Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Gash Nosebrass sat on a folding stool with his fingers tented in front of him. “I’m told you helped my dear Stormy to escape,” he said in a low voice, almost a purr. “One of my favorites, soft and pretty like a human girl but tough like an orc, and no one’s seen her in days and days and days. My man Ashhgrom saw you two together before she want missing. Tell me what you know.”

Lightning spat on the floor. “My mother sold us all to you for shaved gold pieces,” she said. “Why would I have any loyalty to a family like that?”

“Why were you seen with her then?” said Gash, his voice rising. “I trust Ashhgrom enough to have his pick of those I will not have–as you well know, ugly one!–and any that call him liar will answer to my axe and my bubbling stewpot, and not necessarily in that order.”

Lightning drew herself up to her full height–which, she wagered, would beet or exceed Gash’s if he stood. “I put pillbugs in her hair,” she said. “I like to hear her scream, and so that’s what I was doing when your man Ashhgrom Emptygirdle saw us. If she ran away after those…most enjoyable screams, surely that is her loss, being deprived of Nosebrass’s bed.”

Like a flash, the orc warchieftain was on his feet, and Lightning found his hand clenched about her jaw, holding her to the floor. “Is that the way of it, then?” he hissed. “You were tormenting my favorite, perhaps enough to send her from me?”

In a cracked voice, but a firm one, Lightning answered: “I left her in agony and weeping, yes. But word is that you’ve tired of her anyhow, in favor of Sally the Hourglass, and that she was for your pot anyway.”

Gash released her with a low chuckle. “You don’t break easy, ugly one. I’m impressed. If you weren’t so ugly and barren I might take more notice of you. But yes, your sister was for Gruumsh, as is only right for a shaman of our people. If you see that pretty face again, you’ll come and tell me, won’t you?”

Lightning worked her way to her feet. “Oh yes, Warchieftain Nosebrass,” she said. “If I see that pretty face ever again, you’ll be the first to know.”

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Stormy pressed a vial of acid into Lightning’s hand. It was the sort of ampule that the scouts took with them, to throw in the faces of pursuing guards or to strip the bark from trees as wayposts. It left terrible agony and scars in its wake.

“What is that?” said Lightning, all gruff and all business. “Stole it from the scouts, did you?”

“It’s for me, sis,” said Stormy. “Thundra pinched it for me, but I can’t find her now. I need you to use it on me.”

Lightning, shocked, looked her sister in the eye. Stormy, the favorite daughter, who favored her father so much she could pass for human in the right light. Always the most beautiful and feminine of the girls, always the most popular…and of course the first of the sisters to catch warchieftain Gash Nosebrass’s eye and be taken into his tent. “What?”

“He’s tired of me, sis. I’ve heard it. Sally the Hourglass is in, and I’m out. And you know how jealous Gash is. I’ll be throat-slit and bleeding out on his meat-rack for the pot before she’s even bedded him.”

“More of that fakery he dresses up as being a shaman,” Lightning muttered. “As if he cared one notch for Gruumsh or anyone besides himself!”

“I need you to do it, sis. I don’t want you to do it, but I need you to do it. You’ve seen what he does to the others when he finds them. Their bones, picked clean and twisted together with wires outside his tent. The songs he sings as he butchers his girls, and his hounds howling for the gristle…that will be me, if you let it, sis.”

“Do it yourself then,” Lightning said. “I’ll kill anyone who tries to touch you like that. Don’t think for a moment that all of those pillbugs I’ve put in your hair over the years mean otherwise. I have a hidden blade, a little one but keen, and more than one of those bastards have been stabbed through their smaller head before I carve up their big one.”

“This isn’t one of Gash’s boys alone in their tent, sis. You do that and they’ll kill you. We’ve got to stay alive for each other.”

Lightning paced in a circle, angrily striking out against whatever got in her way. She kicked viciously at a large mossy flagstone, cursing at it and watching the pillbugs beneath its overturned surface scatter. An idea lit her eyes, and she bent down, scraping at the loose moist soil with callused hands and broken nails.

