Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Regarded by some as an unseelie counterpart to changelings, pookas have the same propensity for shifting and mutable forms, but add to it a considerable suite of unseelie powers that the Collegium is, at present, unable to explain. These include the ability to become invisible, incorporeal, or airborne seemingly at will. Pooka also have been observed to fast for months or to engorge themselves at a rate that would explode the stomach of a human or seelie fae, among other feats.

Again unlike changelings, pooka seem to have no clear agenda with their impersonations, and seldom attempt to fit in or remain in a single form for long. A single prank is normally the limit of their attention span, and they will often “break character” by assuming a deliberately frightening or alarming form, another behavior rarely seen in changelings.

Despite their classification as unseelie, however, there are no known examples of violent attacks by pookas, and they generally seem to be interested in causing chaos rather than bloodshed. There are recorded cases of pookas pledging their services to mortals in payment after accidental killings, but while surely well-intentioned these have never lasted for more than a day or two before the pooka once again becomes destracted and wanders off.

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A ravenous predator of marshlands and tidal pools, kelpies are carnivorous plants that are saturated with magical energies, only being able to grow or take root in areas of naturally high background magic. Using powerful illustions, as well as an innate ability to somewhat change their shape, kelpies will appear to be a being in distress—usually an attractive member of the opposite sex, an elder or youngster, but sometimes an animal or pet.

Once within arm’s reach, the kelpie will lash out with a leaf or stem coated with a sticky secretion that serves as both a trap and a powerful digestive acid. A victim so consumed will have its memories and personality made available to the kelpie, allowing them to become more effectice mimics with time. In one instance, the Muir Moor Tragedy, a single kelpie was able to wipe out all but one member of a Lower Verge village by mimicking each of its victims in turn.

In their investigations, the Collegium has found that kelpies are intelligent and capable of conversation, but appear generally disinterested in communication unless there is the possibility of a meal. Collegister Au’Brin was only able to obtain answers to simple questions by repeatedly placing himself into peril, with the kelpie ignoring him and his entreaties unless it seemed like he might be slain and consumed. From this can be gathered that kelpie intelligence came about primarily as a hunting tool, with the creatures being tempermentally unable—or perhaps consciously unwilling—to use it for anything but predation.

The keeping of cultivated “interrogator kelpies,” once common, has largely ceased due to the difficulty of extracting reliable information once a victim has been slain and digested.

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In the original myths and legends of the Kingdom-Empire, particularly in the Verge, changelings were fae that were left in place of stolen mortal babies. Other than a few isolated cases, that bas proven to be a myth, and as such the term has gradually shifted to mean those creatures that are of mutable form, captable of taking on a variety of guises.

The general consensus among the Collegium is that changelings either have some undetected fae (or possibly draconic) ancestry, or have been exposed to some sort of potent magical contamination at an early age or in utero. In either case, changelings’ abilities vary widely and inconsistently, with many arguing that they are in fact not even a discrete group at all.

Most changelings appear to attempt to blend in, assuming an innocuous form and attempting to maintain it. Some are able to do this more easily than others, but being outed as a changeling almost inevitably leads to the being in question being ejected from any employment and family bonds in suspicion of being an imposter.

They are, of course, treasured as spies and courtesans by the elite, but rarely if ever in the open due to the intense stigma, and many a changeling in government employ has only been revealed as such on their death. It was widely spectulated, but never proven, that King-Emperor Francis III’s well-known lover Hibibeth Dio was in fact a changeling, which led to her “disappearance” immediately after Francis III’s death.

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Unseelie fae, according to the classification system now in use by the Collegium, are those fae—that is to say, magical creatures who are not humanlike—whose behavior and motivations cannot be explained by any natural laws of the world or of magic. The definition is such that even beings that may be partly understood are classified as unseelie if they are hostile or otherwise unfriendly.

Many in the Collegium find this definition anthropocentric and unsatisfying, with many observing that “seelie” brownies and “unseelie” will ‘o wisps seem to be closely related. The classification of various risen spirits, ghosts, and zombies is also quite controversial, with the traditional classification placing them in unseelie fae while many Collegisters regard them as being wholly separate.

At one point, aided by a magic circle and a blunderbuss loaded with double shot, Collegistress Y’Wech interviewed an imp for its views on the matter. Asked why imps were hostile to humans and how they were able to teleport and assume gaseous form when not bound in a circle of iron shavings, the imp replied by asking how humans were able to move about without a brain in their head and detailing exactly how many blows from its claws would be needed to exsanguinate Y’Wech. Her response, to unload both barrels of the blunderbuss at the imp point-blank, is not regarded as a shining moment in Collegium scientific inquiry.

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The distinction between seelie and unseelie fae is one that is traced back to the “Systemae Magickae,” one of the earliest attempts to categorize magical beings. The anonymous author of the first edition classified as “fae” all small magical beings human-sized or smaller, excepting “those with souls,” namely elves and dwarves. The “seelie” fae were those who seemed to obey natural laws: they did not fly without wings, did not vanish without reason, and –perhaps crucially—would occasionally allow themselves to be interviewed and studied.

This helped to cement their status as the “good citizens of the magical world,” although many have been quick to point out that in this case “good” means almost exclusively “palatable to humans.”

