Brief History
Elvish oral histories speak of a time when all elves lived together in a distant land, in harmony with nature and themselves. Discord supposedly arose when the ancient elves began splitting into factions: one believed that elvenkind was inherently evil, and strove to contain this evil nature with laws and a structured society, while the other held that elves were inherently good and trusted them to act on their instincts without recourse to law and organization.

There may be a germ of truth in this, as it does explain the difference between the two major groups of elves, the light and the dark. The names arose because of minor differences in skin tone, though the genetic differences between the two groups are nil. Both existed in the oral histories of the other, despite immense geographical isolation: the first recorded meeting between light and dark elves took place only in recent times.

“Light” elves
As early as the third century of the recorded era, advanced elvish civilizations had begun to arise on the western seaboard of the major continent. Beginning as a series of petty kingdoms, over the course of centuries the various elvish principalities were united under a single king. While the dynasties in power changed relatively frequently, a light elvish king remained on the throne until the very recent era of revolutions.

However, increasing dogmatism and a rigid hierarchy eventually led this sophisticated civilization to stagnate. While the light elvish kingdom was the most technologically advanced in the world at one point, by the dawn of the modern era it was weak and suffered invasion and strife on an unprecedented scale. Only recently has progress been made in forging the light elves into a modern nation state.

“Dark” elves
While a number of powerful dark elven kingdoms rose and fell on the minor continent, they never approached the size or complexity of the light elves’. By and large, most of the dark elves lived in small groups, widely scattered, living as hunters, gatherers, or farmers.

This lack of centralized states left the dark elves vulnerable to conquest from abroad, and following the reestablishment of contact between the major and minor continents, they were largely subjugated by human and dwarvish conquerors. The elves were decimated in battle, and their numbers have remained low ever since, largely supplanted by settlers from the major continent.

Biological Sketch
Elves, like humans, range considerably in height, though they are generally of slender build. While strong, they lack the constitution of humans, dwarves, and orcs and must make up for their disadvantage in strength through their lithe nature and rigorous training. Skin tone ranges are similar to those of humans, with light elves tending toward lighter colors and dark elves toward a tanner complexion.

Elves have slow and difficult pregnancies; gestation lasts fourteen to eighteen months on average, and there is a refraction period of 2-4 years before another pregnancy is possible. Elvish children also mature very slowly, typically reaching adulthood at thirty to thirty-five years. Their slow metabolism gives elves significant resistance to poison and environmental toxins, however, and also greatly increases their lifespan, which is two hundred years on average. No upper limit is known; exceptionally hardy elves have been known to live over a thousand years, though documentation is difficult to come by.

Cultural Notes
Elvish cultures are often collectivist, focusing on the good of the group over that of the individual. Many dark elves lack personal names, substituting some earned deed or distinction instead. Both “light” and “dark” elvish cultures tend toward xenophobia and isolation, and while they have never been known to enslave or conquer other races (preferring suzerainty), many elvish cultures still hold them in low esteem.

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The Jack-of-Cards will, if you win a game of high-draw against it, grant a simple request. Many, to their peril, have asked for something as they would a genie, only to have themselves dealt a two of spades for their insolence. Wiser folks have used the boon to ask the Jack-of-Cards something about itself, and their reports form all that is know about the figure’s nature. Asked where it came from, the Jack-of-Cards will answer that it has always been.

Asked whether it is God, the Jack-of-Cards will laugh and allow that there are powers greater than it to which it owes no fealty. Asked why it uses a deck of cards, or what it used before cards were invented, the Jack-of-Cards will only say that it is the latest in a long line of ‘tricks.’

Those who do not wish to be bothered will have their wishes respected. But should someone, of their own free will, approach or accost the Jack-of-Cards, they will be dealt a card that has irrevocable effects on the fabric of the universe. The Jack-of-Cards will often play a simple card game with those that are willing, with a card as the penalty for losing and a request as the prize. But just as often it will fling a card at the interloper without so much as a sound.

Witnesses and researchers have attempted to catalog the effect that the various cards have, but have reached few conclusions. One report holds that the suicide king, the King of Hearts, bestows imbecility. Another holds that it besots the bearer with an impossible love, while a third has it giving immidiate and most painful heartbreak. Cardholders have vanished, had their personalities or forms subtly or grossly altered, and more.

