The Drolvarg were actually once Iksar, residents of the city of Drolakis. Venril Sathir cursed them to create a race of Wolflizards and the Drolvarg were the result. Drolvargism is often referred to as The Curse of Drolakis. The first ruler of the Drolvarg was Thuuga, the Serpent Chief
From the ancient vault I bring you, the brittle crumbling pages that detail the Akhevan language and social structure…
Kela: One of
One – Kel
Two – Dat
Three – Set
Four – Raf
Five – Vin
Six – Dax
Seven – Lor
Eight – Tak
Nine – Ved
Ten – Kelara
20 – Datara
100 – Elora
200 – Atorra
300 – Etorra
400 – Aforra
500 – Inorra
600 – Ashorra
700 – Ororra
800 – Akorra
900 – Edorra
1000 – Kelorra”
“Writing Numbers Guideline
The symbol ` is used to link the words together when writing out the numbers in text.
X is pronounced SH unless it appears at the end of the word in which case it is a hard X (Ks)
Descriptive words usually follow the noun or subject.”
“The Akhevan Social Structure (of Vex Thall)
Vex thall is divided into 5 primary sections. There is a council of 4 that hold rule over their own section, and 1 prophet of luclin that oversees all including a section of the city designated solely to the prophet.
In the council of 4, 2 are designated as High council members and 2 are designated as Intermediaries.
Warlord – Diabo Xin Dabo
The warlord rules over the Xin Dabo (Craftsmen of War).
Once every year they may be challenged to a battle of might.
The challenge is to the death and the victor receives the rank.
The warlord serves the king
Lorekeeper – Diabo Va Dabo
The lorekeeper rules over the Va Dabo (Craftsmen of Shadow).
Once every year he may be challenged to a battle of magical energy.
The victor receives the rank.
The lorekeeper serves the High Priest
The King – Diabo Rentha
The king rules over the Rentha (The city).
The king is a high council member and the position lasts until he is removed by the prophet.
The king may call upon the Va Dabo for his needs.
The High Priest – Diabo Xin Thall
The high priest rules over the Xin thall (Sacred warriors).
The high priest is a high council member and the position lasts until he is removed from position by the prophet.
The Diabo Xin thall may call upon the Va dabo for their needs.
The Prophet – Aten Ha Ra
The prophet rarely even appears before any other Akheva.
The prophets word is the word of luclin.
The prophet lies sealed away within the heart of luclin. (The tower in the center of the 4 sections.)”
“The Akhevan Social Structure (of Akheva City)
Centien (City Guard): Centien warriors are the primary guardsmen and peacekeeper of the city proper. They are under the authority of the king.
Kela Rentha (Commoner/servant): These are the commoners of the city area who perform the many day to day activities.
Torgarath (Soldier): These Akhevans are among the largest and strongest of the Akheva. They are charged with defending the city during war and serve as Guards during peacetime. They are under the authority of the warlord.
Kela Xin Dabo (Commoner/servant): Servants of the guardians, they form the force in the guardian section that performs important duties for the soldiers. Such as armor repairs, brewing, porting baggage, and scrubbing the Torgaraths feet when they are sweaty.
Senshali (Special forces): Senshali Warriors specialize in stealth. They are the special operation forces of the Akheva. They are under the influence of the loremaster.
Kela Va Dabo (Commoner/servant): These are the caretakers of the lore. They perform the menial duties of keeping the books in order, the ink wells full, etc.
Liako (Holy Knight): Liako Warriors are Akheva pumped full of divine and dark magic to create the imperial force of the city. They are under the authority of Aten Ha`Ra.
Kela Xin Thall (Commoner/servant): Technically servents of the priests. They are treated with the highest respect and are initiates of the order of shadows.
No Influence (Ronin)
Telaris (Mercenary): Telaris are free roamers who are usually not welcome within Vex Thall. An exception is made when there is a danger to the Akhevan home, in which case Akheva Telaris are hired as mercenaries. Occasionally a member of one sector will be assigned to another sector other than one of their own. For instance, if a Torgorath is assigned to the temple area they would be designated a Torgorath Xin Thall. Servents are never assigned to other sectors other than their own.”
I shall forge a tunic and infuse it with the rage of Dozekar the Cursed. You must bring me three Flawless Diamonds and an Unadorned Chain Tunic
From Kevin McPherson who came up with all the backstory for Kunark:
“Yes [I came up with the Shissar], from my ICE Rolemaster campaign, actually. By the time this lore was in a world of mine, I had kicked 2nd edition D&D to the curb in favor of Rolemaster.
