A Mystaran Survey of the Mists
by Brian Rubinfeld from Threshold Magazine issue 31"29th Day of Early-Autumn, 760 BC1
This Meredoth, he rivals me in power... Ridiculous! I can't even write that in jest! But, he is still quite capable in the arcane arts. He may weaken himself by having a mortal shell, but thwarting him still requires tactical thought and brute force alike. I have the legions, knowledge and sprawling resources to topple his insignificant island, if I really desired. It wouldn't be hard to even silence his vapid threats. He masks his contempt and jealousy for my superiority through his callous demeanor. But, through his organizations of undead puppets and mortal spies, he has still obtained something most valuable. My accursed weaknesses are my own secrets, none shall know the limits placed on my spellcasting and knowledge, especially not him! He does not unnerve me, but the recent trends regarding his home world does. In more recent ages, there have been many domains emerging before my vast networks. All hail from Meredoth's home realm, Mystara. But, why do so many show themselves to the Dark Powers? And why do so many materialize in such a short amount of time? Perhaps his world is more destined for doom than Oerth, a blessing in my favor. Perhaps I shall muse on this further. It would certainly help to have an extra set of eyes into such a world. Fortunately for me, I have just the agent in mind..."
—An excerpt from the journals of Azalin Rex2, the Darklord of Darkon
And from the mists, this project becomes a trilogy. With the help of a courageous chronicler, let us travel back to small realms lifted from the world of Mystara. At this point, is this little project still Mystara? Well, sort of. Would this have been suited for Fraternity of Shadows and their yearly journal of Quoth the Raven? Possibly. Nonetheless, THRESHOLD has been happy to hold my journeys from Mystara into the Mists and I'm happy to provide. As for this article, it shall be a means of filling in holes and fleshing out content. And with any luck, I don't create new holes. There are a lot of ideas, corrections and details I felt like I had to cut to ensure time. No sense in letting them go to waste, so here they are. Another thing I think my ideas could use is the "player side" perspective on these domains. How do natives live? How would outlanders interact with them? And with this entry, I hope you enjoy these dark slices of Mystara within the "Dimension of Dread" once again. As one final aside, enjoy the many references to both campaign settings... right down to Azalin channeling the annotations of his other minion, "S."3 Though, there's perhaps a little irony of shifting the perspective over to him. But, when you have a powerful item that allows you to know the thoughts of hired subordinates, sometimes you need to interrupt. Also, one final note, both Mystaran and Ravenloft calendars are taken into consideration. Unless a footnote is utilized to distinguish, presume that Mystaran calendar takes priority through Before or After Crowning.
Mystara Has Left Me
I am Marcos Feirerra, a man of many trades: sellsword, explorer, chronicler, trader, former pirate, purveyor of the mighty smokepowder at times too. Who I am is not important, but my mission is. My many jobs took me first from the Savage Baronies and eastward, through deserts and jungles, towards settlements and into cities, to wastelands and beyond even kingdoms. All offered not just glorious material goods to trade in, but much in the way of lore and information. Tales of adventure to trade spoke of a sunken spire leading to a city of the mad, a necropolis overseen by an ancient king seeking to restore an old empire, an island filled with beasts that should be long gone, a forbidden city shrouded by veils and deadly radiance and much more. In another life, another time, I would explore these. But, my curiosity called me to a dark tale from Norwold, the semi-coastal island of Todstein.
Attempts to find Todstein caused me to land in a place that is certainly not Mystaran.. How could it come to this? Magical teleportation? Some whim of the Immortals? Meredoth dragging me into his grim dominion? It's worth asking around. But, perhaps it's best to think about how I got here. The mighty sailing ship El Erudito del Mar, she was one of the finest ships commissioned in Guadalante and set to sail beyond Cimarron via the seas of the Savage Baronies. The voyage brought us to Darokin, as the waters proved calm and tranquil. As priests were intentionally kept from the journey, a checkpoint was just off of Athenos. Several Glantrian agents greeted us soon after Darokinian inspecting officials took to their jobs. The trade of gaining information on an Alphatian colony is enticing though, allowing for much in return upon succeeding. No matter, there was little time for other trades or enjoyment, onwards! Few stops carried on from there. Vorloi, the city of Thyatis, and Jaboor. The last one struck me as interesting, as a tavern tale of a lost thieves' city was curious. Another thing I would soon learn more about. A final rest stop was by Tromso, a community that had seen slowly raising troubles with Ethengar. May nothing come of that. And so through Heldann, we sailed. But not too close, as word spread of ongoing troubles that didn't warrant our involvement.
Likewise, avoiding the Altar of Vanya was said to be wise, as we neared Landfall; a wretched hive home to our next contact. Said contact proved to be an unhinged old man of a mage. Few of the thieves and brigands trifled with him, but he was well aware of us. In fact, as our ship drew near, he had completed a ritual to send us well north into Norwold via a teleportation spell. The destination? The true Kingdom of Norwold, where any details of Alphatians were best kept sparse. Or that should have been the case, had the strange old man not been playing our patron for a fool. A trap! Guards of King Ericall demanded information, as the mad old man giggled from his shrinking portal. Upon explanation, they called us daft and were aghast at the idea of traveling to that cursed island. But, our mission was still set for completion. Needless to say, surprise vicious storms were the least of our worries, as our maps were suddenly wrong and we were no longer in Norwold.
Blankets of sinister fog smothered all sight, as whipping winds and slicing ice rained down from all directions. Todstein was indeed a cursed land. From beyond the misty cover, there were lands not unlike Norwold, but the violent weather just beyond proved too much. And so travel continued elsewhere for now, hailing a new stop. The meager survivors of the blizzard onslaught were soon besieged by something new: upon making land and surveying damages, a new threat emerged in the form of the undead. How ghastly, improbable even! The corpse creatures assaulted our meager defenses in defiance against the living. Those more ready for battle fended the horde off before both combatant sides seemingly annihilated each other. The lack of a priest proved only further damning. The long trek to civilization caused all other survivors to drop, each begging me to carry on and demand answers.
My first answer came as I traveled through wilderness and encountered lone passersby, who welcomed me to Darkon. Through their vague guidance, civilization proved near. Upon hailing the people of an emerging village, I learned much in a short time. The Darkonians told of a Nocturnal Sea, that which I had been magically sucked into. It certainly wasn't part of that mad wizard's trap, or was it? Upon deeper thought, the strange old man matched descriptions of the lost ruler of Todstein. Impossible. Regardless, I lost this island of the mad old mage, now part of a greater region called "Nebligtode." The rulership of this Darkon was indeed interested in meeting me. My attempts to garner information involving Mystara from locals has made me a "valuable visitor" in his eyes. Strange. And Darkon? Was this supposed to be a different world's Darokin? Perhaps it's one where Glantri took over. Have I been sent back so far? While my maps on land and sea were different, the star charts... They lined up! Curious, perhaps this was Mystara, just not the one I know.
Even stranger proved this "Wizard-King," a miserly man of incredible age who clung to his throne. Despite his crusty appearance, he was no doubt of incredible power. With a few spells, he scanned me for all he could uncover before his own introduction. Through pomp and pretense, he unraveled a speech about how "he is the mighty Wizard-King and how Darkon is the mightiest land of the Core dominions"... whatever that meant. Upon my introduction, he interjected by stating that I was another victim of the "Mad Mage Meredoth," as if aware of my voyage. Before I could ask how he knew, he simply stated that I was not the first. He then offered a proposition, to survey other lands that have come under his watch in exchange for assistance from the Wizard-King to help end the wrath of Nebligtode. While I was not one for revenge, my journey went from a fantastically paying survey to a quest of heroism. My mighty vessel, El Erudito del Mar, was to be retired for now. A ship built from "superior Darkonian engineering" was to replace it, complete with a new crew. But first, I required much rest and recuperation. Azalin Rex the Wizard-King was a shrewd negotiator. His own contract felt eerily magical and ensnaring. What had I gotten myself into?