Stormy visibly recoiled from them as Lightning approached. “You…you know I hate those still, right?” she said. “You’ve known ever since we were little girls, and you were tangling them up in my hair to make up for all the boys who wanted to play with me.”

“That’s right,” Lightning said gently. She took the vial of acid from Stormy’s hand. “And with them all wrapped up in your hair, you’ll be too distracted to feel this burning those pretty features away until it’s too late. Just like old times.”

“Just…just like old times,” Stormy said.

“I’ll aim away from the eyes. Just promise me you’ll have some beautiful daughters one day, to make up for our bad looks.”

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Dear fool,

Word has reached me that you are meddling in things that you do not understand. You know exactly of what I speak, so I’ll not insult us both by writing down particulars. This is your first and only warning. Walk away. People change their minds all the time, drift into other pursuits, lose interest, or simply lower the stone they have aimed true at the hornet’s nest.

See that you are one of them.

Some have thought that they can buy the Mother of Whispers, intimidate her, even defeat her. They are all dead, and they all died not screaming deaths but wheezing ones. Gurgling as the blood filled their lungs, ushered in by the hidden blade. Gasping as the poison did its work despite the food tasters. Stillborn screams on their lips as the garrote closed, merciless, or the gilded pillow delivered its luxuriant, smothered, death.

The Mother of Whispers knows all, hears all. You will not surprise me. You will not defeat me. You will never know my name, or my station. All you will know is oblivion, unless you turn back now. The hand that wrote this on my behalf is already dead, rotting in an alleyway or bobbing in a canal.

Heed this warning, or join them. It matters not to me.

Yours in death,
The Mother of Whispers

PS – You may wonder why you have been warned at all. Know that someone bought this warning for you with their life and all their possessions. You would do well to honor their sacrifice.

-MW

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Gash Nosebrass has earned for himself a respectability that many orcs would envy, such as it is. In addition to the usual raiding and banditry of orc bands, Gash also runs protection rackets among the hillside communities, collecting “taxes” from the orc, half-orc, and human settlers, who can expect harsh reprisals if they refuse. He is also in the slaving business, buying orcs and half-orcs from their parents or spouses for a few gold each. The males are added to his band, and some eventually join it as full members after buying their freedom. But Gash regards the females as his own chattel property, to be used as laborers, “borrowed” by his troops, and more–all with no hope of rescue or release unless they are sold off.

Perhaps the most grim and feared aspect of Gash is his proclivity for cannibalism. He deliberately spreads rumors of devouring the weak and those that irk him, which help cow those who might resist. They give him a further veneer of orcish respectability as a shaman of Gruumsh, as shamans have a long cultural history of devouring orcish enemies to gain their power. The reality is far more horrifying: Gash cares nothing for Gruumsh and only goes through the motions of shamanism when it pleases (or benefits) him to do so. Rather, he uses cannibalism as a means of control, killing and eating only those female consorts that he has tired of, or that have wronged him, so that no other man might possess them. His ex-consorts have known to resort to scarring themselves to avoid recognition, and many current concubines have had hands or arms hacked off and roasted as a warning.

Often, orcs do not have much concept of fatherhood, but Gash’s band is different. He declares himself to be the father of every child born to his band, and takes great pride in visiting the newborns. He will often personally cull the weak and the lame children and the rest grow up revering him as their father whether it is true or not. Strangely, this is one area in which he exercises restraint: the babies, even the culled ones, are never eaten.

Despite the massive facial scar and brass nose ring that give him his name, Gash is not above negotiation and will readily come to terms with a stronger force. This is how the Scourge of the Hills has operated for so long unchallanged, in fact. By pledging nominal loyalty to whoever is strong enough to challenge him, Gash remains free to do as he will. Weaker enemies can be defeated and plundered, while stronger ones give him a chance to change sides. Songs are still sung in Orcish of how Gash rode his band out to battle on behalf of the Duke of Reth against the marauders of Kobh…only to turn around and fight against the Duke with the Marquis of Pexla. Gash is as close to a bulwark of stability as the hills have ever had, and this makes him useful despite his brutal depredations.

