Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Dr. Ocsid and his wife Margelet have, in the course of his work as a mercenary and hers as a camp cook in order to fund their scholarship, collected a number of recipes that the both desire to see cooked yet have proven, for one reason or another to be impossible to procure thus far. It includes:

-Unicorn Foduvx: A standard Genaïs cream foduvx but with shank of unicorn rather than leg of lamb. Margelet believes that this would result in a richer, creamier dish, but still needs a unicorn that has died of natural causes.

-Jerked Dragontongue: The tongue of even a relatively young firedrake would yield several pound of jerky which would be naturally fireproof and long-lasting once the five-year curing process is complete. Dragon tongues—and dragons themselves—are however rather hard to come by.

-Dryad-Steeped Tea: Dr. Ocsid believes that the mood and possible local knowledge of a dryad can be transferred by drinking tea steeped in its leaves. However, all dryads that have been approached have reacted either with horror or disgust.

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The halfling chef Margelet is a vociferous collector of recipes and a constant, tireless, experimenter with various concoctions. Much as her husband Dr. Ocsid collects information about painful wounds, curses, and poisons during his mercenary work, Margelet collects information on delicacies that are hearty or healing.

Her particular specialty is stonebread, which is famous—infamous—as a road food due to its rock-hard texture which is highly resistant to mold and rot but must be soaked in a liquid to be eaten. Margelet’s stonebread, in addition to being far softer inside than the standard variety, often includes baked-in watery berries that can help moisten the concoction.

Those same berries are used in her famous Sweetberry Biscookies, which do not keep well but are hearty enough to take the place of a whole meal and delightfully sweet. So sweet, in fact, that rigorous experimentation by Dr. and Mrs. Ocsid has established that eating more than three—two for those of small stature—will result in a painful stomachache that they refer to as “berrybelly.”

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In the course of my occasional work for the Columbarium, I have been able to inspect some of the more unique artifacts in their reference collection. In particular, an anonymous donor with a fondness for masks has recently gifted two particularly macabre specimens which I was allowed to examine.

The first appears to be in the shape of a jet-black dog and is carved of ebony wood, with arcane symbols from an unknown and possibly dead language inscribed upon it in rounded squares. In addition to a generally frightening countenance, it enables a particularly brutal easy of slaying—daggers slide home more surely, swords find vital arteries, hammers smash their way through helmets all the quicker. The Columbarium assures me that these effects have all been tested thoroughly. The final power that the mask is said to possess—which the Columbarium insists they have not tested—is that anyone slain by its wearer must linger as a ghost for one hour after death and truthfully answer any questions put to them.

The second is wrought gold in the shape of a featureless face, with black lenses over the eyes and pursed lips. If not for the markedly different workmanship and lack of strange markings I would call it a twin to the dog mask, for it too has a grim power to entrap souls. In this case, the mask can be inhabited by a shade of the dead, who may inhabit it as long as they wish until they move on to oblivion of their own accord or are forced out by a more powerful spirit. The wearer of the mask may speak with the current occupant, and if slain, they occupy it themselves if they can displace the occupant, if there is one. It is currently inhabited by a fearful spirit identifying herself as Cattail-of-the-Rushes, who will say little of her life or death except that “he” promised to return for her and place her in a resurrected body. Given the dialectical peculiarities evinced by Cattail-of-the-Rushes, I believe this promise to have been made—and broken—centuries ago.

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Dr. Ocsid is known for his work as a mercenary in addition to his work as a scholar, having a voluminous memory and a keen experimental mind despite lacking any innate talent necessary for the magickal arts. As such, he is often subject to various poisons, curses, and other unpleasantries, which he views as yet another opportunity for scholarship. This has led to him devising what he refers to as the Derived Ocsid Pain Scale or DOPS, carefully analyzing the pain and/or unpleasantness of their effects—at least their effect on a healthy man of middling years and orcish extraction.

Here are some of his findings in preliminary form:

Blisterbark – 7. Causes painful blisters wherever items of any kind rub against the skin, including eyeglasses. Gossamer gowns and carefully slung spidersilk hammocks are the best defense until toxin has run its course.

Pinetouch – 1. Causes pine sap to be exuded instead of sweat. Not painful at all other than the occasional twinge when pulling away from stuck items. Possible source of sap for industrial purposes without harm to trees.

