The Library of Mudd

[Librarian]

The Library of Mudd


The library of Mudd, named for Altruian Mudd, Third Earl of Gryffdon, squats on the hill at the end of Thimble Street, Myrkentown. Vines choke the time-eaten eaves of the one-story gray building, a grotesque shape of carved mouth projecting from a gutter to carry rainwater clear of the wall. Window glass is colour stained by pane but smirched with dirt, and the gnarled front door moans when opened.

Inside, lights are low and the smell is musty with old pages. There are stacks and shelves of tomes all the way to the back of the building, walls lined with tapestries, lanterns, and grim portraits of the town's ancestry. There is a ladder to reach the highest books, and chairs and tables are scattered to unoccupied nooks.

Knotted, black oak pillars rise from the four corners and the centre of the library, supporting the oppressive roof, where an old candelabrum hangs on a rusty hook - cobwebs netting from its many branches. None of its candles burn. In places the shelves have been moved aside to avoid leaks, and chipped ceramic pots sit on the floor to catch the rainwater.

It may be difficult to dislodge the librarian from her cluttered desk for help... though a certain level of noise has been known to rouse her from her books.

The door is locked at sundown.

[Librarian]

Popular Titles:

A Discussion of Agricultural Function - St. Galstov Telnis

Philosophy for Dwarves - Wilhemn Beertapper

An Argument for Enslavement of Morally Inferior Races- Quinn Vergon

Fragments of Polyphonic Music - Alva Ophin

Sermons on the Sunday Epistles and Gospels - Porsay Heathen

A History of Myrken Wood - Hamwin Erdbrin

Birth of the Middle Ages - Samuel McNellus

[i]The Praise of Folly - Gromn Briwson

An Inheritance of War craft - Hector Lendwick

Barlaam and Ioasaph - Aimery Grimoult

The War of the Houses of the Bear [/I] - Ingelram Colombiers

On Religious Thought and Practice - Malachais Joland

A Treatise on the Dangers of Sorcery - Blaise Lallement

The Adventures of Uncle Trapspringer - Todwit Trapspringer

Theory and Application of Mathematics - Harvey Roard

Kingdoms Born - St. Joachim l'Ane

Legends of Myrken Wood - Sabinus Willoughby

Tactical Swordplay - Isidor Ashdown

The Rise and Fall of King Lynd - Barnabe Durville

Strategies for Field Combat - Isidor Ashdown

The Productive Soldier - Isidor Ashdown

The Search for Wisdom - Laurence Mannering

Great Assassinations - Wenceslaus Felaise

Approaching Basic Nyugen Healing Theory - Timothee Cruel

Myths and Legends of Trae Kelsa - Giapoco de Reymes

Order of Straka: A Lawful Beginning - Weaf Prerranydd

[Librarian]

Lambent lumps of wax hunched in crusted silver on either side of the portrait hanging over a warped, black desk: a hodgepodge of inks, quills, vellum, and unsettled dust. Any space left was obliterated by a frail arm in a loose sleeve, blessedly attached to a young, marcid scrivener who worked through the long hours before dawn.

The Third Earl of Gryffdor, whose likeness was forever captured by painted pigments, seemed to watch the dwindling library from beneath a cloud of white brows. His long chin protruded as though in defiance. Darkness had climbed to the ceiling and crouched on the top shelves, leery of small lights in the throbbing silence.

Kiirillorne, having worked here for many years, looked up at an instinctive time regardless of the lacking sunshine, and words fell from her face. "Time to unlock. . . did I hear you right?"

The painting replied by staring straight ahead and making no remark.

The impenetrable posture must have satisfied the thin creature, for she was sludging to her feet and clutching a gnarled height of staff. Gray-and-olive robes hung to her ankles, tightened only at her waist by an orchid sash. She might have blended into the very threads of ancient composition, if not for the long flush of murder red hair that swayed to and fro with her lame left, right steps to the front door.

Kiirillorne rattled a skeleton key into the lock until it hitched like an unused throat; she put her shoulder to the wood and pushed it open with a feeble lurch that her carved hero of a crutch caught on a complaining step. Outside, she turned around the sign on the door.