And now we are caught up to my frightening present. Going forward, all travel and logs are to be noted through a proper Mystaran calendar, to track how long I am in this strange world. Granted, the information-storing pearl that he gave me shall probably replace the need for lengthy tomes... it just reads thoughts. Eerie.4
14th, Flaurmont AC5 1004—Theocracy of Tyoraam6
My first destination is explained to me by one of the Wizard-King's agents, known as "Kargatane." Such a word is lost on me, for now. Their instruction is simple: to examine a decrepit and broken society inspired by sunken Taymora. A relic of that forsaken land, impossible! But, considering I have been taken into another world in an instant, what is? Onward, to Taymora.
Legend states that those who know the path of "The Death Queens" will sail to safe harbor. And those who don't? The terrors that haunt sunken ruins will emerge to claim them. The key is following a faint glow in the water. This is a kind of enchanted algae, said to be useful in magics and rituals capable of warding off the undead and other unholy creatures. The vile things that swim around the ruins seem equally repelled from the plant. Oddly enough, the algae was once useful for the undead of Tyoraam, until acolytes of sun cults utilized it too. Beyond this glowing trail is the true destination, an impoverished and decrepit land known as Tyoraam. Ancient glory has cracked and faltered, with much of the island seemingly abandoned... at least by the living. The further one lives from the temple of Tanit though, the more pull rival Immortals of Idu, Mahes, and Protius gain among undead hunters, fed-up peasants, and more. The instability of the land is mostly ignored by those who continue their vampiric Blood Tributes, as conditions for the living and unliving mutually worsen. Despite this, all endure these trials and traumas. Quiet resistance and complacency has widened the gap just as much as decadent undead and the struggling mortals. Priests and philosophers fear civil war, if the micronation doesn't sink first. For now, a gentleman huddled underneath what was once a luxurious fountain offers much information in exchange for coin.
The public is well aware of how clothing has brought public change. Women wore gown-like cloth that did not hide their chests, and men often wore nothing waist up in the past. These forms of garb have become less common, still embraced by more conservative populations who staunchly support the rule of the High Priestess. These garbs are not unlike ones recorded in the history of Thyatis or the older Milenians. But, for the people of Tyoraam, this is considered progress. The aristocratic divine caste that serves under the High Priestess stays the truest and most decadent. Vibrant jewelry is added on top of their strange archaic garb. Many willingly flaunt this disparity in a misguided attempt to lure people back to more classical garb in their eyes. One attempted altercation between Lawos7 and "improperly dressed civilians" resulted in a brawl interrupting a street corner within Tayma. The once lavish statues collectively called, "The Fair Offering," suffered greatly. The monument dedicated to the Blood Tithe saw men and women holding up a bowl of blood in triumph. The bowl has since been stolen, the hands holding it destroyed or taken with it. The faces have become disfigured from violent strikes and use of tools.
Despite the association of traditionalism, several vampiric elite have become enraptured by the new developing aesthetics. Argelsias, a nosferatu priestess of the mighty Tanit Temple, has become quite fond of new green silks and exotic perfumes brought in through the port of Ichthy in particular. This horrifies Jahei'irias, who remains traditionalist in the face of these changes. The interest in changing fashion strikes me as strange, due to the rampant squalor seen throughout. People may make these vibrant new clothes, but many still live in cobbled shanty towns built from scraps. It also strikes as odd that little is done about the often ghastly, pallid and pale complexions of the sickly residents. Some have been called for so many Blood Tributes that they risk dying from the most seemingly innocuous causes. While one can try to ignore seemingly vapid fashion, the social unrest and recent happenings cannot be ignored by Tyoraam.
The tides of rebellion swell worse than any waves. Quite ironic, considering waves devoured the rest of their empire. Perhaps this is something I shouldn't bring up with the locals. No matter. A campaign to paint a remote settlement as traitors has drawn mixed reactions. Like Illios, this seemingly nameless territory along the western coastline attempted to become a beacon of light and progress. While Illios has taken some action, this other territory attempted a major coup and failed dramatically. This unveiled their position and exposed several weaknesses to the rulership. Shortly after, it was smothered by an all-out war to purge the land of these heretics. Following their demise, the clergy under Jahei'irias hired scribes and public speakers to denounce them as unhinged and have their name removed due to being so blasphemous. According to the conspiracy, these people plotted to sink Tyoraam in tribute to a grim Immortal called Dóntia Lepídas alias "the Devil Shark." In actuality, the actions of the Tyoraami nobility have led to this cult becoming a reality. The followers believe themselves to be a force of true progress reacting against the stagnant lands above. In truth, this new cult desires to bring the last of Taymora to a watery grave. It is possible that the former light worshipers turned to the sea out of spite.8 One can find the temple to their vile sea demon due well west of Illios, facing on the other side of the island. The strange devotees to these depths are rarely seen, as they quickly disappear within the watery shrines and the temple grounds that have emerged from the mists. Pinpointing any of these places is a challenge, as they seem to move with the flow of water. Shrines spotted briefly by Imlekiug have been to blame for the sudden arrival of lukka, abominations and other prisoners upon the mainland. Cultists are likely shuttling them over to stir unrest.
Another instance comes from Illios itself, at least according to the disgruntled nobility so loose with their words. Explorative warriors set out to obtain much of the miraculous algae in the seas beyond. With the aid of priests, they created a radiant substance that repels the living dead. Attempts to create an underground trade to other parts of the island remained successful for a few months. This ended after a caravan was uncovered by a warband assembled by Jahei'irias's clergy after tales of her blood minions fleeing roadways in terror. Trade has been quelled for now, as embargos and manufactured barricades have further boxed Illios in. The inability to wipe out the growing rival power has been a further blight on the image and morale of the Taymoran nosferatu. However, a former mercenary general named "Vigilans Oculis" has emerged to enforce this barrier. A slowly amassing fortification around Illios has successfully blocked them in for now. Even nosferatu-clergy-aligned sailors have aided in the barricade. However, Jahei'irias is not content with the break from tradition. In supposed "normal times" an outsider man would not be given such a rank in an important operation. This further adds to her fears about the collapse of her traditions and values, leading to the end of her blood rule. Likewise, her biases against men in leadership has led her to consider sabotaging the general's efforts. Such rumors have surfaced from nosferatu discontent with their highest leadership, so that too could be biased. Let me ponder more on this tomorrow.
19th, Flaurmont AC 1004— Theocracy of Tyoraam
Even the high priestess herself has been a cause to question the judgements and competence of the ruling class. Whether through her rituals, public displays, or decrees, Jahei'irias has shown herself in less of a dignified manner and more so unhinged or sickly. Her rambles have sounded unhinged, her proclamations stressed and her incantations chaotic. This has filled her with immense dread, fearing the worst. Only a few have witnessed the worst of this including a nosferatu noblewoman and occult scholar, Lady Corali. While she has done anything to cloud Jahei'irias's visions and feign friendship, she seeks to depose the mad High Priestess and take her place. Other nobles seek to exploit the less lucid moments of the High Priestess to enforce their own agendas instead. Few mortals have survived the madness of Jahei'irias to tell their tales. Many now vagrant madmen once rejected the high priestess, before being brought before her. They all describe a piercing gaze snaking its way through their minds before they succumb to insanity.9 Should this be true, it is best to keep a low profile. Some fears go well beyond just strange behavior though. Legends speak of a dreadful possibility10 that the high priestess is descended from the Great Unliving Mother of Taymora. And should she vanquish and consume her sisters, she shall become an all-powerful eldritch being. While it is known that the leadership of Taymora exists beyond death, to suggest that their supreme authority can ascend to a kind of Immortality through cannibalism?11 Sickening and horrifying.
But what of other undead who endure her leadership? Many too chaff under her rule. They too silently decry her as inept, delusional or insane. What holds them back from staging an uprising are the sheer amount of divisions between various noble groups. Even as Jahei'irias allegedly came to power, great schisms formed between those who initially supported her and those who remained skeptical. This has overtime fractured into those who want her as a pawn, replace her with a double, create a violent uprising, slowly phase her out in favor of the march toward progress and dilute her power among a push for shared council control. While there is a private consortium arranged by Jahei'iria, they exist solely to advise her and little more. Out of the broken factions vying for dominance, they have the greatest odds. Nearing next are those who seek to be her direct allies, suppressing the efforts of other groups actively "in service" to their High Priestess. The series of bluffs will hopefully loosen her guard around them, giving ample opportunity to either make gains or snuff her out entirely.