I had a lot of lore from that particular campaign, and so I wrote out a 5000 year history first. And timelined the major and semi-major events, especially those that were prophetic.
So the 5000 year history of Kunark had many hidden things cited in the timeline that the common person wouldn’t know, to which design was privy, and these hidden things could be revealed to the adventure as they delved into dungeons deep.
Steps I always take when developing a RPG campaign ( and of course Kunark ) are:
1) Develop a history and back story, preferably one that stretches over 1000’s of years, and many “ages”
2) Think about the main players in each age, the faction groups and their leaders, and minions, their alliances, motivations, and then derive major and medium events, and hidden plots, based on these.
3) Try to always make the past more epic than the present, make that revelation of hidden knowledge very delicious…make the finding of past artifacts most desirable.
4) Have re-occurring villains transcend ages. These could be undead lords like Venril, or they could be gods or other supernaturals.
5) Think about the current motivations and plots for all the major player factions and leaders in the current time…what they are looking to achieve not just in the present, but in the future.
6) Develop an end game. What do the heroes ultimately do, uncover, and have to fight, to end or win the campaign?”
The route through the Blackburrow of the gnolls from Everfrost is dark, twisting and deep. I have quite often gotten lost as I do not use any source of light. That would reveal my presence to the cursed gnolls. My business is my own, taking me through these dark passages every fortnight.
My home is Halas of the North. My business takes me to Qeynos Hills and for that reason alone, I must suffer the trek through the stench of the gnoll pits. Sometimes I will send ahead my pet wolf Silkie to find sport in the darkness. She enjoys the exercise, for the gnolls cannot outrun her. I can follow their cries and need not use any of the dark methods I have learned to see in the dark.
On this journey, Silkie and I found the snows melting by day and freezing at night. Daggers of ice hung from the rocky outcroppings, sometimes breaking off and shattering on the ground below with a loud crack. Her tail between her legs, her ears darting back and forth, Silkie panted and paced, uneasy. Her troubled behavior made me uneasy as well.
At the entrance to the tunnels, we found the gnoll guards had abandoned their posts, leaving behind nothing but the cold embers of their watch fires. There used to be snow at this level, but there was not. The ground was moist with melting snow. Silkie refused to enter the tunnel until I threatened her. Then she scuttled ahead sideways, like a crab, trying to see both ahead of us and behind.
Down we went on our usual route, encountering nothing. The tunnels were silent, but for the constant drip-drip-drip of water in the dark. As we emerged from one narrow tunnel into a wider space, Silkie whimpered and whined, her misery echoing around the chamber. “Be still!” I commanded her. She fell silent and I was aware that the entire world had gone silent as well.
Suddenly came a large rending sound that shook the marrow of the mountains and threw me and Silkie to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and ran howling away through the darkness. I lay pressed against the rocky ground, hugging it as though I could stop its convulsions. Finally, it grew still. “Silkie!” I called into the silence. She did not answer.
No, Silkie did not come at my call, though I could still hear her terrified, high-pitched whimper echoing. Then she fell silent and I heard something else — a roar that I have never heard in those tunnels before. It reminded me of the scream the snow makes as it tumbles down a mountainside on a sleigh of ice. A roar covered in velvet.
I too scrambled to my feet, but with the unseen roar echoing through the chamber, could not know which way to turn. I began my enchantment, though my teeth chattered. A heavy wind rushed into the chamber, bringing with it the smell of generations of foul gnolls from somewhere deep in the Blackburrow. It broke my concentration and my spell dissipated before I could cast.
And then the water surrounded me. It tumbled me over and over like a pebble on the sea shore. I could not tell what was skyward and which way led to death in its depths. The waters rushed onward, as frantic as I to find an outlet. After an eternity, the waters threw me onto an unseen ledge near the roof of the cavern before swirling away.
Though I lay on the ledge for days, the water did not drain. I was finally able to cast my lightgiving spell and saw the ruin of the cavern below. My thoughts lay on my certain death and I was bitter and angry to die like a gnoll and not with honor in battle. I would not die unsung. You who read this, know that the world was shaken and I survived. For a little while.
This is the story of the merchant ship ‘Katya’ and her owner’s last voyage to Faydwer.