'Open. Strictly quiet.'

The scrivener?s wan face shaped a merciless smile.

She turned once to look at the withered landscape; a crow with a sharp, yellow eye stood in the cris-crossed brown grass with a spider leg in its beak beneath the old inex. The town, just down the hill, was beginning to crawl with carts and faces starved for sunbeams. Kiirillorne yawned.

Eerily exhausted from the short detachment from the schedule of things that must be, the scrivener followed her staff back into the library and to her desk, where she hunched to pore over her books.

[Biske]

The werewolf takes many forms and shapes; there are the birth-wolf, the Garou, the half-wolf, Lycanthropes, devils, demons, and virus. The latter is what will be covered in this book, written humbly by Faros el-Trefoil Pacados.


What is a werewolf?

were·wolf also wer·wolf (wârwlf, wîr-, wûr-); n. A person transformed into a wolf or capable of assuming the form of a wolf. A rather dry and muddy 'official' meaning. As stated before, there are many types of werewolves, many ways to become one, and focusing on them all would be a grand waste of time. So instead of focusing on Canis wer lupus, I will instead focus on the virus Sanies Lupinus.

Sanies Lupinus

Those afflicted with Sanies Lupinus are perhaps unique amoung the werewolves as being the only branch of lycanthropy unable to change at will. The disease is transfered almost uniquely through the bloodstream by a bite, the spittum containing the only infectious micro-organisms in the werewolf's body. Once bitten, the victim will experience terrible fever, hallucination, hot and cold flashes, and finally a deathly pallor. As the next full moon approaches, he will finally gain some semblance of his former self; in fact, appearing more rigorous and healthy than he was any time in his life, though it is noted that the fever remains.
Many things will be experienced at this stage, one confusing and terrifying to both the victim and those around him; the werewolf himself will become more heightened, more aware of his surroundings; his sense of smell becomes more pronounced, his eyesight and nightvision improved. The eve of the full moon he may become violent, destructive, or even emotional, perhaps despair and hopelessness, if he recognizes the symptoms or was aware that it was a werewolf that bit him. Attempted suicide is common at this time, though it often proves unsuccesful. Though the healing rate is not yet accelerated at this point, it is still rather difficult to kill the werewolf-to-be without silver.


the transformation

It is always the night of the full moon a Sanies Lupinus victim will transform; he can do so no other time, and the change, as mentioned before, is involuntary. Self-injury is expected as the victim's spasms inculde trying to tear himself apart, perhaps a reaction to the described feeling that goes along with the transformation. Bones and muscles seem to actually snap, instead of simply morphing magically as had been previously assumed. The werewolf is covered in dark peachfuzz, save for the head, hump, tail, and groin area; somewhat facinatingly, the hair remains the same color as the man's previous form. The snout is not unlike a wolf's, though teeth are more pronounced, the eyes amber, and the overall shape of the skull remaining human-like. The ears change little, save for elongingment; it almost looke elvish in appearance. The claws have been observed to not be very dextrious, and therefore are accurately more portraid as "paws" instead of hands, unlike the Wolfman and Garou versions of Lycanthropy (SEE footnotes, pg. 234). For a more accurate picture, it is advised that reader directs themselves to page 394 of this book, for full-color pictures of disscection performed on the observed subject.


identification

After a werewolf's first transformation, there are a few ways to pinpoint the nature of his condition. Unlike other branches of lycanthropy, a werewolf infected with the Sanies Lupinus disease is almost ridiculously easy to pick out. He may retain some features of his true form; the tail and claws being the most common. Other subjects have been observed to retain the head, general body structure, ears, eyes, and, perhaps most disturbingly, the mind. Those unfortunates are, thankfully, quickly sought out and mercifully put down, before they become a further menace to society.


cures and epilouge

There are no known cures for Sanies Lupinus, though many witch-drafts exist, with ingredients including Wolfsbane, marshmallow, tobacco, and goat's blood. Some work, to a degree, but it is an expensive and repetitive process for the average working class man. 'Cures' include whiping and leeching to drain the werewolf of all diseased blood, garlic, charms, crosses, various potions (as I have mentioned), silver chains, and the removal of the werewolf's genitals.