My stay here has been long enough. Typically hot and humid temperatures have proved oppressive at the height of the day. Beyond locales close to seaside passages, few locals stay out beyond their daily duties. Markets try to gain an economic foundation through pottery, fishing and weaving. None of this interested me, despite seeing the destitute and struggling state of the vendors. As I readied for my final trek to Ichthy, I noticed guards surrounding the frail and desperate man by the fountain. He gazed beyond an emerging crowd, locking eyes with me. He struggled to no avail as he was brought on a long journey to the palace of the High Priestess. Rather than point me to the crowd, his glare changed to resignation and defeat as he shook his head one final time. There was no time to ponder the man who risked damnation for a few coins. The entourage was halted by the approach of the High Priestess, escorted in a shrouded lectica chair12. The chair was set down as the scraggly man was brought into the folds. His piercing screams will haunt me, as both of us are well aware of his fate. But, I was called to a port. Another agent is here to gather me as my miserable travels continue. Beyond them? Ominous blankets of cloudy fog.13 It seems to move with them somehow. Curious.
21st, Flaurmont AC 1004—Ylar the Bandit Kingdom
The kargatane are not exactly masters of words or diplomacy, just rough force to ensure that the will of Azalin the Wizard-King is done. How they ferry me through these incomprehensible foggy depths between lands, I shall never understand14. Before long, dirt gave way to sand. In time, the vapors that clouded my sight stung, as blowing sands began to obscure vision. Men in flowing garments emerged from the impairing desert winds within a few hours, with the escort of several camels. Agents of the Kargat hailed them, discussing some matter in a foreign tongue before joining them on a well-walked path that followed the rising sun from the east. The heat of the day would soon be upon us. The sugar plantation of Alsukar provided a brief rest, a miniature oasis along our trail. Expensive teas were offered at a surprisingly reasonable price, as the hospitality seemed almost uncanny for a stop so openly operated by slavery. Our host, Karim Alhayim, provided especially comforting and kind words for his guests. Under his assurance and calm was surely a crooked man just as cruel as my captors. After our group was given directions and took part in some goods trade, a winding road trailed north into a looming eyesoar. The city that slowly peaked from the grainy earth was an impossible one, a series of buildings stacked and molded around each other; turning into something of a fortress. The overall design was nonsensical and chaotic, with shapes jutting from the greater structure. The rest of the city seemed compacted into four seemingly connected walls. Aesthetics wildly varied, a mixture of Ylari and Pharazian ideas all playing secondary to practical engineering. Though, one could debate the practical, as multiple buildings were jammed consistently together just to create stability. For now, I stayed within a cramped boarding house wedged between four other buildings and connected by scaffolding.
23rd, Flaurmont AC 1004—Ylar the Bandit Kingdom
I started the day right. And by that I mean didn't fall from several stories and damage a leg. Walking with a limp for hours makes one a ripe target for this den of thievery and sins. But, there was much to see here beyond this. The key feature of note in this land is the so-called Ylari City or "The Misted Eye," as called by many locals. Truly a wretched place. Outcasts, reprobates, criminals and other such gather in this seemingly lawless place. Were it not in the middle of a lonely desert, it would be an ideal den of pirates and other such brigands. Law here is simple: display complete loyalty to the King of Thieves and you too shall prosper. Betrayal is the most heinous of crimes here, as is spying. Once you enter the city, you mind your own business. Likewise, cause no serious harm to your city dweller. Ironically, scams are quite common among residents, as the common consensus is that one should remain vigilant and wise during their stay here. Any such protections are not available to outsiders, whom residents often use loopholes to take aggression out on. And while not a law, religious preaching is distinctly frowned upon. While the ban was stricter in the past, there is a loss of protection for anyone who indulges too much in their respective view or scripture. Overtime, this Bandit King has successfully swayed much of the masses to either give up religion or dislike it, following the attacks of Pharazian zealots from the west and south. However, one of the stacked hovels of the city did have a priest willing to treat prior injuries, in exchange for helping a friend out of addiction. He simply whispered the term "spice sampling" and left me to my Kargat duties, left to secrecy lest he be attacked. Another enforced rule of note is that anyone consorting with Clan Kalzafred is deemed a traitor. In regards to these traitors, they are only safe within lands that the Clan has successfully dominated in some regard. Those who try to attack them on their controlled turf suffer dearly. The Bandit King fumes at their continued success, if rumors are to be believed. But, do not talk too much about the supreme leader of these mostly free and fair lands. Beyond all of that, corruption is normalized here and all are encouraged to just go about their otherwise tough days.
Our travels take us through the main roadway into the bazaar through The Windswept Street, at first. Numerous thugs provide checkpoints, but offer expedited services at the cost of coins. Likewise, mercenaries often linger to the sides of the large passage in hopes travelers buy their protection as well. As an alternative, the streets are not just upon the ground. Many catwalks and passages extend and overlap with the hodgepodge of interwoven buildings. The bazaar, despite this chaotic melding of architecture, is the most open part of the city... and perhaps the most consistent source of sunlight. While much of the items within the stalls look fair, even good quality, much of it must be foreign and likely pilfered from some far less fortunate passerby. The Ransom Circle is our main way to the palace, but the guards and henchmen make it clear that Ahmed has no interest in speaking with us for the time being and thus our chances are best taken elsewhere. As we pass by a circle of rumormongers, we overhear of The Cutpurse Trail, a heavily residential stretch where a failed robbery resulted in the gutting of the perpetrator by the victim's family. Moving through these homes, the stacked shantytown does little to provide comforting greetings. However, our priority lies right past the merchant square in The Sinner's Stretch.
Many alleyways, streets and hidden passages connect, weave and intertwine to unveil all sorts of secrets and sightings. Given how much of the city is cut off from consistent sunlight, many undead are said to linger and blend in with the living. Likewise, other fell creatures of the night may hide behind the seemingly endless sources of shadow found underneath the artificial canopies and built-up fronds. Few prove the existence of these wicked things, especially due to the distaste for religion that's commonplace here. One back alley, called the Sinner's Stretch, is an especially vile place. It is reached from northeastern corners of the bazaar and nearby small winding back roads. While halls for all sorts of risky games of chance exist throughout the city, the ones here prove far more dangerous, with much greater rewards. One need not put themselves up for bet either, other bodies are just as well accepted. Other goods refused or hidden from the main bazaar are peddled here, often for obscene prices. One can seek out cursed trinkets dug up from lost tombs, dangerous narcotic spices, unholy weapons and much more for just the right price or sacrifice. Likewise the somewhat subtly titled "Houses of Escorts" does much business around here, with the "employers" being heartless in their practices and the employed sadly varying greatly in age. The majority of such places are ill-fitting for information. As there is little in the way of taverns, other communal places of indulgence are sought out.
I feel no comfort in a "spice sampling" emporium, let alone one controlled by the rival family of Kalzafred15. Beneath a flight of stairs, one is greeted by an intoxicating aroma emanating from small fireplaces dug into the ground. The strange herb and seasoning blend burned by the fire creates a lulling smoke that dulls the senses and alters the mind. However, it is here where I find myself most able to extract information, assuming visitors are lucid enough. One such group proved easily to pry from, their minds so loosened by the drug spice mixture. This so-called Bandit King is a very flawed man, made anxious by his own fabrications even. He trusts no one, while still leaving them to their devices, all while everything is surveyed either by him or those he can manipulate. One thing he can't subtly control is the outsider clans that constantly spite him. However, there are some secrets that the so-called King of Thieves holds very dearly, that this group only discovered by pure accident. In their words, this spice will help them forget. And perhaps more over, help them forget what they told me. His dearest secret is something that goes against core tenants and values of the city. It is a respected tradition that long-term male residents have unshaved but well-kept facial hair. The Bandit King is allegedly cursed to no longer grow anything upon his head at all, he is completely bald from chin to dome. For this reason, he shrouds much of his face behind loose cloth when dealing with others in day-to-day affairs. And furthermore, his clan name of Al'Bashar is fake, as he was once known from a clan called "Malefdeshar." In fact, beyond his delusions of grandeur, Ahmed Malefdeshar was once a nobody . When I ask how they came upon this information, any lucid moments lapse away. The lazy and nodding men, deeply affected by their spices, begin to sway as they lose coherence. It is perhaps time to leave... But first, rest.