However, none who now know him as Gash Nosebrass know the darkest secret in the old orc’s past.

He grew up many miles away, in a band of nomads, who were attacked by marauders and then destroyed by hunger, with the few survivors being sold into slavery. While he looks to those slavers as an inspiration, a model, he nevertheless returned many years after buying his freedom to murder every last one of them, including all who had been slaves at the time of his bondage.

No one must know of the fact that he has an elvish great-grandfather and is therefore 1/8 elvish. This is what drives him to be the most brutal and successful orc warchief/shaman, the nagging feeling that only he has that he is not a “true” orc. The idea that his success is due to his “tainted” blood, and that an orc with no elf blood could not build a petty empire as he has, torments Gash to no end. He is convinced that if his secret is ever revealed, it will be the end of him and of his band.

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How did Nevra, the Witch Queen, come to power all those many years ago? Needless to say, there are none now living who remember it. But I have heard this rumor, and with the Witch Queen permitting it to circulate, I believe it to be at least partly true. They say that long ago, before the dead husks of the cast-out gods began to plummet as meteors from the heavens, our realm was ruled by petty nobles as many are. The emperor–whose realm then could scarcely have been called an empire, despite his hubris–was obsessed with continuing his line. To that end, he arranged for his barren empress to be cast aside, and sought out a younger second wife.

Nevra had just arrived at that point, as fresh and young and tender as morning dew, and she attracted the emperor’s attention instantly. We know not where she came from, only that she was of tender years and very fair. The emperor, smitten, married her soon after as his empress. Her one condition to the match was that he furnish a school of magic, to be supported by the city and added to the palace. Mindful of the usefulness of mages and the wishes of his bride, the emperor is said to have agreed on one condition: he did not want his fragile bloom damaged in magical study. So she was forbidden to partake of the knowledge therein, and expected to confine herself to the role of a walking womb for the hoped-for son.

Naturally, you can imagine, the emperor did not get his wish.

True to her word, Nevra did not attend any classes or indulge in any studies at the magic school. But she did associate with the students, and before long she had many friends among them. When the emperor found himself confronted by a circle of mages intent on his overthrow, he found that there was little difference between a queen who was a witch, and a queen who commanded them. It was only after his head was on a pike that Nevra turned to the study of magic, and within six months her powers had exceeded that of even her brightest students.

The emperor never did get his son, for the Witch Queen has never borne a child. There is also a rumor that the Witch Queen was, in fact, the old empress who had long studied sorcery in secret and who had renewed her aged body to gain revenge on her deceitful spouse. I would not bring that theory up with the Witch Queen if I were you, my friend, but it does lend the story a pleasing circularity. Even if it is, as I suspect, a lie.

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So you would abandon caution and ask of Nevra, the Witch Queen of our fair realm? I admire your boldness, traveler, even if it flirts with danger. The Witch Queen is powerful and her rule has brought us much prosperity, but she brooks no dissent and threats to the community are dealt with harshly.

The first thing most ask about is her immortality. It is no secret that Nevra, the Witch Queen, has not aged a day since she first came to power centuries ago. You’ve no doubt heard the rumblings and rumors on the streets: “Why should a human live such a long life? We are not elves or dwarves. Isn’t human life precious because it is fleeting?” In my opinion, these malcontents are missing the point, likely because they covet the Witch Queen’s position for themselves.

Her words on the matter are few but powerful. “I am working to tame death for the benefit of all, and in so doing I must be the one on whom these magicks are first used. I would ask such a burden of no one, and trust none but myself to carry them out.” You see then, there, that the Witch Queen’s thoughts are ever with her people. One day, when we are ready, she will perfect the secret of taming death and we will all benefit.