The kindest cure I could recomend is a swift and relitavely painless death, whether through beheading, burning, or a thrust of a silver-coated sword. Some kindly Faiths have set up Safe Houses for these afflicted individuals, keeping them safetly locked away from the general population. There is no doubt, however, that this easy to control disease still continues to spread.

I thank you for your kind patience in reading this humble book. For more information about Sanies Lupinus and werewolves in general, please flip to page 513 of this book, which contains an extensive list for your perusing enjoyment. And don't forget to take a flip through my other books and various subjects, including Vampires and Lagoon Monsters. Happy hunting!

[Treadwell]

Lemurs running him around town.
Diets that don't quite work out.
Days of his wobbling around in search of errant taxpayers.
Town criers who are relentless in their jabs.

Aloisius Treadwell needs a break.

So, it is a certain undefinable pleasure that the man the town criers have labelled Myrken's Hog finds in wallowing in Mudd. Reading has always been a great love of Mr. Treadwell, and stumbling across Sabinus Willoughby's Legends of Myrken Wood was a pleasant surprise. Quite naturally, Tready flips pages until he finds the section on Father and Mother Winter.

It gets a good laugh out of him, and that gets a stern look from the nearest librarian.

= = = = = = = = = =
"Of Wintry Wonders and Wobbly Ones"

Worldwide, the wonders of winter, Dear Reader, are many and numerous, various and sundry, and even plentiful! Myrken Wood, though, has a scarcity of such. No unicorns skirt the snowy woods in winter, no abominable snowmen lumber about, and no faeries sprinkle their magical dusts in hidden recesses. In fact, one might say that there's very little magic at all to Myrken Wood in winter.

But there is a little.

Well, there is quite a bit, actually, Dear Reader. It's just concentrated very nicely into two people, both quite real and yet quite fictional at the same time. These are Myrken Wood's own Father and Mother Winter.

Father Winter is the greatest toymaker to ever carry around a knife to whittle with, thread to sew a doll with, or a chisel to poke and pry with. His attitude is eternally jolly and generous, and he's said to be unable to say or do much to ever hurt anyone. There simply isn't a mean bone in his big-boned body. Nowhere amid his roly-poly girth and his poofy, fluffy, enormous moustache and beard can he hide any anger or a bad temper. If there's one habit he really should stop, however, it's that he smokes a pipe almost constantly, though some believe this is how he focuses his magical powers! This is an absurd notion, at best.

Mother Winter is his complement and his partner forever. The two of them are immortal, yes, never to pass away from age or dreadful consequences. The Good Mother is renowned for her cooking, especially (someone has to keep the Father's stomach swollen to its legendary size!), but also for her sewing and her singing. She is said to be the match of her husband in all things; just like the Father, she, too, is not said to harbor any malice against others.

Their sole purpose in life is to reward the good boys and girls at the end of each year--'round what most Elves call Sylimburn, folks in other provinces call everything from Frost Tide to Christmas, and what we in Myrken haven't given a proper name of our own yet, so we usually simply call it Sylimburn (though I'd prefer Frost Tide, myself). Anyway, the good Father and Mother only help, only reward; no punishments are ever inflicted on the naughty children, though it's said that the Father keeps a most expansive list of those naughty and nice.

Their appearances are simple! Take the roundest, funniest, jolliest old man you've ever met--your grandfather, perhaps--and even he cannot compare with the butterball that is the good Father Winter. Eternally aged but never old and decrepit, he is very easy to pick out from a crowd, should one ever have the chance to meet him. As for the Mother? She herself is much more elusive than her husband, but she's said to nearly be his match in looks, being a pleasingly plump lady herself with a head of well-kept snowy hair. Both are said to be weak of vision, with a pair of eyeglasses atop their pudgy little noses. In addition, Father Winter, in particular, is said to have a fondness for absurd colors of clothing, said to wear all manner of outfits that simply don't look very nice on him.