The one thing all agree on is that the two of clubs, when dealt, brings instant and total annihilation.

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“What’s that you’re doing?” George groused, irritated by the constant splashing. The boy by the fountain didn’t respond, and the splashing and his youthful cries of disappointment continued.

It was quite impossible for George to continue to enjoy the nice weather from the bench or even think of feeding the birds when he was thus irked. Groping for his worn fedora, he stood up–carefully, as his back had a tendency to go out with too much sudden movement. He walked over to the fountain, waving the cane that he kept more for the purpose of swatting things than any real need for support.

“I said, what’s that you’re doing, boy?” George said. In the old days when someone’s elder addressed them they wouldn’t have had to repeat themselves. He was sure to keep a decent distance, though; the rise of perverts on every conceivable area of society made people weird about their kids and George wasn’t about to be caught up in a shouting match with some overprotective helicopter parent.

“I’m throwing pennies into the fountain,” the boy said. “For wishes.” He couldn’t have been more than six or seven; George bristled at the idea of a kid that young being left by himself, but that was the way it was with career moms and latchkey kids these days.

“Why are you doing that? Save your money. It’s annoying and you could drop hundred dollar bills in there all day without getting what you want.”

The boy tossed another dark penny into the water. “Nuh-uh. The kids at school say if you throw the penny just right the lady will catch it and you’ll get your wish.”

“The lady? Her?” George thrust his stick at the statue in the middle of the fountain, some 1930s conception of Columbia with flowing robes or other nonsense. “She’s made of marble, kid, and hasn’t moved since the day they hoisted her into place. Save your money; that’s the real way to get what you want. And for chrissakes stop all that noise.”

“I think a wish is worth a few pennies,” said the boy. “I have lots and Jimmy Feldman says he got his wish for a new bike.”

“For the love of all that is good and edible, kid,” George cried. “Listen to yourself! There’s no such things as wishes or spirits or anything besides what you see with your own two eyes! Your friend probably got that bicycle because his parents bought it for him, not by dumping perfectly good money into the drink.”

“You’re just saying that,” the boy said, flipping another coin into the water, “because you’re too cheap to try it.”

“Too cheap?” George reddened. “I’m just saying that because of a lifetime of being stone disappointed whenever I trusted in anything but myself to get what I wanted!” He fished a penny out of a coat pocket. “You think I’m too cheap to waste a penny on a goddamn fraud? Look at this!”

George flipped the penny–a 1947–using a variation of his old marble-shooting grip. The coin arced smoothly toward toward the water with the old man and the boy looking on.

A marble hand shot out and snatched the coin from midair. “What do you wish of me?”

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The Other Book of Changes
Codex Entry #2097d1

Luciel Galabieh, shy and dark-haired, was an inveterate klutz. All gangly elbows and knees, she never quite got the hang of the whole walking thing. People in her hometown of Costa del Mare were impressed by her serious, airy demeanor and sea-green eyes, but the impression would always be broken when she did something like trip over a quarter-inch threshold or got thrown from a grocery store coin-op horse.

In the water, though, Luciel was a creature of extraordinary fluidity and grace. Whether as the star of the Imperial Regional School’s Swimming Bunyips or with the University of the Rift Aquatorium, she amazed onlookers both with her mastery of the butterfly stroke and her tendency to slip violently on even a slightly damp poolside surface. Frequent broken bones from high-velocity contact with poolside tile and an extended stay in traction after what others would only refer to as The Melon Baller Incident kept her out of the top tiers of the sport, either as a professional Aquanaut or an athlete competing in the Imperial Spartakiad Games.

While nursing her latest bruise or plaster cast thanks to not having her land-legs, Luciel would go out to Costa del Mare Point to watch sealife pass by. Often (if her land injuries permitted) she would end the visit by jumping off the point and swimming home. More than one of her acquaintances (she had few friends) heard her murmur wistfully about “swimming forever” before walking into a lamppost or missing the first (and all subsequent) steps of a staircase.