26th, Flaurmont AC 1004—Ylar the Bandit Kingdom
The morning hours are still young as I come to. I have been carried to some resting chamber, likely for use with prostitutes. Booming calls of excitement and anger prevent me from further sleep, as I rush to the window. Within the city square, many personal henchmen of the Bandit King surround the bodies of the men I talked to the day before... the lowly spice addicts, the kindly priest... Their bodies lie limp upon chopping blocks, their severed heads upon the bloodstained sands. The executioner brutes rally the crowd, decrying the men as colluders with spies and traitors who hate the protection of this fair city. The mob joins in, celebrating the murders of these former friends. Fortunately, my escort to the new realm of terror resides by the entrance to this den of sins. May I doom potential allies no more. Onwards into the eerie fog that blankets these lands... Or in this case, sandstorms that transition back to fog.
28th, Flaurmont AC 1004—Jagged Cliffs of the Scarred Crag
A realm where much of the natural beauty has been disturbed by strange curses and the mad workings of invaders. According to an olden legend, the Opossum tribe were outcasts who blasphemed greatly against their Elk Clan relatives long ago. They were cast out from the lands as mists grabbed them. A tribe from the Tiger Clan discovered them after they desired conquest in the name of the Immortal, Danel. A high priest came out victorious, but not before a medicine woman cursed him for his transgressions. This is the tale of woe told around blazing fire pits to prepare the next generation for their torments ahead. But, surely there is more to this land than a fallen people brought down further through the oppression of ruthless conquerors. Hints of Darokinian settlers can be found, all of which have met their own dooms through unrelated ways. This remote forest land abruptly cuts into mists, with waters stretching beyond. The lake in the distance seems to trail off. None who flee to it are seen again. The Jaguar Tribe even fears something beyond, something distant yet familiar to them.
Much like Tyoraam, a proper revolt is brewing; one that the rulers cannot defeat in the end. Both share a similar creeping dread over this eventuality, as an uncrushed sense of determination, an appreciation for life and the desire for something better is eternal. Both rulers disrespect the opposite sex however possible, usually stifling their potential. However, Tlaocoyaliztli lacks the strange divination of the undead high priestess. Moreover, his insecurities and paranoia is enhanced by lingering bestial instincts that make him feel like a cornered animal. Tlaocoyaliztli lashes out more and more, feeling confined and trapped... even in his own palace. His trust in his own people decays, as he suspects his reign of decadence will meet its day. Unlike High Priestess Jahei'irias, Tlaocoyaliztli cannot fall back on delusions of insanity. Despite sharing his mind with a feral presence, he knows that retribution will come and hunt him down. This path towards a painful death haunts him, terrifies him, and makes him feel like a failure in the eyes of Danel, whom he views as a master of both brutality and struggle. Fear grabs them all. It is for that reason that their numbers were shrouded from previous attempts to count them. Previous records of the Opossum Tribe showed meager numbers, due to distrust of outsiders for fear of giving their occupiers more information to work with. As for the land itself? There too are differences. Tyoraam is in the midst of social strife and cultural war, while cultural warfare here is more likely to take a violent turn. This is not some political intrigue campaign or battle of wits and trends. No, this is survival, eyes fixed for the right moment to strike back. So, what of those who fight back against their conquerors?
The Opossum Tribe are indeed still numerous, more so than the Jaguar Tribe members who squat upon their land. Division and fear have been used for years to enforce a lack of organization, especially following the thorough execution of the Great Mothers, matriarchs of the tribe. This hasn't stopped the influence of these wise women. One healer, of the Thick Marsh Village, has proven to be a force for good... at least discreetly. This village, located closer towards the southwestern misty border, is overseen by Grandmother Washbear. The wise woman was fascinated by me, as I sought her counsel. Her life's mission is to send allies in the dead of night to secretly supply food to other villages. Through shamani tricks and charms, they evade perils of the cursed woods and deadly patrols. Likewise, these abilities of Grandmother Washbear have helped to conceal a bountiful garden that drives these efforts. This leader is likewise aided by the last surviving Great Mother, Jayfeather. While far less open-minded and optimistic, Jayfeather shares the same ambitions. However, her xenophobia towards outlanders leads to her driving away outside help, especially if they resemble Darokinians. And due to a lack of worldly knowledge, most outsiders resemble Darokinians to her. Jayfeather has even called upon warbands to assault outlanders, should they not heed immediate calls. Ironically, this has earned some reluctant admiration from the Jaguar Tribe. It is only through Grandmother Washbear that outside help is condoned. Due to her advanced age, such a passing will be a devastating reality soon enough.
This tribe as a whole proves strange and uncanny to me. It isn't for their spirituality, organization or claimed history... but their lack of presence within Mystara itself. Their dialect is remarkably similar to the greater Elk Clan. Considering the Elks' admiration of their plateau home, the current living spaces of this new Opossum Tribe feels quite ironic. If this is another world, are they part of an alternate Elk Clan? Are there other tribes that exist as a parallel? These questions are unlikely to be answered here. They aren't exactly alone, whether from secret support or otherwise. Some Jaguar Tribe members have even defected in favor of aiding their prior victims. However, these defectors keep their distance from these villages, when not feigning continued loyalty through patrols and vassal tithing. When isolated for long enough periods of time, these renegade warriors, scouts and officials will trade information or grant supplies as they're able to. It was to my own boon that it was a band of renegades who came across me. Never breaking character, I was originally taken to some outpost for questioning. However, the rogue agents ultimately took me into the forests to "test my mettle." Upon leaving those truly loyal to the ruling High Priest of Danel, the facade was dropped. Many lamented at the atrocities they were forced to commit, with one in particular. The Plains of Vacant Murmurs is one such atrocity near Jaguar Tribe outposts. The entranced slaves work themselves to death. It is unknown how future generations are born given the zombified mental state of the victims. To my shock beyond this woeful tale, these apostate guards even inquired if I had plans to stop their mad leader. Plans? Perhaps some twisted diplomacy could work? Barring that, a trusted blade treated with arcane enchantments could do as well.
1st, Yarthmont AC 1004—Jagged Cliffs of the Scarred Crag
Through the escort of secret defectors, passages up the plateau were revealed to me. Even with my equipment retained, a small squad surrounded me to ensure compliance on "sacred grounds." The squalor of the Jaguar Tribesmen nearly matched the sickly states of the Opossum Tribe. Neglect and rigid survivalism tug at the suffering colonists. A mighty ziggurat grants them hope that Danel shall reward them. And reward he shall, as Jaguar warriors ready a sacrifice of several Opossum tribal denizens. By proclamation of a priest in fine regalia, these supposed spies and subverters were trying to illicitly shuttle food to other villagers; likely as part of Grandmother Washbear's secret society. More political bloodshed, for once not by my hands. I have found myself in an audience with the High Priest of Danel, Tlaocoyaliztli, deep within the glorious pyramid structure. As if ill-prepared for a meeting, he tried to shake off a lazy and almost feline resting position upon his holy throne. Thanks to a honey-tinged and submissive presentation, he is convinced that I am a Darokinian interested in trading goods to help them finally crush his problematic subjects. He is aware that many of them are openly xenophobic towards anything Darokinian, something he seeks to harvest to his gain. And if lucky, I could gain prominence in using my techniques and tools to help him break past the cursed lands and conquer other tribes. Likewise, the fact I have not been turned into an offering and have even gained an audience with him is a privilege; one he gloats in my face. The promise of fighting stagnation entices him, as he consorts with his assembly. However, before he agrees, something about me triggers his inner beast. Claws emerge from his hands as he lunges forth. His men hold him back, but this cannot last. This is the time to flee, perhaps ironically to the very Darokinian ruins that he fears to enter. The ruins are a sad relic of a failed colony, dilapidated wooden and stone structures that have begun to rot. Those who squat here seem frayed, dirty and strange, before revealing themselves as werepossums. The attacks of the beastly creatures are bluffs, as they prove ultimately cowardly. My own swashbuckling moves with blade and stance frighten them off, even if my cuts do little to damage them. Towards a misty border, the familiar sight of a Kargat awaits me. And beyond them? Misty barriers that they know too well.