Rumors have it that their magic powers--even their very lives!--are tied to the season of winter itself, and snow, and ice, and cold. Rumors have it that these two lovable entities--whether from their own doing or that of some higher force--are almost two different people the rest of the year, outside of winter. Some say that they have seen these two marvelous people in the middle of summer. In the middle of summer, Father Winter is said to look mostly the same, but he is said to be even rounder of belly, though slower of foot and harder of breath. His wife, though, the Good Mother herself, is said to be a much different lady, said to look possibly thirty years younger with ravishing, long red hair, though she (like her husband) is still rather plump.

Have they any children? This is what most folks wonder. In short, we don't know if these two beings, with all the children in the world under their lovable care, have any of their own. It's quite possible that their magic--which supposedly does everything from keeping Father Winter from getting too thin or too fat to letting them summon cakes and cookies and pastries at will--keeps them able to have children despite their apparent ages, though none of the legends mention any babies. One would have to wonder and chuckle at the thought, though; if the Father is any indication, then at least some of the babies they would have would certainly be quite trying on the Mother when she could have them!
= = = = = = = = = =

By the end of the entry, Councilor Treadwell is having more than a few chuckles. Some of it's accurate (or reasonably so), and the rest is simply a series of speculations (some of which are closer to truth than others!). However, there is one note that disturbs him some as he heads for home. The book gives descriptions of the physical appearances of the Father and Mother--descriptions that currently match well to those of him and his own dear wife, Raylan. Rest assured Tready took pains to make sure that book was well, well hidden on his way out, tucked between stacks of. . . stuff.

[Treadwell]

Sometimes things just can't stay hidden.

One man made his way into Myrken Wood many months ago. He's a thief by trade--a rover, a drifter, a would-be rich man. However, the lavishly garbed gent is driven to excesses in clothing and wine, in particular, so the stern, red-haired, gaunt fellow never does amass much of a fortune or worldly fame.

That man would be known to some in the western reaches of the continent--particularly the towns of Westenford and Delamar in the neighboring Amasynia, the former being a minor port on the coast of the Fisherman's Bay once under the then-iron grip of former Chief Magistrate Aloisius Treadwell and the latter being a safe haven under a friend's control some miles to the south. The names he'd be known under were two and two alone--his professional identity as a thief of the "Old Fox," and his lesser-known real name of Reynard G. Volpone.

The Old Fox hasn't sought to make a name for himself as a thief in Myrken Wood yet. He's been a little of a vagrant living near the southernmost reaches of the town in a run-down shack that even he has had to pay the occasional bit of taxes. . . taxes paid to, of all people, a man he recognizes and fears seeing here, of all places. Of course, Volpone's had his doubts about Mr. Treadwell--err, pardon, Councilor of Administrative Sanctions Treadwell!--but he hasn't been approached by the butterball yet about the missing golden cane from his old house in Westenford or the gold brooch with the rubies in it or the fat silver rings that earned the Fox a good thirty shillings a piece.

That's all well and good.

Now, he hasn't been approached, either, about his nearly constant watch on the toymaking taxman's shop.

That's even better.

Well, nearly constant, yes. Today, Reynard Volpone sits with his feet propped on a table in the Library of Mudd, his bony fingers brushing from one book to the next on the shelf behind him. Foods of Northern Amasynia, Myrken Cooking and You, Harvests of Myrken Wood. . . .

Legends of Myrken Wood?

"Most definitely out of place."

Those bony fingers get a tight grip on the book's spine and gently tug it free. It was nearly jammed stuck between a bookend and that book about harvests, pushed as far back into the bookcase as it could go, and slowly collecting about two months of dust. Volpone grabs a spare handkerchief from his pocket, gives it a wipe across the spine, cover, and outer edges of the pages, and starts to study his way through the book. It doesn't take long for the thief to note that most of the pages are uncut. It's not a very popular piece, apparently, but the few that are?

"Of wintry wonders and wobbly ones? An odd choice for reading."