Supplies were running low everywhere. There were lines at the dock of noblemen and their stewards, tavern owners, hostesses, merchants and servants, all ready to pounce on whatever was coming off each ship. Merced nodded his head and rubbed his hands gleefully. The prices were shooting upwards as well and with one more crossing, he would be able to retire comfortably at last.
Merced had not always been a ship owner. His family had gone underground at the end of the Wars, emerging only when the chaos had subsided. His father had obtained a small ship at a modest price and so began their shipping enterprise. They mostly ferried passengers between Butcherblock and Freeport, but if the price was right, sometimes took trips through the Timorous Deep.
Now he was captain of the ‘Katya’ and of an age and mind to retire. Merced supervised the loading of the ship’s hold himself. There had to be room for the contraband shipment of ale, after all, and it behooved him to know exactly where it would be stowed. A small tremor shook the port while they were still loading, loosening the plank leading to the pier and several precious boxes tumbled into the water.
“It’s been that way this week,” grumbled Virgil, the first mate. “I’ll send someone to get them boxes.” Merced nodded and said, “The sooner we sail the better. I don’t like how the land’s been groaning and moaning lately.” As soon as the last box was packed aboard and the final bribes had passed hands, the ‘Katya’ was underway.
The winds picked up as they left the harbor. Merced retreated to the small office and spent time on his favorite task — determining how much he would have at the end of the journey and what he could buy with his gains. Some days, it was a fleet of ships to sail while he stayed ashore, other days it was a villa with servants galore and his pick of the eligible daughters of Freeport. He was thinking about one particularly eligible lady when the waves came.
Being used to shipboard life, Merced knew that the swells were felt more deeply on the open sea, but these waves seemed unnatural. The ship rolled to the side then rolled back like a bell tolling. Merced could barely keep to his feet as he staggered across the small room to its door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see the sky still pale blue. The ‘Katya’ tossed about so fiercely, he was certain they’d run into a storm.
“No storm, sir,” said Virgil grimly, gripping the wheel with both hands, assisted by the ship’s boy to keep it turned. “Prexus ate something wrong, it seems; his belly’s all a’churning.” Merced looked across the water and all he could see were massive swells, one after the other. Then the ‘Katya’ moved into a trough and the waves towered above their heads, tipped with white foam.
“Damn it,” cried Merced, pulling himself along a rail to reach the wheel himself. “Whatever’s disagreeing with Prexus, I won’t have the ‘Katya’ added to it. Take down the sail! This wind’ll flip her over!” The crew scrambled to react to Merced’s orders. The thrashing of the waves made movement difficult, even for these seasoned sailors. The ‘Katya’ was positioned, as best they could, so that she could slip sideways in the water without getting caught.
The ‘Katya’ was knocked over by a large wave, but she slowly righted. The crew remained below, listening to the groaning of the ship as the waves pushed the wooden ship from side to side. “We’ve ridden out storms before,” Merced shouted to hearten them. And so they had, but nothing like these mysterious, enormous waves that came from nowhere.
Though the waves were fierce, the ‘Katya’ held together for a long time. Swept along with its torn sails aloft, a second ship rose over the waves, apparently without its crew. The seas drove it directly into the ‘Katya,’ punching a hole in her hull. The skies were still clear and blue as Merced fortified himself with the contraband ale before the ‘Katya’ broke completely apart.
Although change is inevitable, no one expected changes of the magnitude experienced during the Age of Cataclysms. This story is told about one of the veterans of the Age of War, who returned home to help rebuild it, only to see everything else collapse.
Every day, they considered themselves fortunate. Although Rivervale and the Misty Thicket had been overrun by the Hordes of the Inferno during the Age of War, the occupation was a relatively short one. Rebuilding commenced before the last mound of dead orcs and goblins had finished smoldering. The Runnyeye goblins, what was left of them anyway, were sent sniveling back to their caverns. The halflings looked forward to an age of peace.
Of course, peace and war are relative terms. There were still skirmishes to be fought now and then. Folks locked their doors and windows at night, when they hadn’t done so in the past. The Leatherfoot Brigade was slowly rebuilding its ranks, too. Veterans returned home from the War of Defiance that had nearly swallowed Qeynos and Freeport, bringing with them tales that darkened the nights and made the comforts of home all the more enticing.