3rd, Yarthmont AC 1004—The Blackmoorian Colony of Darkheath
I have been told of such a land, one of wonders and advancements unlike anything I could imagine. Such a place is an inheritor to Blackmoor itself. The truth of that ancient land is largely unknown, until now. As for what can be said of this former colonial territory? Turbulent. Waters are tested by both uneasy weather and aggressive rival ships. A battle had just finished prior to arrival, with wreckage still strewn throughout the murky waters and gunpowder-clouded air. The seas otherwise carried a grim calm to them, the shrouding silence of death. Arrival towards these lands saw me hailed by several well-armed soldiers in a familiar scenario. They arrested me, taking me to some barracks for questioning. What sort of ancient Thonian empire enemy could I be? Though in fairness, how could I come across such knowledge of Blackmoor?16 Please, enough of this capture and interrogation! I get the same responses every time... Even mages were brought in to see if I had any tainted essence of the beastmen. Upon clearance, I was still watched. As to what could spawn such scrutiny and fear? It is hard to say. But, it stays true to ancient stories of Blackmoor: a land with enemies on all sides.
The people of this land, while spoiled with inventions and magical ideas, are rarely the braggart type. Many prefer to be more refined than that, at least so they say. In reality, they attempt to go about their lives while contending with decline amidst seemingly endless outside violence. They are secluded with little in the way of trade, as most is stolen or destroyed in the ongoing conflicts. This is somewhat present by the leadership of Royal Governor Higgins III. He is, for the most part, respected as a fair ruler under the pressures of war. Domestic life for the public has not been too noteworthy under his tenure, something that is thankfully quite assuring. But, like much of the public, the governor's eyes are on the military in this time of crisis. There are tales of glory in the Beastmen Crusade to mask the sheer brutality of the battlefields to the east. Propaganda also instructs enlistment in the honorable fight against a naval foe. In reality, the seas are treacherous and tactics have proven heinous at times, including old pirate boarding and execution techniques if it was called for. In truth, the military has been known to recruit prisoners and former pirates into their service.
Propaganda has extended into the workings of society, at least to outside sources. The population given to untrusted sources has been listed as far lower than it actually is. This demographic skew has been shaped from encounters with spies, information leaks and general bouts of paranoia. In reality, Darkheath likely has a population of 20,000 altogether. The masses have done well to try to hide themselves through use of magic or technology. This has thrown off foreigners and enemy forces alike. Despite this, the colony has begun to fail. Surveys among Archilis and New Blackmoor do not have sustainable populations due to famine, war, unsafe water, unstable trade and other forms of external violence... or at least what has been gleaned from partially declassified reports. The Royal Governor and leaders across the Blackmoorian military are among those doing their part to help keep stability throughout the region, salvaging anything they can. Unorthodox and new tactics have been employed to catch their foes off guard. Domestically, morale has been boosted through celebrations over victories. Beyond the Head of the Blackmoor Royal Guard, Fleet Admiral Holden is a massive proponent of these events. And yet, many yearn for simpler days, before this great war where the Beastman Crusade marched by their doors. There is no glory, as the Fleet Admiral proclaims, but merely wasting away in unsure times. According to the lore of the land, cultists of some entropic chaos staged a dark ritual to a demon called The Egg of Coot, causing dangerous mists to arise. The evil cultists declared eternal woe upon the colony seeking to rebuild from their attacks. Residents of somewhat nearby lands proclaim this is a false history17, but have little to counteract it. They aren't even that aware of some faraway Blackmoor, let alone what Thonia is.
Life still tries to cling to its olden vestiges. Blackmoorian technomancy has gone from a day-to-day fact of life to something generations are starting to view with slight scrutiny. As automation clashes with the rising need for employment, many Blackmoorians become bitter over their perceived replacement. Likewise, the use of bioweaponry has made it harder for farming to become a viable means of producing sustenance. Artificial moisture farms and synthesized foods have become more normalized, despite a populace made disgruntled by them. Rumors spill into the public that much of the public budget goes towards new forms of weaponry rather than investment in the struggling infrastructure or public means, seen in the literally crumbling districts of cities. There is assurance that such measures are temporary and a means of fighting back those who would destroy such cities anyway. Sadly, such things are probably right. Petty crime has become the thorn on the chair of society, with many of these ills never addressed. Illicit goods have been shuttled to and from seedier ports towards the south of the peninsula, towards underground networks leading into Zherisia and other neighbors. This has allowed for criminals and radicals to arm themselves with their own powerful weaponry, much to the fear of the governing powers. Likewise, cartels have allowed for strange narcotics and dangerous compounds to be up for grabs. The Royal Navy is said to not be above engaging with these traders. But, the military has become well aware that I've helped to spread "negative propaganda" about them. And with that, it would be "just service" if I sought them out for mutual aid.... Whatever that should mean.
To prove myself to their cause, the Blackmoorian Royal Guard recruited me in the ongoing Beastman Crusade. The campaign is thus: breaking through No Man's Land and recovering sacred artifacts of a fallen temple taken into enemy territory18. From there, unleash enough men and warmachines to splinter the beastmen lines and decimate them until they retreat. Scouts ordered for initial entry took me with them, as I surveyed countless Blackmoorian ruins. Ultimately, the beastmen proved more cunning than expected and led to the slaying of two scouts and my capture. Surely these loathsome brutes will just sacrifice and/or consume me. But no. They know I am not a Blackmoorian somehow, but something and someone else. I am still a "lowly meat thing" to them, but they think I can aid in their derangement. Shackled and dragged, they sought me to serve in removing some sort of plague somehow. These beastmen of old have been changed by the war, much like Blackmoor. Something destabilizes them with a disease they call "Dementation." Many have confused memories of creatures, even humans, that they never met. Sometimes they suffer delusions based on those memories. Those in power denounce that this madness is real, citing those afflicted as "turning sympathizer" with their Blackmoorian foes. Many of these mad beastmen are executed or sacrificed if they can't hide their condition. Those who escape without trying to help their affliction often cannibalize Blackmoorian culture poorly. Some especially mad even seek out the haunted chantry, usually meeting their ends by the wrathful dead. The deeply afflicted also lose senses of preservation and forget that Blackmoorians and beastmen usually slay each other on sight. Fortunately for me, my captors were failing their own Dementation. Each of them begin to call me different names, seeking to bring me to the chantry for healing. Some spout madness about being reincarnated from lost souls19.
5th, Yarthmont AC 1004—The Blackmoorian Colony of Darkheath
As a warrior, these endless defeats and captures are humiliating. From my understanding of the humanoids, it shouldn't be that hard to trick these beastmen... even if they operate with strange efficiency. During one of my forced attempts at understanding this Dementation plague, I feigned a similar madness as they removed me from their quarantine chambers. Being dragged past a holding cell, I broke free their loose grasp to secure some of their weapons. Escape came down to guile and some added firepower. The enhanced smokepowder weapons alongside some confiscated blades sent ill-prepared attendants sprawling in confusion. A few loaded shots and hacking slashes disarmed or injured any armed resistance seeking to subdue me. My panache with a blade has not faded me, either warding off or slicing down those who tried to oppose me. As for these Blackmoorian firearms, far more power than any man deserves, as I can blast sizable holes in my foes. Away from the shoddily guarded makeshift infirmary, there were renewed sounds of combat, accompanied by booming explosions. Strange cannons operated by beastmen are laid to waste by a return fire of some rivaling explosives, as another guard leaps from a compound doorway. A gaping slash into my chest followed by a brutal impalement, enough to knock me down. Soon after, more rocketing explosives collide with the lands. The pummeling of these weapons proved more dire for my assailant, leaving me to wheeze. The secret facility for treating Dementation was laid to ruins, including the many beastmen who simply sought a cure. While I had no cure, perhaps someone else could have changed that. No use dwelling on this further.