But read it he does, taking his time to scour the material. Someone hid this book for a reason, and that someone tried hiding it well. Someone who apparently had a love of food if he hid it in the section he did. Someone. . . with a secret to keep? The thief's eyes squint at the book as they get to descriptions of the Father and Mother Winter, and--

"Well! A hidden book, likely hidden because it deals with these two chaps, and hidden in a hurry, it seems! Now, Fox, you've known two people to match this old 'Father Winter' by looks, and Roderic's missing, and our dear former Chief Magistrate Treadwell. . . ?"

The rogue's face lights up. His hawkish nose bounces in the air with a jerky nod of his head and a grin on his face. Put the book back? No! He is a thief, after all! After Reynard makes sure no one is looking, he stuffs the volume into the sack he carries his goods in, and he goes out, making for his little hut south of town.

= = = = = = = = = =
To be continued. . . .
= = = = = = = = = =

[Rattrap]

Among many of the books, there was one that wasn't very informative as far as its title went; it was titled, simply, 'Myrken Wood'. It was in fact, as one would find out opening up the cover, another book of the history of the land, though not one that dealt with much in the way of recent history. As a matter of fact, this dealt with quite a long time ago.

The introduction was written in both Common and a simple Elven text, trading off every other page - odd pages were in Common, even were in Elven. Both, on careful scrutiny, were written by the same hand:

A History of Myrken Wood
This particular volume deals with the history of Myrken Wood, though nothing so recent as one might find elsewhere. The events described here occured, in fact, some three thousand years ago - a time almost unfathomable by short-lived men, but only four generations by the elves' lifetimes. Which is duly important, as the inhabitants of Myrken Wood - or the Mekenryn Forest, as it was called then - were primarily elves.

The reason for the lack of evidence for their existance is in fact the same reason I've written and compiled this book; a terrible evil struck, not only wiping away almost all the living population in the Mekenryn Forest, but leaving a lasting mark that still haunts Myrken Wood to this day.

The documents that tell this history were found in Devil's Ridge, where the last two survivors had fled. I have also spoken at length with many of the deceased involved, giving clarity to some of the questions left after the texts were written.

I have copied the Elven text word for word and translated them into common on the opposite page, unchanged. Any corrections or further explenations I've discovered will appear inbetween ** **.

My hope is that this will give reason to many of the tragedies that befall Myrken Wood.

- Roland Darkwater

[Rattrap]

My name is Thamior Sáralondë of the Mekenryn Forest. There were twelve of us; a council of high elves who had moved away from the rest of civilization to seclude ourselves and work on our studies of magic and its properties. Each of us and as a whole had grown considerably in power; our greatest fear was not that some wondering people would come and conquer us, but would be conquered and send more, and more, until some finally managed to learn our secrets. However, this never happened.

Of the twelve of us, we each had our specialties. There was no central leader among us; we held council together whenever any key decisions needed to be made. For half of a millennium, it worked. But then there was one, Alatáriël Nénmacil, who began to grow...distant. We assumed it might be dangerous having one study the powers of the Underworld and the dead, but Alatáriël volunteered at the beginning, and we made sure to watch for any mental stresses.

Unfortunately, our work often came with many mental stresses. But we did not see anything unusual with Alatáriël until it was much to late.

One must understand; we had lived, just the twelve of us together, for hundreds of years. We would and had trusted each other with our lives and our research. When certain texts started to disappear, we had no idea who to blame. Alatáriël didn't come to mind any more than the other ten of my brethren; in fact, we looked to an outside infiltrate first.

Perhaps...Alatáriël had found something, and indeed there was an outside presence. But to our group of nine men and but three women, we saw only the faces of our closest family.

The betrayal hurt far beyond the death and injury it caused.

[Rattrap]

To paint a picture of our 'village' as it were before it was destroyed, we had but one building - that was our hall. There, we gathered to eat and discuss. It had a couple seperate rooms, one for food preperation and the other for odd storage. We slept in open lodgings in the trees; the weather was quite temperate, never really bringing us in danger of freezing or overheating. There was plentiful rain, but nothing to cause alarm. We were among the trees, which were thick in every direction. A beautiful lake was not far off and many of us often gathered down at the shore to simply...well, bask in its serenity. Itarildë Carnesîr was almost always at the lake, studying the the properties of water and magics pertaining to it.