Gemma Pathfinder’s shoulder still caused her intense pain when the weather was out of the east. She didn’t like to join in the tales told about the first few days when the Horde swept through Rivervale. She’d been so sure they would kill her, but for some reason they’d left her unconscious on the street and continued on their way. Gemma was one of the lucky survivors, although she reflected, it was again a relative sort of luck.
Lately, her shoulder had been bothering her more and more. She moved slower than she had in the days of her youth during the War. Still, she was thankful for living long enough to see the orcs killed or driven away. She was in her beloved Rivervale to help direct its reconstruction. When the townsfolk talked about building a shrine to the dead, she pointed out that rebuilding Rivervale was the best shrine they could create. And it was.
Walking through the Misty Thicket, Gemma thanked Bristlebane yet again for her good fortune. She stood on a small hill ringed with woods pausing to catch her breath. Rubbing her aching shoulder, Gemma looked slowly about the woods. “That’s odd,” she thought, puzzled. “Why aren’t the birds singing in the trees?” A thrill of fear chased up her spine. Were they under attack again?
Still puzzled, Gemma noticed the treetops swaying back and forth. First the motion was subtle; she only noticed it because she was looking for the silent birds. Then the trees began to sway in earnest. There was a loud, ear-splitting *BOOM* and the ground shook violently. On the hill, Gemma was tossed to the ground. She could see the earth roiling beneath its green coverlet of grass like waves on a pond.
The ground shook hard for so long that Gemma thought Norrath would shake until it broke completely apart. Trees whipping back and forth started snapping like twigs. Suddenly, Gemma felt the hill upon which she lay sprawled lifting and grinding back and forth. A large hunk of turf slipped down the rising hillside taking Gemma with it, sliding down like frosting that’s been put on a cake before it cools.
Gemma’s eyes were wide with fear, but she knew she had to keep her wits about her to save herself from any dangers from the shifting lands. As the shaking subsided, she cautiously stood up to take stock. The earth was ripped and torn in many places leaving jagged brown scars across the green grass. Many of the tallest trees, some that survived the fires set by the orcs and goblins those long years past, had splintered apart.
“That was some earthquake,” Gemma said, brushing bits of dirt and grass from her clothes. She walked cautiously back toward Rivervale, finding new escarpments and paths covered by fallen trees. Even on the best of days, Gemma’s walk was slowed by her years, but now she was navigating unfamiliar terrain entirely. It was home and not home at the same time. And for the next several days, the lands shook and screamed in agony.
An unusually thick fog hung in the air for many days after the initial earthquake. When the tremors slowed, Gemma and some of the other folk wanted to see the extent of the damage. The fog had not lifted. Standing on the edge of a newly formed cliff, Gemma gasped. Rivervale and the Misty Thicket stood within a grey fog ring and where trees once marched away toward the horizon, a furiously bubbling sea frothed instead.
This is a story of how the Rending was stopped. Others may tell their own stories, but for the faithful, there can be only one answer.
Her father had traveled by sea to Freeport and then the dangerous over land route to Qeynos. “We are not like the men of Freeport,” Danei’s father said repeatedly. Well, Danei thought to herself, we are not much like the men of Qeynos, either. Her father was Feir’Dal, an archer. Her mother, whom she had never met, was a human female of Qeynos. Danei had lived with the Feir’Dal all her life, but now they were going to Qeynos.
“Where will we live?” Danei asked again. She dragged a long stick in the dirt behind her, letting it kick up tails of dust and tiny rocks. “We live where Tunare sends us,” her father answered. Apparently Tunare was sending them into the city. They had lived outside its walls, especially during the massive earthquakes that shook the lands day and night. Danei had been frightened when the lands slid into the sea, afraid she would slide in with them.
The city was rebuilding. Again, apparently. Danei’s father, though an archer by training, worked alongside the other elves, the humans and barbarians to carry out the dwarven designs. They could not find her mother; no one knew where her family had fled. And so Danei’s days were long and tedious. When the ground rumbled beneath her, Danei huddled beneath the massive oak table in their home and would not come out until her father came home.
Eventually, Danei met the other children in her neighborhood. Some were half-elven. Some were Feir’Dal. The cobbled streets and stone buildings made them uncomfortable and so they liked to climb the dust-choked trees in the small courtyards. “These trees are dying,” whispered one of the Feir’Dal. “Tunare needs to speak with Karana and send some rain.” Danei laughed, “Tunare cannot speak to him; they’re gone!” But the lad insisted. His name was Genoa.