I for one feel that this is only right and just. Imagine the effect immortality could have on the common rabble! By taking the burden of taming death onto herself, the Witch Queen protects us all. This is why, even though she is now ageless, her birthday celebrations are the greatest festival in her realm. It is both a reminder, and a promise.

You may have heard some, primarily outsiders, refer to our Witch Queen as the Quitch. Do not, my friend, let her hear you utter this word, for she detests it. The last outsider to utter it in her presence was given, as a “gift,” a music box. It was a marvelous contraption of mahogany, brass, and bone, and the offender was enraptured by the gift until, some time later, they wound it for the first and only time. They live in an asylum now, and the blood on their hands means they will never see release.

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O traveler of many questions, how you seem to delight in the half-truths I spin for you! Who am I to turn you aside, when my repeated warnings will not? You ask now of Harper, who might be called the dearest and most powerful of the Witch Queen’s inner circle.

It is a fact well-known that for every male Nevra takes under her tutelage, she takes two females. None know why, save perhaps for the fact that purely martial pursuits do not interest the Witch Queen, and it is those pursuits in which men often excel. But Harper is different, and the name given to him suggests why. “Harper” is a name in no tongue other than out own, and it simply means one who plays upon strings. But the strings that Harper plays upon are the threads of fate, and his music is a mixture of sorcery, prophecy, and bitter steel.

Those who have seen him fight know why Harper earned for himself the appellation “The Annihilator.” Lightly armored, he nevertheless cuts opponents to ribbons with his sword and spells, moving with supernatural speed and accuracy. It is as if he can predict their every move and react accordingly, and I believe this to be his gift. Prophecy is, of course, not an unknown gift. But those that can see though the mists see so darkly, and they perceive only the end result. Harper, I think, sees the threads of fate that bind all causality together.

Does that confuse you? Let me give you an example, then. Suppose an oracle knew that they would die from a falling clock, having seen this in a dark and dim vision. So they would take the precaution of having no clocks in their house, quite naturally. But Harper would see the threads binding together a clock and the oracle’s fate, and he would know to loosen a brick in the clock tower nearby, bringing it down upon the oracle who, clockless, had thought their fate cheated.

I would venture that this ability paralyzed Harper as a young man, before the Witch Queen was able to tame it. If the use of such a gift to parry and riposte a sword-swing seems to you a waste, perhaps it is because Harper has limited himself to the strings of the immediate future, lest he go mad from unbridled prophecy. Or perhaps there are things yet that the Witch Queen does not wish him to see…?

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O, traveler, your curiosity reminds me of when I, too, sought to unravel the Witch Queen’s beautiful designs with only my feeble wits. You ask now of her other pupils? I will tell you what I know, with the added warning that the more one thinks one knows about Lady Nevra, the less one truly does. The Witch Queen is quicksand, my friend, and to build any sort of knowledge upon that is to ask for danger, and possibly death.

Richenda came to the Witch Queen within living memory, and indeed she might be said to be the youngest of Nevra’s innermost. The name she was gifted with upon entry is a very old one, perhaps most notably borne by the great line of queens that ruled the land of Varen for generations, until the overthrow of Richenda XVI in the Smiling Revolution. I think this was the Witch Queen’s way of saying that Richenda, though young, had an old soul, as if she had lived many times before.

She earned the appellation ‘the Delver’ by delving deeply into arcane studies and also by delving deeply into the art of necromancy. Such is her art, they say, that she can scoop the knowledge out of a corpse as one scoops ice cream from an enchanted icebox. Richenda is a practitioner of such art and skill that none can match her, and those that try usually wind up quite dead. Her affect, cold and distant, seems to reinforce this. She is also reputed to know things that she should not, secrets that have passed no mortal lips.

I have my own theory. I think that Richenda was born with an innate gift of necromancy, specifically necropathy – the ability to read the thoughts of the dead. Almost as soon as she could walk, I wager, she began intuitively combing the minds of the dead for knowledge. That explains the ‘old soul’ part of her name, surely enough. However, I suspect that there was a darker side to this, as well. The Art has long been known to act like a drug to some, each piece of magic bringing with it a rush that knows no equal in the feeble powders and poultices of humankind. I suspect that young Richenda quickly became addicted to the rush of necropathy, to the extent that she used the knowledge she had gained to manufacture corpses, as it were, when her supply ran out.