Machines of war roll along the newly created battlefield wreckage, with the lid popping off the mechanized monstrosity. A man in Blackmoorian garb greeted me, surprised to see me alive. Without deeper thought, I relayed what I had seen. He picks up some communication device, relaying my words. He cheers me for granting insight into the colony's victory. A small craft whips around to pick me up, piloted by a soldier in rather noble-looking regalia, taking me back as the larger machines continue to ravage enemy lands. He laments that all battle chaplains are serving active soldiers at bases, perhaps I could hold out till making it there. The would-be breakthrough to save the Beastmen and perhaps end the war is likely destroyed in the heat of battle. Joining the officer and me in the escort cart is a familiar and ghoulish sight, those marked under the service of Azalin Rex. The two operatives narrow glances in irritation, exclaiming I am taking away time for cataloging other lands. Likewise, the pain I feel over my wounds is nothing but a grievance to them. The rough ride removed an attempt at easing my nerves, especially as the haunted chantry emerged in the distance. A chilling sense of macabre approval filled my senses when my eyes met with the crumbling walls. Approval in what? More endless carnage and endless death? I shouldn't think too deeply on this, for my own sanity. Upon extraction from the hostile environment, my party departs via a hidden docking site underneath Archilis. Fortunately, a chaplain willingly broke away to attend to my wounds. It's enough to get me on my legs without help. Eschewing obvious Blackmoorian technology, the agents elect for a more humble vessel worthy of three people... nothing more than a simple dinghy. No matter, away from these endless battles over a dead empire. For now, the grim masters see me fit to row. At least the strange misty links between lands are less foreign by now.
8th, Yarthmont AC 1004—The Northern Jarldom of Vasfar
At first glance, it seems much akin to the Northern Reaches I had passed in my travels. This Jarldom of Vasfar, overseen by Jarl Ravennebb, shall help piece together remaining details. For the most part, there doesn't seem to be much external conflict in this land. Much of it comes from the result of sanctioned raids against new neighboring lands of Vorostokov and Sanguinia. Beyond that, the land itself provides many frights and fears for locals. There are tall tales, dangerous mountains and paths best left avoided. The locals are mostly quiet, with even their mighty warriors not making much of a boisterous presence. The summers here are short and the winters are especially punishing. Against all odds, some crops still succeed and some livestock stay sturdy enough. The breeding of reindeer has proved a potential alternative to traditional farming animals. Attempts to tame them as livestock have failed, with sturdy cattle taking up the reins for now. Reindeer meat has become more prominent than beef for now, due to latter use for work animals. Beyond the marauders who bring supplies and glory to Vasfar, much day-to-day activity is far more humble and reserved. In areas with less extreme ice, fishing is the staple. The careless have been lost to frigid waters after falling through the ice. Stable enough waters allow docking at a shipyard and village of Aavekaupunki, seemingly more used to travelers than the rest of the land. Their prices for work cattle and wagon are oddly generous. Something about their demeanor seems uncanny, supernatural. There is little time to ponder on these things, especially when more important places must be sought for my generous employers.
The people of this land seem to live in conditions not unlike the most remote lands of the Heldann Freeholds. As for the culture? It is a truly strange mixture of the three sibling states of the Northern Reaches; Ostland, Vestland and Soderfjord. Customs and methods seem like a blender, as some locals demand to reach out to the lands beyond in more honest trade while others prefer their methods now. There is a heightened desire for expanded trade, like Vestland. The brutality of Ostland has been overseen through the marauders and raiding warriors. And like Soderfjord, a noble Jarl oversees the land. Even the linguistic dialect is a curiosity. Nordligt is the tongue of the land, reflecting a blend of dialects from its similar Mystaran homes. But not everyone is unified. Some villagers are more rehearsed in those old Mystaran ways, not wanting to give them up for this hybrid culture. An old woodsman and lumber seller, Jorgen Einstakur, stays a cantankerous thorn in the side of the Jarl for that very reason. Others have congregated around these aging personalities for wisdom and knowledge of the "divided days." But, these are just tales of humans. Demihumans exist here too. As a minority population moving beyond 500, the dwarves of Vasfar have little voice. The majority of them, living in Mondenhart, are not fully seen as citizens but rather respected outside guests. Many fled from the mountains by the Oldgard River, fearing the wrath of giants. Such a subject is traumatic for them and best avoided. The icy elves of Elvmork fare better. While both are respected, the elves are given free passage to come and go. Their numbers have not been counted as higher than 300. Among them is an elder simply known as "The Passing Frost," an ancient elf who rarely stays in one place for more than a brief moment, true to his name. While they trade in their arts from lands south of the settlements, they are shy and skittish around large human crowds. Though, some share tales of ghostly beasts that have forced them into a nomadic way of life.
Fears of giants and ghostly creatures only start the tall tales and lore of this land. The wicked ogress called Gryla is known for arriving during festive times. Rumors say that she involves herself with the twisted dealings and hidden politics of the giants. Giant raids decrease during Gryla's juletide time of terror, giving more free reign to the ogress and her equally twisted family. Olden storytellers give no reason to this, save for that they feel there's an agreement between the two sides. The woes of Vasfar go beyond just these tales. Marauders of Vorostokov have struck back in vengeance. They proclaim that the viking raids upon their lands have been a major source of troubles for them. This has inspired a legion of warriors called the Berserkers, who don the pelts of beasts and fling themselves at the marauders in savage rage. It is said that they can channel the strength and might of the respective beast. Many warriors who undergo the rituals to become these feral vessels of rage never remain the same, even vanishing upon some nights for some unknown and sinister new purpose. The Kargat have pushed me onwards in hopes of capturing one of these warriors who have been "lost" to their rage. Thanks to the Heroics Guild of Elvmork, I am not alone in this search. They are said to survive just south of where giants tread. These possessed wild men were ultimately nowhere to be found, but the evil weather of the mountains greeted us all the same. And with the weather, silhouettes of massive grim figures seem to run in tune with the rushing winter blasts. All visibility was lost, as the struggles of my Guild companions were heard in grunts of anguish and screams of agony. Meanwhile, slicing gusts and icy breath mostly drowned them out. Neither Blackmoorian weaponry nor my own prowess can defeat the alien giant. And before the biting cold claims my consciousness, a massive humanoid face gazes down upon me in judgment. Its mouth does not open, but a guttural and inhuman bellow emanates from its still face. I cannot bear it, as my strength fails me.
10th, Yarthmont AC 1004—The Northern Jarldom of Vasfar
Waking up, all of my possessions are gone and I lay beside others in bare rags. The meek and starving people quiver in terror, as a new victim joins them. Few know what these dread giants want with them, save for that they collaborate with "Tainted Dwarves."20 The giants themselves do not emote, they just listlessly move through the winds to carry forth tasks. Many wonder if they think much at all or are just slaves to these evil dwarves. Or perhaps their minds are too alien for us to gather and these fell dwarves are the only minds twisted enough to comprehend them. Regardless of the truth, their lair is one as confusing as them. Tunnels sprawl in a multitude of directions, as only the chilling moan of the giant echoes through all. They experiment on any slave that cannot do proper work for the giants, whose expectations are well beyond most mortal hands. Days seemingly pass as I carve rock, unload ore, polish gems and slay cave pests to better suit the giant "masters." Several falter and fall, before being captured and taken to visit the Rot Dwarves of the Mists. Gut-wrenching screams sometimes give way to disgusting gurgling, sucking or other noises coupled with results I dare not think about. In the days to follow, I hear the unlikely... combat. As I race to see my saviors, I see more agents of the Wizard-King. As they recover my gear and ready me for more, I inquire about the others. The Kargat do not care, as they only see use in me. Out of one set of shackles and into another. Before we can leave, we learn the fate of failed slaves, as fleshcrafted things are set upon slave and agent alike; disdainful mockeries of the flesh twisted into new forms of weaponry for the giants to play with. I have heard of such forbidden art, known to some Rot Dwarves. Perhaps Dread Giants are just the result of their experiments... that or real giants were among their victims. They call this twisting "Vicissitude." But, not all is lost amidst the tunnels of monsters; a mage among the agents from Darkon helps us find a path away, into a misty barrier at the edge of the mountains. Somehow we emerge not far off of Elvmork, despite us traveling east rather than far southwest. Very odd.
