Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

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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Like a black shadow borne on too many wings, the Whisperer of Secrets glides through the aether, collecting things that ought not be known. It’s not known if there are many or but one Whisperer, but it always behaves the same way, lapping hungrily at the edge of conversations and in the shadows, relying on its shadowy and ephemeral nature to hide it. The Whisperer of Secrets has been observed clinging to ceilings, perched on columns, hanging about eaves—always above, never below.

But like all who know secrets, the Whisperer also longs to give them away. So it will also tell them to strangers, dropping a breadcrumb trail of forbidden speech to those who dare listen. Generally, the secrets are presented without context, and are therefore useless. Perhaps that is part of its game.

When a mortal wishes for a certain secret, though, the Whisperer will try to make a deal. If it knows the secret, it will trade—secret for secret. But if it does not, the mortal will be borne off, never to be seen again.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
Some speculate that unfortunates who are on the losing end of those deals become the next generation of Whisperers, with all they know rendered secret. Others say that the Whisperers feed on their victims. I believe they are both right.

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Cerod II, Elector of the Yotigrate, had a notorious sweet tooth. While many nobles of his rank had a court chef or even a court confectioner, Cerod insisted on performing experiments himself with a small staff to perfect delightful sweets and sugared dandies. Chronicles still record the dancing sugar straws he created for the Holy Emperor’s birthday, and the cupcakes with candy butterflies that took to the air with the first bite that were offered on the confirmation of the Archbishop of the Yotigrate.

The long-held dream of Cerod, though, was a confection that could dance and sing, as he had a vision of a multi-layered cake with tiny gaiety on every tier. This proved most troublesome, as magickal means were often sufficient for recording a song but not dancing, or recording movement but not singing. The first batch that could do both was rejected for being stiff and unconvincing, and it was at this time Cerod apparently turned to darker sorceries to achieve his whimsical end.

It is not known from whence the Elector acquired a few flecks of the Sugar of Life, but it appears that he intended to use them to make a mother dough from which he could mold and train as many living cookies as he wished. And, indeed, his creation proved capable of speech, learning, and song. But Cerod had erred in assuming that it was the natural desire of any cookie to be baked and eaten–rather, as a living being, the cookie dough desired to preserve itself and avoid the pain of the oven at all costs. Once it learned, through a casual slip of the tongue, what its fate was to be, Cerod’s cookie rebelled.

Since the initial design had always intended for more dough to be added, so that additional cookies could be split from the mother, the cookie found it could absorb all other baking material in the kitchen-laboratory to increase its mass. It also found that sugar and caramel, properly tempered, could make effective weapons. In the space of one night, the cookie slaughtered Cerod and his staff and took over the kitchen-laboratory for its own purposes. Unable to contain the scourage, for fire simply baked it and blades had no effect, it was feared that the cookie might spread into Yotig itself, which was well-known for its breadmaking and had vast stores of gluten.

The new Elector, Cerod’s nephew Untipater IV, instead elected to seal the kitchen-laboratory with bodies of his uncle and the baking staff still inside, and to post guards and sugar-seeking dogs nearby. It is hoped that, with time, the Sugar of Life will wane and Carod’s cookie will grow weak and stale. The consequence of its escape might otherwise be too terrible to bear.

High Inquisitor’s Note:
The Holy Emperor was reportedly most disappointed by the whole imbroglio, not because of the death of his loyal vassal, but because it meant no further sweets. He had apparently promised his mistress a singing, dancing cookie cake once Cerod had perfected one, and she reportedly found the substitute–a four-layer Humming Fondant from Thuyhof, with the bottom-most layer made of Luneanzean Jigglebread–very unconvincing.

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During the privations of the Lyr invasions, the Great Lyran himself relied on a simple formula. He would arrive at the gates of a city with his host, and proclaim that the city had two options. It could request his protection, which he would gladly grant, and garrison the town in exchange for tribute. Or it could refuse, which would represent a personal insult, after which the town would be taken by force and, without the Great Lyran’s protection, it would be subject to whatever privations his host saw fit to visit upon it.

The fortified town of Geldstadt, protected by high walls and towers of the old Verdant Empire, responded to this offer with scorn. Desiring not to share their wealth, and confident in relief from the Elector, the citizens rejected the Great Lyran’s offer and barred their gates against him. They had every right to be optimistic, for Geldstadt’s walls withstood the Lyr for eight months, frustrating the Great Lyr’s campaign for an entire season. But the Elector never arrived, preferring instead to marshal his forces for the disastrous Battle of the Bloody Fields, so when the walls of Geldstadt were finally breached, the full fury of the Lyr fell on the town. Ordinarily, the Great Lyran would allow three days of plunder and pillage upon cities that defied him, but Geldstadt had left him in a foul mood, and as a result, he ordered every man, woman, and child in the city to be slain. He spared only the city council and mayor, driving them away to spread tales of depredation and fear.

Geldstadt had, as it happened, been hewn out of stones quarried from a layer that was rich in magicite and other naturally magick-conducting materials. The result was that the minerals were highly charged with the negative energy from so much death and suffering in such a short span of time. This caused the city, itself, to develop a rudimentary intelligence gestalt of a sort. It is capable of communicating, but rarely does so, preferring instead to use every means at its disposal to repel intruders, from collapsing masonry to feigning sounds.

High Inquisitor’s Note
Several groups of settlers have attempted to use the still-intact infrastructure while turning the Dead City to a more useful purpose. Most were driven away, but others were slaughtered, and the question of what happened to their spirits–dissipated, or joined the gestalt?–remains to this day.

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