Feverpitch – 3. Causes profuse sweating even in cool climes. Unpleasant but not painful for brief durations, but can result in trench foot or typhus if left unchecked. Palliative care is mostly in the form of hydration.

Skinslough – 10. Most beings naturally regrow their skin in small pieces over time, with the old skin being shed invisibly or occasionally as eczema. This causes the entire process to take place at once. Indescribably painful with risk of infection; the product of a twisted and sadistic mind.

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I have, in the past, retained Nymbal Gobkin to bring me magical items that she finds in her, shall we say, explorations. Of pockets. That are not hers. I pay for each according to its rarity and value, but often the magicks within are dubious at best and useless or dangerous at worst. It remains to be seen whether Nym, myself—or perhaps both—are being played the fool in this case.

Nym has, for instance, managed to collect two of what I have dubbed the Ten Rings of Selesus, after the rune inscribed on each that I can only assume is a maker’s mark and a numeral. The first band, which is inscribed as 7/10, I have dubbed the Lucky Ring, as it has powerful enchantments placed upon it. It has been spared from fires by kismet, recovered from streams by local fishermen, and generally seemed to be smiled upon by fortune. This effect does not, however, extend in any way to the person wearing the ring, as Nym’s bruises can attest.

The second Ring of Selesus is what I have dubbed the Invulnerable Ring, and it has charms and enchantments so powerful that I have not been able to unravel a fraction of them. Labeled as 9/10—though quite how anyone was able to inscribe anything upon it is a mystery to me—it has proven to be utterly impervious to all attempts to harm or otherwise mark it. I have placed it in fire, ice, molten metal, a Sphere of Annihilation, and even lent it out for a test of a Maul of Atom Splitting. The results have all been the same: the ring has survived unscathed while everything around it has been laid waste. The wearer or bearer of said ring is not so fortunate.

I feel that the rings are failed attempts to create powerful magickal artifacts; Nym believes that they are elaborate practical jokes by an impishly powerful sorcerer. I suppose those are not mutually exclusive explanations.

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My friend Hazelwald is, among other things, a talented alchemist and botanist, regularly collecting rare plants and ingredients for use in spells, potions, and poultices. I asked about some of the most sought-after with a thought toward presenting them as a lecture at the herbarium, only to discover that she had already done so—twice. Nevertheless, my curiosity was indulged.

The immediate answer was etherroot and astraleaf. In those places where the ethereal or the astral worlds infringe upon ordered reality, where the laws of the physical world grow thin and malleable, those plants thrive. They have, according to Hazelwald, a brute purpose and an elegant one apiece. In both cases, they must be prepared: the etherroot by grinding, and the astraleaf by boiling reduction (of leaves) or pressing (of pollen, flowers, or seeds).

Brute purposes for either, which both caused Hazelwald to wrinkle her nose in disgust, are as lethal toxins. If eaten or swallowed in sufficient quantity, they will cause death as the body begins to phase into the ethereal or the astral, both places where living, ordered beings cannot normally exist. Even an experienced conjurer with access to the means to survive the journey will typically not survive, as they will be caught betwixt. Clever assassins are known to use the toxins to hide bodies, as well, by placing them out of phase with their surroundings.

The elegant purpose is as an astral or ethereal beacon. When combined with mineral oil and applied to an object, that object becomes visible in and can have limited interactions with things that are out of phase. As long as those using it are careful to keep it out of their mouths, it can be an essential tool.

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Dealings with the fae are often frustrating, but Peysk has always been at least willing to grant me an interview, if not to always answer my questions how I would like them to be answered. They tend to flit about in speech as they do on their gossamer wings, moving from one topic to the next as a butterfly might alight on the different flowers that catch their fancy. I once had the opportunity to ask Peysk about curses and markings that they had leveled on mortals after seeing them curse a sneak-thief to glow like an incandescent mushroom in darkness.

In return, Peysk told me a rambling series of anecdotes that bled into one another, moving back and forth with the fluidity of a bar tale. In one case, they had bestowed a “gift” upon a freckled “friend” that led their freckles to constantly change their arrangement when no one was looking, and for them to tend toward the seasonal stars above. Another mortal so “gifted” was vain about her hair, so Peysk made it react with air as with water, flowing and waving as if submerged and always regrowing to the same length.

Some “gifts” were less mundane. A man who had shouted at Peysk was cursed to speak in singsong, as if singing through a musical play, except when he tried to sing, at which time he would be scratchy and out of tune. A particular tough had been magicked to change all of his tattoos to pixie wings, with each new skull or dagger meeting the same fate.