By the time Alatáriël struck, we were all uneasy with our research disappearing. We were in the hall, at our evening meal. Alatáriël looked distant, distraught; Amrod Amandil was the first to speak to that. Alatáriël's research had been disappearing, as well, just when some particularly outstanding breakthroughs seemed to just on the brink. We all understood how that felt; but few of us had the displeasure to be at that point when things started vanishing.

It was then that the table exploded, replaced by a massive fire golem - the same fire golem that Amrod had just perfected before the trouble began. It attacked him first, catching him off guard and savagely slamming him through the hall's wall. Amrod was probably dead from the burns before he ever reached the ground.

We still didn't know who was responsible, but the rest of us had quickly scrambled and started spells and enchantings of our own. The golem managed to kill Camthalion Anwarünya before it was obliterated by a tornado of water summoned up by Itarildë.

Then the ground began to shake, and we all realized this one of Taurnil Falassion strongest spells - to create and maintain and earthquake. Soon after the shaking had begun, the ground unevened and pillars of rock came jutting from the ground. Those of us remaining fled the hall, some by the doors and some by the new holes made as the walls began to crumble. All except Alatáriël.

Itarildë was about to go in to get Alatáriël, but movement in the still-shaking rubble stopped her. It was fairly clear to us that the spell hadn't just been an ordinary earthquake; the hall was being eaten into the ground. There was no sign of Alatáriël until the building had all but disappeared. The ground disappeared around the hall, as if falling in a pit - and indeed, that is what had happened. The nine of us watched in shock and horrer as a gateway was forming in the earth, out of which rode Alatáriël atop a large winged-imp.

By now, there was no doubt.

Alatáriël struck first, sweeping a wave of fireballs in our direction. I was the first to react, quickly bringing up a protective barrier. When the barrier almost buckled under the barrage, I realized that Alatáriël had not only combined and evidentially mastered our research, but improved upon some of it as well - the fireballs, for their size, had been the most powerful I've ever encountered.

I also realized then that Alatáriël was virtually unstoppable. Still...Amras Arcamenel was the first to step up with a counterstrike. The air crackled with energy as he prepared his attack, though Alatáriël also seemed to be preparing a spell; nonetheless, Amras' struck first - the sky cracked in two with a burning flash and the bolt came streaking down, striking Alatáriël and the ground with explosive energy. Dust was thrown up, and for a moment - just a moment - I thought we were safe.

When the dust began to clear, we could see the charred remains of the imp Alatáriël had been riding, and Alatáriël calmly walking towards us, unblemished. I wondered about my own spell repertoire and despaired.

Taurnil stepped up then, and urged us all to flee. There were objections, of course, but in the end, he and logic won - we needed to regroup and find a way to face our foe. So we fled, leaving Taurnil behind to cover our escape.

The last time I saw him, he was engulfed in the outline of the massive earth golem that rose out of the ground at his command. But as powerful as it and he was, we knew his opponent was far beyond at the reach of Alatáriël's betrayel.

The eight of us ran as quick as our feet could take us.

[Rattrap]

Poltergeists, throughout the ages, have always been a curious phenomena. While akin to ghosts and other spirits (and often mistaken for the others), poltergeists have a few fundamental differences and respects to consider.

First and foremost is that while spirits and ghosts usually come from the deceased, or pre-existing entities. The normal routine for the classic ghost haunting is that someone dies and has 'unfinished business' that stops them from continuing in the cycle. Poltergeists, on the other hand, need not come from anything - they can be and often are created by nothing more than a concentration at a single spot. They have, however, been known to form due to a concentration of the anguished dead, creating something more than the sum of their spirits.

The second prime difference is that poltergeists are almost always malign, or at least disruptive. It's the very concentration of ill-energy - such as death, or great violence - that creates these entities. Whereas ghosts can be of any persuasion, and spirits are often good.