A young woman with the minds of the greatest mages her home had ever known at her grasp? It is no wonder she attracted the notice of the Witch Queen. I would say those desires have been suppressed, if indeed my theory is correct. Then again, the Witch Queen is not above merely slaking such a thirst, should it suit her purposes. And plenty of folk, magical or otherwise, do go missing in Nevra’s great city…

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O traveler, I see you have questions about the strange, armored form that walks the halls of the Witch Queen. Know that Nevra has always kept the lives of her students as the utmost secrets, so all you will come to know is hearsay and rumor. Does this mean that there is no kernel of truth with falsehood wrapped, pearl-like about it? That is for you to decide.

As you may have guessed, all of Nevra’s pupils are given a new name but must earn for themselves an appellation. Lectra was therefore given her name by Nevra, meaning “promised one” as it does in the old, dead tongue of the fallen celestial gods. Lectra’s appellation ‘the Infector’ refers to her mastery of the subtler arts. While her armor may lead one to suspect her a warrioress, and she is indeed a deadly foe in combat, Lectra’s true skills reside in the arts of poison and of mind control. She infects with poison and contagion, and dominates those of lesser willpower to do her bidding. The envenomed blade slides home held in a familiar hand, the poisoned mushrooms served on trusted plates, the ague spread on sleeping lips by devoted servants.

True to the name the Witch Queen bestowed upon her, Lectra is herself a promise. A promise that death will come swiftly and on subtle wings.

As to the armor, none rightly know. It is silent despite its bulk, and encrusted with eldritch symbols that are meaningless to all who have attempted to read them, so many have guessed at Elvish origin. It is rumored that Lectra only began to wear the armor some years after her recruitment, and that before then she was known to be a beautiful being who enjoyed wandering the town. Encased in her armored husk as she now is, her speech held to terse and echoing monosyllables, there is no denying something has grievously afflicted her.

I will share with you my favorite story, in the full knowledge that any such story is likely a pleasing falsehood:

As a young woman, Lectra lost her family to a terrible accident, one related directly to the immense potential the Witch Queen saw in her. After she had been recruited and trained as a powerful sorceress, Lectra foolishly tried to part the veil and return her family to life through sorcery. The aftermath of this terrible incident was that her physical form was annihilated, and only through the greatest effort was the Witch Queen able to save her. Implicit in this rescue, though, was her further service to Nevra. For Lectra is said to be the oldest of the Witch Queen’s current students, and she may no longer be able to die.

Perhaps that is the real reason behind her subtlety. Brute force holds no interest for someone who has only immortal loneliness to look forward to, and who must long for death.

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As you know, the lead mines of House Galena are the worst place to be, and they go through miners recruited from Sunmont quite a bit. Recently, we’ve been getting reports of strange behavior among the miners, even stranger than the violent brawls that lead miners tend to get into. They’ve been uncharacteristically quiet, with little of the usual ruckus we associate with their quarter of the city, but bodies in miners’ clothing are turning up at an alarming rate. We sent an agent into the lead mines to investigate, but he hasn’t returned. We found his carrier pigeon on the rooftops a few days ago, dead, with a partial message in its cylinder:

The lead mine foreman is giving…

Your job will be to infiltrate the mines, either disguised as miners or with a writ from House Galena allowing you to do a mine inspection or even sneaking in. Then I want you to find my agent and recover what he knows. If you cause a ruckus, this will drastically undermine–no pun intended–our relationship with House Galena and make any future dealings with them considerably more hostile. If the agent is dead, you’re authorized to continue his investigation, but there will be a bonus for bringing him back alive. And, of course, if you are traced back to me I will have to disavow you, meaning we won’t be working together again for the foreseeable future.

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