste, and although the lot of the people of Stonn was made less burdensome thereby, Harvester remains a dangerous outlaw with a record of assaulting and murdering nobles. It is not entirely clear what animates him or if he can be harmed or killed; this is a matter of ongoing investigation my the Inquisitorium.

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Ragpickers are a well-known feature of our civilization, providing a useful service by collecting detritus and selling it on to be used in a variety of products. They are often known for keeping the more interesting items they find by poking through offal and refuse, but some have taken the practice further than most. The Ragman of our story has no other known name, having been birthed into the intense poverty that is the lot of so many in the poorer electorates of the Empire, and made a living like many of his kin by collecting scraps of cloth and bone for use in making cardboard and glue.

One day, the Ragman came across a piece of kingly fabric–Glevna purple, the color of nobility, run through with shimmering gold threads. Accounts differ as to where it was found–the offal piles of Kourtzberg, the banks of the river Pleß, or the old field upon which the Battle of the Grains was fought. In any case, the fabric was worth a hundred times what the Ragman had ever found, and any weaver attached to a noble court would have purchased it for a tidy sum. Yet the Ragman found himself so enamored by it that he refused to sell it, instead affixing it to his tattered cloak in a place of honor and continuing his trade.

Soon, fellow ragpickers noticed that the Ragman seemed to be having extraordinary luck in finding more scraps of fabric. Nothing so fine as that first piece, to be sure, but more than exceeding the rest of them in quantity. They also noticed that the Ragman had stopped selling his rags on. Instead, he affixed them to his garments in the same manner as the first, gradually building up a coat of motley fabrics. Gloves, too, soon followed, as did boots and a mask. Given that he had stopped selling, the other soon wondered how he was able to eat, but the Ragman made his rounds all the same, never mumbling more than a few words to anyone and soon ceasing to speak altogether.

The Ragman was soon avoided by even his fellows due to an intense stench that began emanating from him, which lasted for weeks. All the time, he continued to gather more rags and added them, layer upon layer, with even the original kingly purple cloth long since buried by a husk of scavenged fabrics. Then they began finding bones in his wake. First small bones, but later even long ribs and limb bones. It was feared he had taken to waylaying and murdering others, until a suspicious burgomaster followed the Ragman and saw that the bones were slipping out from between his own rags.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
It is my belief that, as the rags closest to his core rot away, new ones are added to replace them. The Ragman has strangled those tho attempt to impede him, but otherwise not interfered with anyone, and indeed many settlements provide him with rags at a safe distance to ward him off. In my opinion, he might be destroyed with pitch and fire, but that may lead to unanticipated consequences.

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It is said that in the Library of Azadk there exists a book with a special and wondrous power: anything written in its pages will immediately spring into being within the Library itself. Its authorship has variously been attributed to Sharif al-Nadsqe, the famed Sarsen polymath, or Li Rehwui, the author of the Book of Wondrous Things for the court of the Emperor of Seres. All accounts agree, though, that the book is ordinary and unexceptional, with its miraculous nature only being revealed upon writing something into the leaves.

The ascetic Order of Azadk, who run the library, do not deny that strange things have occurred within. The abbot confirms that, despite the prohibition on women, a young woman was once found in the library at around the same time as the body of a man who had died of old age. Legend has it that he wrote the name of his young wife, dead 50 years, with his last breath; the abbott disputes this, and notes that the woman became a nun of the associated sisterhood shortly thereafter. There is also damage to the roof and a number of singed books from the sudden appearance of a firedrake, though the abbot also insists that the firedrake was seeking the golden altar and sacrements of the order for its hoard.

One thing the abbot does confirm, though, is the prevalent belief in the legend. Nearly every tome in the library has had a wish inscribed into it over the years, and there is perhaps a fine book to be written on when people wished for and when. Regardless, the library is now closed except by appointment, all writing instruments are confiscated, and only lemon juice is allowed for the writing of notes, as it will not darken until and unless exposure to heat.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
The current abbot, Athanas, was asked what wish he would write in the Book of Azadk, if it existed. His response: “I would wish for a clean library free of graffiti.”

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The Todesgraf–not to be confused with the corpulent Toad Graf–also known as the baron of death, was a minor noble whose name is not recorded in the annals. After a minor squabble with a fellow nobleman broke out into open warfare, he found that his opponent had Imperial favor, and as a result his lands were largely overrun and he was reduced to a single besieged stronghold. Retreating there, it seems that some sort of dark bargain was made–or perhaps the culmination of a long secret dabbling with necromancy.