In an interview with a brownie, Collegian Isco once asked why brownies and their seelie ilk were so generally accommodating to humans and the like despite the dangers of being so. The brownie responded that it was in both beings’ natures to act thus, a response which Isco did not appreciate but one which has since become a watchword and trope.

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In its history, the Collegium has had an allowance for up to 100 elves to join its ranks. Given their long lives, many have grumbled that 100 eternal appointments is scarcely incentive for up-and-comers. It has, in fact, given rise to several murders intended to “open up” spots for ambitious elves.

Collegister T’Xam, for instance, was fatally shot with a rosewood arrow during a lecture on the physiology of elvish demispleens, with his senior assistant Ekr implicated and ultimately executed. Another case, Collegister S’Taem, saw him poisoned with iron shavings administered over a low level for a long period. No one was ever accused of the crime, but the aura of suspicion over his three assistants saw an informal pact among collegisters to deny all of them promotion to the vacat spot, so as to deprive possible malefactors of the spoils of their misdeeds.

Everyone in the Collegium has agreed that Collegister Aewt simply distracted herself and fell out the window, however.

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The Goblin Question has occupied the Collegium in debates for some time. On the one hand, it is not a matter of dispute that goblins have been invaluable in their roles as porters, cooks, research assistants, and even researchers. On the other hand, the Collegium has a storied tradition of only admitting humans and “humanlike” folk, the latter only sparingly.

Given their short, slight, stature, the admission of goblins to the Collegium would mean that most of the facilites there would be unusuable by them, and the cost of “goblin-standard” laboratories and staircases has been borne only on an individual basis thus far.

While goblins are not permitted to address the Collegium, several speeches written by goblins have been read on the Collegium floor, notably by Collegister Matthews and Collegistress Ket. Many have been quick to dismiss these speeches as coerced, especially those in favor of the status quo, but the allegations of members taking credit for the work of goblin assistants were sufficiently alarming to dismiss three members in what is termed the Gobscandal.

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The wail of a banshee has long been suspected to have magical properties, ever since one such wail was successfully captured in a leaded glass jar using a system of parabolic reflectors. The experimenter in question, Collegium member Collegistress Birie, believed that her sister had risen from the grave as a banshee after her murder and sought to use the wail to decode a sort of “bansheetongue” that could be used to communicate with them. His Majesty the Emperor-King, in turn, funded the research in hopes of weaponizing the wail either to dispel banshees in the Lower Verge or to dispel enemy troops in the Viscountate.

In either case, the answer proved to be “no.” Reflected banshee wails played back at a banshee set up a sort of feedback loop that results in a supercharged banshee capable of turning small animals to stone or destroying walls for 12 hours or so, while reflected sounds directed at humans seem to have little effect other than a mild startling without the terrifying visage of a banshee to accompany them.

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The basis for the legendary tooth fairies are the wild unseelie fae of the Upper Verge, who are indeed known to collect small items left underneath pillows in exchange for trinkets. This is, of course, not limited to teeth, and the unseelie are known to take what they wish in other circumstances. As such, the reason for their behavior is uncertain.

It ultimately represents yet another front in one of the Great Fairy War in the Collegium. On the one hand are those Collegisters who claim that unseelie fae are impossible to study or predict, being themselves irrational beings made of irrational matter, if anything. On the other side are Colligisters who hold that unseelie fae are much like seelie fae, in that they can be explained by natural processes and physical laws—said processes and laws simply have not yet been discovered.

Proponents of the former are fond of mentioning the attempted dissection of a tooth fairy by Sir Arthur Holdberry, in which the tooth fairy seemed to spontaneously revive, rampaged throughout the room stealing at least one gold coin and one tooth from a living socket, before apparently dying again and exploding, possibly as a result of being hit by birdshot fired by the same Sir Arthur Holdberry.

Conversely, those who hold that unseelie fae can be studied are quick to note how difficult it can be to ascertain if a human is truly dead, much less a fae, and that most small creatures will panic if revived in an enclosed space—to say nothing of a propensity found in many a small creature to explode if hit with a full charge of shot at point blank range.

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Much has been written to justify or explain the seemingly infinite and yet finite powers attributed to dragons. Their prowess in battle, able to spew a variety of materials from their mouths and with bodies heavily armored by metallic scales, have made them legendary opponents. Yet there is no known tale in which the dragon is not ultimately proved mortal and laid low by swords, spears, or bows.

One would think it a simple matter to consult a dragon on the matter, as their fondness for talk, flattery, and riddles are equally legendary. Yet for all those who have spoken to one of the great wyrms and lived to set down the tale, none have come away with answers. It seems that dragons have little in the way of written or oral traditions, with adults meeting only to breed and whelps ejected from the nest as soon as they are old enough. This seems to ensure that the dragons themselves do not know the source or nature of their powers and nature, a troubling theory indeed.

The theory most in vogue at the moment is that elaborated by the Collegium of the Ancient Library. This theory, as elaborated upon by Collegister Maduin, holds that dragons have a the same dual nature as man, with both a physical and a metaphysical body. Unlike man, however, the Collegister argues that the metaphysical form of the dragon is not a soul but rather raw magic, and that dissipation, rather than afterlife, is their fate upon death. This, he claims, explains both their extraordinary power and clear mortality.

Until such time as the Collegium is equipped to dissect a deceased dragon without repeating the Incident of ’52, this may be the last word on the matter.

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