Peysk seemed proudest of their curse on a petty nobleman most of all, clutching their sides with laughter at the thought. He had been cursed so that no one in a meeting would ever remember his face or what he’d said, condemning him to obscurity and ridicule.

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Though I would hesitate to call her my friend, I once chatted with Nymbal Gobkin when she was attempting to distract me enough that my pocket could be picked. Knowing that, even at her tender age, she had wormed her way into many a situation only to rob it blind, I asked about an interesting and lucrative find, one for the history books.

Nym replied that she had once delved into what appeared to be an ancient crypt, set back off a road that was isolated but used often enough. It appeared to be a tomb from the Third Dynasty, of the sort often filled with burial goods due to that ancient civilization’s mistaken belief that such items could be carried into the afterlife. Powerful curses of course attended such places, but that did not deter my frenemy.

The tomb seemed to be empty but unlooted, and a companion of Nym’s, who she referred to only as “a fool,” charged ahead with the intent to claim it for himself, using a stickyfoot ball to secure Nym in place. It was then that the true nature of the place revealed itself: the tomb as an elaborate ruse for a group of bandits, who leapt out to capture and rob whomever sought to loot the tomb. They secured Nym’s compatriot, after which she left.

I protested that this was hardly lucrative, as failing to be robbed Is not so much a gain as it is avoiding a loss. For her part, Nym responded that she looted the compatriot’s now-unguarded possessions, claiming them for herself while simultaneously depriving him of the means to affect a ransom. When I turned away, disgusted, Nymbal added that, as far as she knew, he was still imprisoned.

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Dr. Ocsid once related a story to me about why locals in the Chirpwilds avoid a particular path. He and his companions took the route anyway, surmising it to be quick and—most importantly—shady on a rather hot summer’s day. They found that at one point, a tree had grown over the road. Ocsid, who once taught botany, called it a case of spontaneous grafting and fusion between two great old oaks, and I haven’t the knowledge to dispute him.

As they passed beneath its boughs, though, a branch snaked down and stole Ocsid’s back. It did not contain his greataxe, nor his targe, and he already wore his armor. Rather, the satchel contained several books that he had purchased for his personal library at the great Tomery. Recognizing that the act of snatching required an animating will, Ocsid politely requested that the tree return his pack.

“Why should I?” was the response. “You’ve felled my kin and pulped them up to make your silly little books. I, as their relative, ought to inherit.”

Ocsid’s protestation that the paper was made from papyral reeds fell on deaf branches, and the tree tossed its prize from one barky grasp to the next, laughing all the while.

Eventually, Ocsid—faced with the question of losing his books or being forced to destroy a truly remarkable specimen—decided on a gambit. He told the tree that he had already read the books, and that his mind was made up on what to do next. When the tree inquired what the books held—lacking the eyes to read them—Ocsid replied “Woodcarving and lumberjackery.”

The tree promptly returned the satchel and fell silent and still.

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My friend Hazelwald claims that once, on the road to Steamshire, she and her party encountered a most bizarre form of toll, if indeed it can be called that. Hazelwald describes it as a confidence trick made by a con man, but what is a toll booth but a confidence trick with the power of government behind it?

Hazelwald’s group was on the Low Road to Steamshire when they encountered a washout, where a small creek had jumped its banks and carved out a good part of the road. A very dangerous situation, to be sure, especially not long after the flood when any attempt to ford is likely to end in a drowning death. Though skilled in the Art herself, Hazelwald knew no incantation or cantrip that could help the situation, but a firm voice soon announced that they could: a motley sorcerer or hedge wizard stood nearby, and he claimed to be a fallow stranded traveler that could ease their burden.

For what he termed a “modest fee”—Hazelwald would not divulge the amount, even when prodded—the enchanter promised to part the waters and allow the travelers safe passage. Already behind on the road, Hazelwald’s companions outvoted her and paid the man’s demanded fee. Sure enough, with a spell that my friend failed to recognize, the man carved a dry passage through the torrent with what looked like an elongated portal. The travelers then crossed without incident.

Turning back to thank their rescuer, though, they found that the man and the river had vanished. The road was intact, there was no sign of a creek, and the environs were as dry as their coin purse.

Further study has revealed that this trick is often reported on isolated roads near Steamshire, with one clever hedge wizard reaping a tidy living from it.

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