In either case, the assault failed–the men sent into the breach were slain by the tireless undead, and soon rose to join the defenders. Six more attempts resulted in the dead defenders now outnumbering the attackers, and the attack was called off. A flag of parley was flown, offering terms, but no response was received despite a figure being clearly visible on the topmost balcony. A sortie from the castle soon followed, but the undead were beaten back through the knowledge of the imperial inquisitors, who were able to light them on fire. Those who fell outside the walls of the fortress were not raised, suggesting that whatever baleful enchantment cloaked the place had a limited range.

As a result, the Imperial Diet declared the Todesgraf a necromancer and an outlaw, revoked all his titles, and claimed all his lands as an Imperial fief. The fortress was surrounded by anti-undead fortifications and left standing, the last bastion of the nobleman’s former power. There it stands to this day, gradually crumbling into ruin, its garrison of the dead enlarged only by the occasional treasure hunter or madman.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
There were those in the Imperial Diet who thought that the Todesgraf could be a powerful ally if his ire could only be turned on the heathen Taeni or Sarsen. A proposal to this effect was offered three times: first by messenger, then wrapped around an arrow, then finally by carrier pigeon. The messenger never returned, and his body was later seen manning the battlements. The arrow, its missive still rolled and unread, was shot into the kneecap of one of the blocking detachment a week later. The pigeon is still occasionally seen preening its rotting feathers on the battlements, its message still attached and unread.

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Perhaps you have heard the story of the great king of Keftiu who, upon finding himself in favor with his pagan gods, asked that everything he touched might turn to precious metals. The king, doomed by his vain and foolhardy request, choked to death as he tried to eat a grape, which turned to gold in his throat.

There is another such unfortunate, who some call Keftiu as well in imitation of the old story, for he has never seen fit to give his name. Everything he touches, rather than turning to precious metals, instead crumbles to dust. This includes the ground at his feet, which is reduced the the consistency of a raked ash, as well as the dust in the air, which results in a falling mist of death about his figure. The only exception seems to be his worn and tattered raiment, which some claim is that of an old Imperial guard from the Crisis era.

For whatever reason, this Keftiu keeps to himself, having taken up residence in the Vale of Ash about the summit of the Oesoyo volcano–one supposes, because there the ash he creates will not be noticed. None have ever seen him eat, and the few times an arrow or bullet has been loosed at him, it has dissolved when it struck. Some feel that he is facing an immortal punishment for some long-ago transgression, though what sin could merit such a punishment defies the imagination.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
Many attempts have been made to communicate with this “Keftiu,” and while he is clearly alive and conscious, he appears to either ignore or to be confused by most utterances. One scholar, though, was able to receive a response. He called out a question in Middle Imperial: “Quid tu hic?” The response was a single word: “Defectum.” “Failure,” or perhaps, “I failed.”

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It is no understatement to say that Alice Nachtnebel lived a difficult life. Born into a family of smallholders at the edge of the Durchdenwald, she worked the field from an early age with her seven siblings. Her father, Herr Nachtnebel, had the idea of marrying his only daughter to a wealthy older man to enrich himself, and so repeatedly forced her to entertain a variety of candidates even as he grudgingly paid for her to be educated in order to appeal to a more sophisticated–and therefore richer–potential husband.

In the end, Alice Nachtnebel was married to an untergraf, much to her father’s delight, but she soon caught polio from the wedding guests and lost the ability to walk. Her husband abandoned her once it became clear she would never fully recover, and Alice found herself back in the family home with her vengeful father, who resented the failure of his plan and the burden that his daughter had become. Testimony by neighbors and siblings attest that Alice was on the receiving end of terrible abuse and neglect by Herr Nachtnebel, with her only solace being views of the wood and its creatures.

According to several eyewitness accounts, in a final fit of rage, Herr Nachtnebel boarded up the window Alice had been using to watch the forest and denied her food in response to a perceived slight. She reportedly passed away just as a terrific storm blew in, smashing open the front door and the boarded window. After that, those in the Durchdenwald noticed many strange quirks in the wind, as well as the sustained presence of unusually intense gusts. The untergraf, for instance, found himself blown out a window, while Herr Nachtnebel had a tree blown down upon him. The Nachtnebel siblings, who had ever cared for their sister, meanwhile found the wind at their backs, their windmills bestowed with unusual vigor.

To this day, the wind in that area seems to obey its own strange rules, and no explanation has ever been offered.