Eventually, Luciel appeared at Costa del Mare Point carrying a syringe from GesteCo, where her father worked as a geneticist. Despite tripping over a guardrail and a skateboarder on the way there, she had managed to avoid stabbing herself with it; Luciel injected the contents into her gangly arm at the elbow and dove into the sea.

Underwater, Luciel’s skin quickly acquired a dull grey sheen, while in a last awkward motion she popped out of her now-unnecessary bikini with a rapidly growing fin and tail pushing it aside. Luciel shivered from growing bottlenose to swelling flukes as gangly, bony limbs streamlined into fins and tail. One last look back and she was off to swim forever, leaving the empty syringe of GesteCo experimental dolphin DNA serum for others to find.

Luciel the dolphin returned often, particularly to help anyone who fell into the sea and was as clumsy in the water as she had once been out of it.

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Taera walked among the delegates, but she was not of them. In spite of the form she assumed there was no mistaking her for a mundane thing of dust and clay. There were waterfalls in her eyes, soft plains of waving grass in her hair, and the shifting expanse of desert sands played impossibly across her skin.

Even the delegates who has seen her before were visibly enraptured as if they were first beholding a world wrapped into a quasi-mortal guise. Some could be heard muttering wonderingly to themselves under their breath; from the audible snatches it was clear that each saw Taera differently–as they wanted to see her.

When she reached the dais, Taera turned and spoke in a voice that was both sea-breeze and premonition of storm. “We are pleased,” she said. “Pleased at the steps that have been taken and the progress that has been made.”

The rapturous applause that followed was indicative of how her praise cut to the quick of even the most hardened delegate’s soul.

“Under our guidance, you have done much to roll back the ongoing rape of the natural order,” Taera continued. “We spoke to you once of a gun at the temple of the world. You have removed the finger from its trigger.”

Pandemonium among the delegates. Even the most hardened, grizzled veterans of the cause, men and women who had torched dealerships and sunk whaleboats, responded as enthusiastic children.

“However.” That one word brought an unsteadiness to the acclamation. “The gun still remains, pressed to the very center of the world’s being. Eventually another hand will rise up to grasp it.”

Silence. The last cheers faded and there was no sound until Weatherby cleared his throat. “What would you have us do?” he asked.

“The immediate threat has been averted, but so long as hands exist to strike flint to rock, the danger remains. The cancer must not simply remiss; it must be cut from the body.”

Murmurs of unease. “I don’t understand,” Weatherby said, voicing the sentiment of all the delegates present.

“You ask us what we would have of you,” Taera said. “We can answer only in one regretful but necessary word. Extinction.”

Taera’s eyes flashed, burning with the molten force of a pyroclastic flow as the storm suggested in her tone of voice broke with shattering force. Weatherby didn’t have time to utter a sound before he was struck by blinding green lightning issuing from the center of the emissary’s being. He instantly crumbled to fine ash.

The other delegates, panicked, began to flee. But the green lightning arced from one to another, vaporizing each before each could move more than a step. Only a handful near the outermost periphery escaped the room with their lives.

“Flight will avail you not,” Taera boomed. “In your destruction lies the world’s salvation.”

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They had bound Bear up in rough cords, and tossed his shining rapier to the smaller gobs, who shrieked and squabbled as they fought over it.

“This one…any good to eat?” The largest gob, almost the girl’s size, hungrily licked his lips as he gazed at Bear. “Lot of fight…usually…lot of meat.”

“Come off it,” the smaller gob before him said, the one who had called out orders during the ambush. “He’s all fluff and stitchings. Felt it when I got a good blow on him I did. No good for eating. Only good as a slave.”

The gobs poked and prodded at Bear, during which he maintained a dignified silence, much as he had during all those years in the playroom. The girl was eventually moved to indignation, despite her own bindings. “You leave him alone!”

“Oh, so the other morsel wants a say, do it?” The head gob said, loping toward the girl. “It thinks we’s being too rough on the nasty stitchfluff what spilled our blood?”

The large gob affixed its unlean and hungry look upon the girl. “This one…good for eating? Not all stitchyfluffy?”

The girl gave as fierce a grimace as she was able, though had her mother been there to see the effect would have struck her as more like a twelve-year-old pouting than anything. “I’m not for eating either,” she said. “Just as full of fluff as Bear.”