Genoa liked to tell tales of the ancient days, when the gods walked the world. Danei wasn’t sure she believed all his tales, but she liked listening to them anyway. When the ground rumbled and shook, they would hide together and Danei was no longer afraid to come back out before her father returned. She and Genoa would hold hands and race through the streets, competing to see who could spot the latest damage.
“Our tree,” said Danei as they ran out into the courtyard after a particularly fierce quake. The tree in their courtyard had fallen sideways, half of its roots pointing skyward while its branches lay along the dusty cobblestones like a cat stretching. “Our tree,” echoed Genoa, touching its bark. They stood together and looked at it. Danei was sorry the tree had fallen. Genoa, however, seemed devastated. He walked around it, touching it gently as though it were a rare blossom and not a gnarled tree.
“I know what we can do,” Danei said, tugging at Genoa’s sleeve. “Let’s ask Tunare to make it stop.” Genoa looked at her sadly, “You don’t believe in Tunare; don’t make fun of me.” Danei shook her head and said, “I don’t not believe in her, either. If she’ll stop the shaking, then we’ll know she’s there, won’t we?” This seemed sensible, but Genoa was hesitant. Danei goaded him, “If you don’t believe in her, just say so.” They fought so hard then that it took two adults to pull them apart.
“I’m sorry, Genoa,” Danei said. She was very sorry; the look on Genoa’s face was terrible. She hadn’t meant to take Tunare from him. He did not speak to her, jerking away from her offered hand and running home. Danei stood for a long time in the dusty street staring after him, swallowing over the lump in her throat. She felt…she felt just like Genoa must feel without Tunare. Danei had to prove to him Tunare still cared, she had to!
Danei took an ancient and brittle cup carved from Faydwer trees that she felt best suited to the task, filled it with water and went out that night. Standing beside the up-ended tree, Danei whispered, “Tunare, mother of us all, please talk to someone about the earth shakes. Please help me make up with Genoa. But mostly, make the ground stop moving.” She poured the water in a thin stream over the roots, then took the cup back inside.
The ground did not shake once over night. The next day, Danei ran out of the house and the tree was standing upright once again. She saw Genoa and ran over to him. He said, “I saw you praying last night…I guess Tunare heard you all right.” Danei nodded. “She heard me, Genoa. Everything will be okay.” They stood hand in hand looking up at the tree in their courtyard. The ground did not shake again.
History of the Hand
A chronicled record of the Hand of Serenity
The History of the Hand – A Gift from the Heavens
During the Age of Turmoil, Quellious, the Goddess of Tranquility, imparted a portion of the Plane of Tranquility to create the demi-plane of Serenity. Where Tranquility goverened the overall state of peace and calm of Norrath, Serenity was created to focus on the personal, inner peace of one’s mind and soul.
At this time, Quellious came to Master Wu the Enlightened, the only mortal at the time to achieve true enlightenment through a lifelong dedication to tranquility. She raised Master Wu to demi-god status and charged him with the stewardship of the Plane of Serenity and to serve as her emissary of Peace.
Then the invaders to the Planes of Power came. The lesser planes began to blink out of existence as their energy was needed by the greater planes to withstand the assault of the power-hungry mortals. With heavy heart, Quellious came to Master Wu and told him the energy of the Plane of Serenity was needed by the Plane of Tranquility in order to survive and that she would have to reclaim it. Wu knew that this had to be, but asked Quellious for just a small portion of the energy that he may create a planar artifact to further the case of Serenity among the mortals. Quellious agreed to this and Wu set to work.
Master Wu created the Hand of Serenity, a special katar made of five blades. Although it functioned as a weapon, its purpose was much more as a teaching device than an instrument of destruction. Each of the five blades represented an aspect of Serenity and had its planar symbol etched onto it: Peace, Order, Balance, Harmony, and the central, great blade Tranquility. With just an expert’s touch, the five blades could fly open like a fan to demonstrate each individual concept, or swing together to form one harmonious and stronger blade.
Master Wu took the Hand of Serenity and descended to Norrath in order to bestow it upon mortals. He entrusted the blade to the monks of the Ashen Order at their refuge in T’Narev and instructed them that they were to champion the cause of Serenity. They must be the teachers of the world.