High Inquisitor’s Note
The untergraf in this case did not register his marriage with the imperial court, which is why he was able to abandon his new wife with no official consequences. His scheme was revealed when a piece of incriminating paperwork mysteriously blew into the herzog’s office.

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In the ashes of the conflagration that claimed Schloß Revaeb and its master, Herzog Revaeb, rescuers found the mask–intact despite seeming to be made of wood, and as strong as steel despite its charred state. The first to handle the item soon discovered its terrible secret, and the price it demands.

Simply put, anyone who puts on the mask will find themselves filled with incredible power. Flight, invulnerability, near-perfect comprehension, inhuman speed. Gouts of fire can spring forth from their fingertips at a whim, and they can level a city with their power, should it suit them. But as terrible as this power is, its cost is equally terrible. For the wearer will be consumed by flames, a torch, and the power will last only as long as their body. Once they are burned to a cinder, the flames will fade and the mask will come to rest upon a pile of ash.

The mask cannot be removed, so the price for its use is universally death. For some, though, the price is worth paying.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
Before the Embermask was put under lock and key, it was often sought for revenge, for murder, for sadism. And then there was the poor page who was just always cold.

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The platworm, sometimes rendered as platwyrm, is a particularly dreaded abomination. It only inhabits and infests parcels of undeveloped land, cleared and turned but not yet sown, and is therefore a doughty foe of the lumberman, the land developer, the estate agent. Anyone who clears lands to work of sell is at risk of a platworm attack.

Burrowing under the soil, these creatures will sense vibrations as people pass by above and then, once a pattern is established, excavate a chamber that it will then collapse when the victim is overhead. The fall often kills the victim, but if it does not, the platworm finishes the job with its acidic secretions or with a flooded chamber on occaison. The victim is then drained of all vital fluids and the platworm will go dormant for a time.

Those who have successfully excavated and killed a platworm–no easy feat–report that they are similar to shipworms, perhaps related to them in the grand scheme of things. It is unknown how–or if–they reproduce, and some speculate that a limited number of these creatures actually exist.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
The easiest way to defeat a platwyrm is to never use the same path twice and to drive animals ahead of you. It cannot dig its chamber without a pattern to study, and it will refuse to eat anything but a man that is ensnared by one of its traps.

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This fast-growing ivy-like vine, identifiable by its distinctive five-lobed leaves, is covered with fine hairs and larger thorns that are loaded with a paralytic poison not unlike that which is found in hemlock. Contact with unprotected skin will result in a rapid spreading paralysis that lasts up to 24 hours and can be fatal in many cases. When a victim is paralyzed, the corpse ivy will rapidly grow over them, administering more poison but also sending shoots and runners deep into the victim’s body.

The corpse ivy appears to gain a significant amount of nourishment this way, and when the organic matter of a victim has been consumed, a hollow is left in the midst of a human-shaped vine bundle. These “jack o’vines” as they are known, can rise up and move independently, and are often used as lures for more victims. Some cases are reported of jack o’vines even using the armor and equipment of their victims, though this seems to be rare.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
Some aspects of the victim’s mind still seem to be present in the jack o’vines, as they are known to use combat techniques similar to that of those they have consumed. It’s unknown if they have any other retained knowledge, although one inquisitor did report getting one to answer yes-no questions through nodding.

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Nagas, creatures with elements of both snake and man, are major figures in folklore—some benign, some belligerent, but all wise with the weight of centuries of accumulated life at their beck and call. The rare oracle naga, though, is different. Through some trick of reincarnation or transmigration of the soul, it is able to issue predictions of startling accuracy and scope with near infallibility.

One would think that, given this, oracle nagas would be the most sought-after of sages and advisors, highly placed at court despite their bestial nature and need for live prey. Instead, though, they are routinely hacked to death by angry mobs when found despite giving of their prophecies freely and willingly.

The reason seems to be that the oracle naga cannot control what it sees—random snatches of the future are its stock and trade. It also seems to have trouble controlling what it says, as the nagas will blurt out what they see regardless of the consequences. Many infidelities are laid bare, many stories revealed by their endpoint, and then comes the torch, the pitchfork, the stake, the rope.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
The Prince-Bishop Rudolf II of the Estuariate once kept an oracle naga in his menagerie, feeding it live chickens in exchange for prophecy. He had it fed to his lions when it predicted—correctly—that his lover and the secret of broken chastity that implies would be revealed. His nephew Rudolf III, though, reportedly paid close attention.

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