“That is correct,” Bear said even as the other gobs danced and taunted and cackled madly around him. “She and I are as brother and sister.”

“She look all meaty…maybe not ready for eating yet,” the large gob said, fingering his great and knobby club. “Few year as slave…that do it.”

“I’m a stuffed doll with a porcelain skin,” the girl said, hoping that desperation wasn’t creeping into her voice. “If you try to eat me you’ll have a mouthful of cuts and a bellyful of stuffing.”

The head gob sniffed at the girl. “Me nose says otherwise,” he growled.

Inspired by this image.

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History
Orc culture is very ancient, stretching back to some of the earliest civilizations in the recorded era. Enormous orcish ruins can be found along major rivers and oases in the Interior Deserts of the Last Continent, and for a period they dominated civilization on the coast of the major continent, before the rise of more technologically advanced human and dwarvish civilizations.

The orc civilizations were eventually destroyed and incorporated into human and dwarven empires in the colonial era, with the orcs serving as laborers, soldiers, and one more than one occasion, rulers. Mixed with indentured human, dwarven, and elven laborers, they allowed for the massive mercantile empires that emerged around that time. This steep decline in orcish culture was arrested with the fall of the empires that had ruled them, and a number of powerful orcish kingdoms arose once again, though never reaching the preeminence they had once known. Orcish power was supreme in the Last Continent until the modern era; they have had difficulty adapting themselves to the modern era of nation-states, and many still work abroad as laborers and mercenaries.

Biology
There is considerable debate on the evolution of orcs as with all sapient life, with scholars from other races generally preferring an evolution from a common proto-sapient ancestor and the orcs themselves favoring either a local evolutionary origin or advancing themselves as the proto-sapients from which other species evolved. As orcs evolved in the very arid climates which dominate the Last Continent, they possess natural adaptations for deriving some energy and sustenance from the sun. This takes the form of chlorophyll in their skin, which converts solar energy into a usable form. This explains the greenish cast visible in most orcs, especially those with lighter skin; while orcs posess the same range of skin tones as humans, the presence of chlorophyll makes them seem to range from green to dark greenish-brown. They tend to be somewhat shorter than humans and elves, but stockier, and stronger on average. Despite specist tracts and opinions to the contrary, orcs are neither less intelligent nor more prone to violence than any other species.

Orc children are often multiple births, with twins nearly as common as single children, and triplets occurring in roughly ten percent of all orc pregnancies. Due to their faster metabolism, orc children reach maturity quickly, usually in about ten years. However, while their metabolism gives them greater strength and endurance, it also shortens their lifespan. Modern medicine has saved many that would otherwise have died, and prolonged the lives of others, but there is no record of an orc living beyond the age of seventy.

Culture
Orcs tend to value physical signs of wealth and power, along with demonstrations of such, and are often skeptical of those who cannot prove themselves thus. Traditionally, orcish women have been accorded very few rights and in many traditions are forbidden from leaving their dwellings; this has begun to change in recent history. They have a rich literary tradition of epic poetry which combines a list of (male) ancestors with their exploits; the head of every orc household is expected to prepare an updated copy of their family poem and hand it down to their eldest son. Because of this, literacy among orcs is extremely widespread (approximately 98%) and the distinct orcish scripts are a familiar sight in most multicultural cities.

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The Other Book of Changes
Codex Entry #497

The causes are pretty straightforward: the natural spring empties into an enticing pool connected to the ocean, ringed by white sandy beaches and easily visible from the road between the conservative megalopolises of Eastern Empire and the high tech universities and employers in the Beral Lands. Many travelers on the road, after a long day in the saddle, will pull their wagon, horse, or 4×4 over for a quick dip in the azure waters.

Of course, these travelers, be they Berallandians headed to visit home or Eastern Imperials in search of opportunity, rarely read the signs that warn of waters tainted by a subterranean vein of raw and chaotic magic. Young Brea Ladlesuns was headed to the Berals for no reason other than wanderlust when she pulled her red Edison Raceabout over to refresh herself in what the sign charmingly described as the Gecko Springs or Gecko Pool.