There have been a few cases of benign poltergeist activity, always after some sort of intervention; the lifespan of a benign poltergeist is short, however, as positive energy is readily accepted and disperses quickly. The longest recorded was the Poltergeist of the Gurney Estate in southwest Derry of Amasynia; after five years of violent haunting, the Gurney family sought the intervention of Nessa Halyanwë, a renown ghost-buster. What followed was two years of benign, and sometimes even protective poltergeist behavior, until purportedly one of the Gurney family members 'loved' the entity.

Another matter of note is their lack of an alignment. Though usually violent, they don't suffer from the practices used to dispell the undead or other evils - holy blades, dispelling magics, and even known demon banes are ineffective. This, coupled with their lack of a corporeal form (or even an identifiable form, unlike ghosts and spirits) often prompt those at haunted residences to abandon and condemn the buildings.

Many poltergeists have been left to haunt their respective structures or fields for anything from ten years to ten thousand, depending on the power of the poltergeist. Large battlefields are often the haunts of these more powerful entities.

Poltergeist activity usually involves bumps or movement of inanimate objects without any apparent cause. Doors closing and opening are common, as well as fires and torches mysteriously going out. They frequently invade dreams as well. Lesser poltergeists usually inact their violence by throwing objects at the living. Greater poltergeists have been known to will into existence objects - or in some rarer cases, create actual people. These 'dummies' are controlled by the poltergeist and are the most dangerous, capable of functioning and killing without a head, limbs, or any important organs. The dummies are created in the image of those with close contact to the poltergeist - it is said that some poltergeists can not only recreate one's physical form, but rob one of their thoughts as well.

The most dangerous ever recorded is the Poltergeist of the Dorthonion Battlefield, created from the clash of fifty thousand soldiers centuries ago. It was said that the poltergeist had robbed the mind of General Ulrick, concluded by survivors who watched the poltergeist enact some of the general's battle plans through dummy soldiers. The poltergeist still haunts the battlefield today, and has thwarted every attempt by Dorthonia to dispell the entity.

There remains no documented method to dispell poltergeists, though there are individuals known to have great success in destroying them. Some poltergeists simply disappate over time. Plane-walkers claim they have encountered a poltergeist's 'true' form when passing haunted areas, and fewer have claimed to have defeated this form, resulting in the poltergeist's destruction.

[Waverley]

From 'Ye Liveliest Awful, The Unabridged Edition: Volume VI':

[INDENT]"Hark ye to this tale of dreadeful beasts, known to some as Fell Thoughtspellers, known to others yet as Oceanic Atrocities, and yet bearing amongst themselves the name Illithid. Few are those unfortunate men and women who have encountered these dread atrocities; fewer yet are those who have emerged with yet life in their veins and souls that may rightly still be named Human, and let it be understood that none emerge from encounter with these horrors unscathed, not even the most virile yet amongst us.

Fear ye the touch of their witches' minds, for that they compell mere mortal men to dreadful acts and strange abominations! Beware ye their clever cunning, for it is beyond mortal ken, overthrowing nations and toppling dynasties! Most of all, flee ye the horror of their tentacled beaks, which do crush the skulls of men and verily do they feed upon the still-living innards of their prey so that their cries of terror will last yea unto an eternity -- " [/INDENT]


It had taken the small courier the better part of a day to locate the volume; the librarian may be voraciously knowledgable, but Jacobs can't say for sure, because rousing her had proved all but impossible.

Being a woman of considerable resources and education, she'd proceeded to search for the thing herself.

By early afternoon, she'd found what she'd sought: this volume and several others, in which there featured only a passing reference to the beasts -- but which joined the small pile upon her desk nonetheless. This is the work she's returned to this morning: a book spread open before her, right hand turning its pages steadily, as the left copies the text onto a sheet of clean parchment. Unlike Reynard, she is no thief. Small references are made between one text and the other; the margins of her parchments feature the occasional sidenote, written in her own small, precise hand. One quite unusual page features what would pass easily for chicken scratchings: tiny sketches, each featuring four straight lines apiece.

Being only a scribe, she does not attempt to replicate the illustrations, which are, in any case, more lurid than informative.