In my travels through this brutal and bitter tundra, I have come to a realization of sorts... Few people of worth or note in these lands hail from Vasfar. It is remote and mostly humble. Only the marauding of the viking warriors is worth note. And even then, their reach is often limited. Though, many of these raiders have returned with incredible stories of lands not always shrouded in snow. In fact, one raid took the pillagers to a scorching land of sands and stretching beige buildings. This could in fact be either Ylaruam or this alternative reality of "Ylar." Regardless, some denizens are worthy of notice. One of them was an explorer who desired to map more than the dismal and frigid wastes immediately beyond the blanket of civilization. This sailor was Lars Viggsen21 of Clan Viggsen. While the majority of this clan was content living in Elvmork, this ambitious adventurer dared to see far more. His specialty was in sailing, as he eventually rose to a captain of his own crew well beyond his home. Letters slowly became less frequent over the years until stopping. Record of his life and likely death is vague, as none can be found on when he was born. It's possible that these tales are truly old. Ultimately, he was doomed in another land... one that can be reached through a secret watery channel beyond the Ljust Fält. It is once again time to make my journey alongside wretched Darkonian agents of the Wizard-King.
I have been hailed via a letter, telling me to enter the village of Fiskeklokke post haste. All the while, calamity has stirred in wake of my own activities. This search of wild berserkers, the wrath of the giants, all of this has ultimately awakened another evil to haunt this land... the draugr! The stench of death flares up nostrils dulled by the cold chill. Angry fighting corpses muster armies from the north, slowly marching unabated by the perilous eternal winter. Decay clings to their bodies as rage clings to what's left of their souls. The Jarl is quick to call for support and evacuation, a perfect time to leave this land. The minor settlement of Fiskeklokke feels unremarkable, just a community of huddled and shivering fishermen under normal circumstances. This village, due well west of Elvmork, contains its own secrets. A watery passageway leads not to my salvation, but a deeply hated foe of my employer. Or at least, that is all the Kargatane will disclose.
13th, Yarthmont AC 1004—Lost Islands of Nebligtode
The Kargatane prevented me from leaving the boat immediately, addressing me with a serious matter. In their flat but unnerving tones, I was to follow on one last trek. This one would prove far more dangerous, the pursuit of "The Ice Wizard," a rogue mage who evidently has roots within Alphatia. From the Ljust Fält, the Fiskeklokke Strait and Nocturnal Sea; the Steinfelder Plain is unveiled to me and my Kargat captors. Passages and tomes found within the mainland of Graben Island are written in script not too unlike the Nordligt language of Vasfar. Could there be a common ancestor? It's hard to tell without far more time. We all gather within the village of Graben. The locals seem simple enough, but a tad lifeless... much like my observers.
Upon closer examination, Nebligtode is not just two wayward neighbors, but an archipelago. Most of the islets are uninhabitable for the most part, but much of the region hosts all sorts of fascinating locals. The Grabenites have begun to express fear towards the insular and coastal village of Meerdorf on the island of Knammen. The residents of said village live up to a lack of hospitality, as well as many having grotesque deformities, likely from generations of inbreeding. Some say that they've made a pact with something unfathomable from the deep Nocturnal Sea's depths. One scribe for a nearby temple shared one insight, that they may have relatives along the Icthyan Sea, not too far from the techno-magical colony of Darkheath. This will be a matter to investigate later. When I ask about Todstein, the scribe's enthusiasm dries rapidly. She sneers that it's a wretched place that brings mockery to her faith. She signals to three others who return to the temple, after completing daily duties. As night fell upon the village, I came upon a small inn that seemed cozy enough. The innkeeper had a vile grimace-like face, remarking that customers slept like interred bodies upon caskets. During the night, I was awoken by the sounds of a gathering mob. The frenzied force pummeled against my locked door, eventually splintering wood to reveal their deformed faces. The armed assembly began to use other weapons and tools to try to burst through, as I moved a dresser to impede them. Dagger and Blackmoorian pistol in tow, I fended some of them off briefly before leaping from the window, barely grabbing the ledge of another rooftop. Fortunately, both of these properties overlooked the mostly calm, albeit frigid, waters. And what luck, another rowboat...
16th, Yarthmont AC 1004—Lost Islands of Nebligtode
Nearly a night of rowing and I collapsed near Graben Village once more. My creepy Darkonese stalkers greet me upon The Black Sheep Inn. After regaining consciousness hours later, they probe me to recall all I've seen and are intrigued by tales of Meerdorf, and expect another voyage there for further study. Three more have joined since my initial departure from the village, making five Darkon oppressors to see the job done. They inquire about what I've uncovered about the island of Todstein. Save for those islanders decrying it as a foul and unholy place, not much else was recovered. Those overhearing us become uncomfortable, preferring to avoid us entirely. As day continued to pass, the shrouded Kargat accompanied me to another small island of Kirchenheim. The flophouse provided little of interest, but the strange obsidian-colored temple did! Little could be found here that added to our search, save for some workings that were written in High Alphatian. Perhaps a clue at last! The shunned relic was likely not itself Alphatian, but carved marks and desecrations were. Evidently, this cursed place might have led to the doom of those who attempted to colonize the island just years prior, though I believe the forces of Todstein at fault22. The owner of the flophouse certainly doesn't want to talk about it. Inquiring about Todstein confirmed this! The poor owner's face lit up in horror, beginning to prattle about retribution, evil powers, and the Ice Wizard. This colloquialism arises again. Returning to Graben Island, we inquired with local authorities, all of whom turned us back and warned us not to continue. The island's namesake, the Graben family, seems to be the best source of information. Josiah, the grandson of the previous patriarch, relates to us of the follies and struggles of the islands. Some years back, a dreadful storm almost destroyed the family and much of the nearby islands. However, they have since recovered and prospered as once before. He seems to wince at the mention of the dreadful wizard. He recommends seeking out the so-called "floating outpost" north of the village. Once again, we row on hostile shores, only to uncover a chunk of land ominously hovering above the sloshing waves. A man in strange garb accosts us, proclaiming to be one of the "Lost Alphatians"—how odd. No one brought up Lost Alphatians during previous travels. Upon mentioning the Ice Wizard, he scoffs and proclaims such a thing was a ghost story and that the Grabenites are a superstitious lot. However, he knows that Todstein is still a dangerous place with plenty of arcane relics. He would arrange transportation and magical protection in exchange for the relics divided among the Kargatane prison wardens and the greedy Alphatians. Wizards, truly unworthy of trust.
A magical ship is conjured with strange ethereal-looking crewmen, serviceable for now. The hovering Alphatian gives a smug grin, assuring that he'll know if we succeed or not. After an hour of preparations, we set sail for Todstein, far more ruthless than even the icy chill of the giants of Vasfar. Winds batter the sides of the mystical vessel, as thrashing waters try to knock it over. Jutting rocks prevent easy safe passage forward. However, we are not deterred and continue. Like a throbbing migraine, each of us are assaulted by some means of magical attack. A booming message bounces around our minds, it must be the Ice Wizard! He exclaims to turn back, as he'll remove the meddling invader mages another day. Perhaps he fears what they know of his past or want to know. Regardless, we fear no Ice Wizard. After an hour of battling improbable conditions, landfall beaches the magical ship. Not long after departing, the ship itself departs and seemingly sails away. Was this a trap? Now we have just ourselves, fighting an abrasive climate as we ascend snowy slopes and forested passages. Based upon the rising igneous rock, this island is likely a dead volcano, with the wizard likely within the opening below. Pines and snow slowly give way to trails and a mausoleum, the mage's lair? As we draw close, the rattling of bones can be heard all around. Skeletons arise from the snow in ambush. All of them clatter with the Wizard's words ringing from each of them. Despite this warning, they attack. The strange pistol from Darkheath proves useless, but my magical blades remain impressive even against the living dead. The Kargat seem far more skillful in their dispatching of these skeletal minions. As the last is put down, one last set of words fills our heads. It is simply "I have warned you. I am the Wizard of Ice and Bone."