Naturally, when wading in a mysterious spring, most people would be rather put out if their hair suddenly and inexplicably got shorter and shorter, going from shoulder length to a bob to close-cropped to stubble to gone. To say nothing of suddenly shrinking and vanishing ears and nose, growing climb-anywhere pads on hands and feet, losing a bikini bottom to a sudden tail, and of course a twice-body-length tongue. Brea was startled at first, as anyone would be, but upon reflection she saw her sudden geckoification as just the opportunity she’d been seeking.

In fact, in between gigs as a window washer in the nearby town of Harbin, Brea was soon attending meetings of Geckos Unlimited, made up of others who had been transformed by the Gecko Springs. Harbin was something of a mecca for such, and led the Beral-Empire route in job opportunities for lizard-shaped people (or is that people-shaped lizards?). Locals still laugh about what happened next.

At a Geckos Unlimited meeting, just as it’s her turn to tell newcomers how much being a gecko had changed her life for the better, the magic of the springs ran out and Brea reverted to her human form. She apparently hadn’t realized that the magic needed to be refreshed with additional trips to Gecko Springs; finding herself completely embarrassed and out of place (pink, naked, and with hair) she charged out into the streets of Harbin with nothing but a Geckos Unlimited brochure.

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Airports were such seas of harried and unfriendly faces. Maya was shy at the best of times, but in major airports she tended to look at the floor while hurrying from gate to gate rather than risk getting a nasty look from someone having a bad day. It occasionally disconcerted other people, but on the other hand she tended to find a lot of change on the floor, even if it was often too hazardous to retrieve.

Raleigh-Durham wasn’t the worst offender among the airports she frequented; that was O’Hare, or as she sometimes called it, O’Harried. But with a divorced parent on either coast and a scholarship to Southern Michigan’s pharmacy program, airports were an unfortunate necessity of life, as were the frequent layovers at various hubs.

Near Gate A13, Maya noticed an earring on the floor near one of the peoplemoving sidewalks crowded with those who probably could have used the exercise. It looked like costume jewelry, with three bright crystal beads around a central wire and a bangle of black-veined red at the end. Maya thought of picking it up and turning it in to the docent at the nearby Super Executive Platinum Club, but the swarm of people about it, and the notion–somewhat irrational, in light of that interesting bangle of stone–that it was a cheap fake. She passed, and continued her downlooking way toward distant Gate A113.

After passing about three harried families shouting in foreign tongues, Maya came into an open patch between throngs across from the River Rock Books by Gate A31. She was startled to see, nestled between a discarded ticket stub and a gum-filled wrapper, the earring’s twin. Curled up around itself and dusty, but unmistakable.

“Huh,” Maya said to herself. “If I’d picked up the other one I’d have a set. Oh well; who cares about an earring on the floor anyway?”

Eighteen gates later, she nearly collided with the hurrying form of a man in a kilt. Maya muttered a passive-aggressive threat and continued on her way. Ulberth the Stone-Shaper of Dumfries did the same, frantically searching the ground. How could he have been so careless?

The Chaos Earrings were lost, and the fate of the universal balance hung on their safe recovery from the Raleigh-Durham airport’s cheap tiles.

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Clarence continued to read the text:

“Look, I know it seems a little odd,” said the Grimoire. “Why trust a book, after all?”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” said Clarence. “I’m more worried about this book pulling a Neverending Story on me and changing to reflect what I’m thinking or saying.”

“No shit,” Clarence muttered. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the page.

“How do you expect a book to speak with you?” the Grimoire cried. “How else but through the text? It’s not like a book has a mouth or vocal cords. And yes, I know in the context of the book you’re reading I’ve got lines and quote marks just like something with lips would. But that’s just for your sake. It may be confusing but just run with it.”

“All right,” said Clarence. “And my thoughts are apparently my dialogue, since even though I have lips I’m definitely not flapping them.”

“More or less,” said the Grimoire. “They’re edited a bit for coherence and to remove the occasional intrusive thought like fantasies about that girl in high school you never had the courage to ask out or even talk to.”

Clarence reddened. “Sheesh,” he mouthed.

“What do you want from me?” Clarence said.

“Oh, it’s simple,” said the Grimoire. “On the last page of me there’s an inscription. I need you to take me to the Pillars of Vladizapad and read them aloud in a commanding voice.”

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