Deep within we go, as our combined might proves successful in warding off all matters of undead seeking to stop us. Eventually, deep below the earth, we uncover a study. All means of maps, manuscripts and items hastily line the walls, podiums, tables and more. Atop a lectern is a small journal. The first entry details a group of Alphatians lost to mists, emerging in Nebligtode. They seem to have been sent by Prince Zandor to look into rumors of the return of Meredoth, the Fell Wizard of Todstein! So, the wizard has a name after all. This Meredoth was said to have been instigating trouble while researching in the profane. But, many scholars debunked this, as the mage disappeared so long ago.23 They emerged onto this same island to hunt down Meredoth, only to be cornered. The writing changes, as a new narrator explains how the mages have become "lebendtod" puppets, especially for leading more Mystarans over for experiments. I see. The Kargatane agents scramble to other documents, scouring the area for wards and other spells first. What intrigues me is the wizard's story. One such tome holds this. It would seem he was indeed of Noble Alphatian blood as well, giving him an almost "cold" tone to his skin. As a youth, he possessed dark hair and a brooding stare upon his eyes. However, the disaffectionate coldness of his parents left him emotionally stunted and solely focused on study. Constructs and other forms of magic acted as overseers to ensure he was healthy and learning. In time, he excelled and surpassed peers, often by stealing their work and slaying them. Constructs and undead creation intrigued him, given that is what he had long since known. As his parents withered away from their own indulgences, death intrigued him all the more. As an archmage of much power, the Council of Mages grew to fear him. Rather than fight him or cause issues, they decided to award him with a noble title and allow him to continue his studies in Norwold. While the prospect of isolation grabbed him, he discovered colonists would soon be at his mercy. His neglect and callousness led to the first wave dying painfully. In punishment, more were sent to Norwold with strict order of tending to them. This time, he conspired and poisoned their food while he continued his studies. As the colonists choked upon toxins and their own gurgling blood, mists took him.24 If his name still frightens Alphatians, that is truly a testament to a vile archmage. As I placed down the hefty tome, a rumble filled the chamber. The agents grab what they can, informing me that I'm on my own. All of them turn invisible and flee the study. The rumbling begins to channel a raging growl, massive amalgams of flesh proceed to stomp into the area to heighten the noise. A shockwave emits from somewhere in the cavernous room, knocking me over. The flesh creatures take to restraining me as my body gives out. In my fading state, I see the image of the old man angered, who chastises me one more time. "Foolish boy. I know your purpose, as I knew those mages of my homeland. But, you're different... You're potentially useful."
Eventually, my eyes reopen with great reluctance as my body returns to consciousness. My jackets, my gear, my pouches; torn open and belongings strewn about. The terrible old man of legend rifles through various letters, documents and records. His mumbling remains incoherent, save for "Savage Baronies," "Norwold," "Glantri," and "Alphatia." The black-cowled old man turns to me, while I remain still shackled deep within some mausoleum. His wrinkled brow curls, as his lips twist and suck inward. It seems clear he deliberates on what to say to me, but I doubt he seeks to spend the effort. The dusty old robes dance along the floor as his sleeves sway about. The ancient man conducts some means of profane ritual, before grasping a grimoire. The crooked stringbean-like fingers flip through equally ancient pages, as he emits a displeased grumble. At last, the robed man unveils himself.
His lips peel back, like a wolf baring fangs. "Insolent boy, know that you hold a privilege. As an undead, you'd ironically be less worthy to me. Your arcane puppet master knows enough of my abilities. So, I banish your hex not for your boon, but for his pain. Your talents are pathetic and you prove worthless. You are no threat." He proceeds to turn away, shuffling slowly to a chest to pull out a treated oak wand and a white birch staff. The wand glows with a bright blue light. As it gets closer, I feel a crackling in my mind; my visions begin to blur, and a sharp pinging emits from my ears. The magical conduit taps my forehead and it all crescendos violently. As consciousness slips, all I can hear from those fading moments is "Stupid boy, why did you visit my original home, force my hand into using the hated school of enchantment? May you remember only Mystara... Azalin would kill you soon enough." He raises his birch staff, as my drifting mind begins to forget... Todstein, Nebligtode, Meredoth, Lost Baron of Norwold... All of it. However, from the darkness, I think the shores of Norwold are slowly becoming visible to me.
A Short Letter from Meredoth and a Darkonian Addendum
"To the Wizard-King of Darkon,
Your attempts to toy with me are childish, demeaning of your status and title. While your acknowledgement of my power flatters me, please cease throwing whatever motley assembles in your clutches at me. Your Kargatane was already worthless. Now you steal other Mystarans? Let this letter be a reminder to use your time for better projects, as I do. While I care not for my subjects, save for tests and the pursuit of knowledge, I do know that you have some degree of admiration for yours. Your subjects are your weakness, while mine define obedience and surveillance. Now, leave me to my devices, lest I finally raise my hand in defiance. The choice is yours, whether you choose to fail like other deluded mages or succeed within your own mediocrity and monotony.
—Meredoth"
"12th Day of Mid-Autumn, 760 BC25
Insolence! Audacity! Sheer maledictive spite! Accusations of mediocrity and monotony! And worse, did he know of my geas cast upon the traveler? Perhaps the mental link that allowed information to travel to my Kargatane? That shriveled prune of a necromancer would enjoy my rage; I shall deny him the privilege even with the loss of my little spy from Mystara. It doesn't matter, I shan't fear him, nor shall I lose composure. I could have warned that spy not to trifle with Nebligtode, though, but the chance was there and with it so much potential for power. Finally, an insider who could help unravel a rival! But, this small explorer, his naivety! If he wasn't so predictable, I wouldn't have tried my hand at deciphering and expanding on his notes myself! The wayward warrior is no great mage, by any means. In fact, he is far from my Kargatane, far from the worthiness of being embraced by undeath. But, there will be more chances. After all, the Mists beckon for Mystara more and more. It is only a matter of time till more of their world faces damnation. More pawns to undo the Ice Wizard of Todstein. Perhaps I could extend these plots to Jaibul, tricking the broken and weary Black Rajah26 to my goals as well."
—An excerpt from the journals of Azalin Rex
1Barovian Calendar, not Before Crowning
2See also Azalin Rex at Mistipedia https://www.fraternityofshadows.com/wiki/Azalin_Rex
3The narrator of the Ravenloft Gazetteer series of books
4[Note from A: Thoughts that are collected by me!]
5All instances of AC in this article refer to After Crowning from the Thyatian Calendar
6Described and mapped in Threshold Magazine #30 http://pandius.com/lstjaibl.html
7Agents of the Law under Jahei'iras's rule
8[Note from A: Or the Dark Powers have created new torments for Jahei'irias]
9This functions like her ability to close the domain of Tyoraam, except concentrated on one victim. Prolonged exposure can provoke indefinite insanity.
10Quite literally a Ravenloft Dread Possibility or plot hook for a grim reality or future.
11[Note from A: Diablerie, a practice considered forbidden by vampires, mostly because it shouldn't work. But, sometimes it does! And the power boons, mighty.]
12A sedan chair or covered chair. It is held up by two poles carried by two people.
13These are misty domain of dread borders. More than likely, the Kargatane have found "mistway"passages between the domains to speed up travel.
14[Note from A: Navigation through the Lands of the Mists is a skill, one my operatives are well trained on. Serve me well and you too may understand.]
15[Note from A: They seem far smarter and enterprising than this mockery king. In no time, they shall prevail!]
16[Note from A: That was my payment to you and solely you, pitiful whelp! Don't tell the masses what I give you as payment! I should vaporize you for that alone!]
17[Note from A: It is absolutely False History! Someone within the high ranks doomed them all, I suspect the Governor or the Fleet Admiral.]
18See THRESHOLD Magazine #30 for the Chantry of Khoronus.
19[Note from A: Pure False Lore that lesser mages like Meredoth would fall for. The Powers likely recreated memories from those dead souls and grafted them onto newly created Beastmen.]
20A distortion of the Modrigswerg or "Rot Dwarves"from GAZ7 The Northern Reaches
21[Note from A: Record of this man predominantly resides in the domain of Nebligtode, gathered by a far more recent explorer and member of the Fraternity of Shadows] (Nocturnal Sea Gazetteer page 202)
22The Great Storm and its aftermath is detailed in Nocturnal Sea Gazetteer (which can be downloaded at the Fraternity of Shadows Ravenloft website here https://www.fraternityofshadows.com/Library/NocturnalSeaGazetteer.pdf) page 174
23[Note from A: Indeed! A fellow prisoner of the mists cannot escape that easily! It was likely the Dark Powers looking for a new victim.]
24Nocturnal Sea Gazetteer (via The Fraternity of Shadows, see above) and Ship of Horrors
25Barovian Calendar, not Before Crowning
26See also: Lost Jaibul & Other Dark Secrets (THRESHOLD Magazine #30)