The Hand of Serenity was protected by the Ashen Order from generation to generation, used in teaching and instructing in the matters of peace and serenity. It wasn’t until the Battle of Defiance at the closing of the Age of War when the Hand would be carried into battle to fight alongside the forces of good. During the raging battle, the Hand of Serenity struck the Avatar of War with such cosmic force, the katar shattered into its five blades.
Following the great clash, the elders of the Order realized that Serenity was truly missing from the world. They decided that to best spread the word of Peace, Tranquility, and Serenity that they would each take one of the five shattered blades and go out into the world to spread the word of Quellious. They designated a time when they would all come together once again just as the blades would when they were whole. However, when that time came only one of the elders would return to the humble walls of T’Narev. That elder would set out again to the lands of Kunark to find the others. He was never seen again…
The Maiden of Masks
Tifanah Jespar was born during the Age of Enlightenment to a noble lord and lady of Qeynos. At a young age, Tifanah’s father, Lord Jespar, succumbed to a deadly plague, leaving Tifanah and her mother alone and without income. Unable to deal emotionally with the loss of her beloved father, Tifanah would dress in her parents’ clothing to temporarily take on new identities and play out make-believe roles so she wouldn’t have to face her own pain.
The Lady Jespar sought to maintain her standard of living she had become accustomed to while her former husband was alive and profiting from sound merchant and business practices. The beautiful widow initially had many suitors because of her prestige and wealth, but Tifanah’s strange play-acting, made up stories, and her fondness for wearing masks of her own creation would scare off all of the upper class men that came calling on her mother. This would only further add tension between the mother and daughter’s strained relationship.
As a young lady in her early teens, Tifanah had the occasion to see a traveling troupe of Antonican Bard actors that came to Qeynos. The elaborate customes, the accepted, even applauded make-believe acting, and the ability to tell a story of imagination all greatly appealed to the youth who chose to hide behind masks. She stowed away with the troupe for a time hiding in the costume coach as it pulled out of the city. It wasn’t until they were in the Highpass Mountains on the way to Highkeep that she was discovered.
The bards weren’t to keen on finding another mouth to feed, especially one that couldn’t really help pull her own load, but the kindly costume seamstress said she’d look after the young one. The troupe didn’t have the money to turn back to Qeynos, so far out, but feared they would be accused of kidnapping. It was agreed that Tifanah could stay with them, for safety, but only until their regular circuit brought them back to Qeynos. They also quickly dispatched a letter through the bard mail service to her mother to explain the situation.
The seamstress, having no children of her own, happily took to teaching Tifanah costume making. Tifanah learned the art of sewing, tailoring, and using makeup to achieve many different fanciful looks. The other bards took to the young lady and taught her singing, acting, even a smattering of simple magic spells. She would also learn of Fizzlethorpe Bristlebane, god of Mischief and patron god of entertainers.
During all this time though, Tifanah would not speak of her own past and would instead make up fanciful stories. Each bard in the troupe heard a different tale. No one knew for sure just exactly what her family did for work, how many siblings she had, or even her favorite color. The Antonican Bards were sad to part ways with Tifanah when they came back to Qeynos, but as a gift they let her play a role in her final play with the troupe.
Back at home, Tifanah refined the lessons she was taught, and her stories and costumes got more and more elaborate. The Lady Jespar’s finances were running low and her plan was to get Tifanah married off to a wealthy young man of a prestigious family in Qeynos. Tifanah would have none of it thought. She didn’t want to marry or become one of those boring, giggling women of the court. She wanted to assume new identities and focus on the magical skills she discovered while with the troupe.
When the Lady Jespar would arrange a meeting between her daughter and a suitor, Tifanah would always assume a new role to scare off the young man. She would make her face hideous with makeup, or create costume dresses that made her look extremely large, or wear ratty clothes that made her look poor. Tifanah took great pleasure in thoroughly running off the boys with her creations.
In the meantime, Tifanah studied magic. She was particularly fond of magic that could change her appearance and sought to master as many illusions as possible. She became so proficient at her illusions that not even her teachers could see through them. Tifanah loved to trick her teachers by assuming the likeness of other students or colleagues and playing tricks on them. Then one day Tifanah would just disappear. No one knew where to look for her, and didn’t even know of where to start. Every once in a while the Lady Jespar thought she noticed a stranger here and there would give her an odd look, but she could never be sure who it was.
As a young adult, Tifanah would be exalted by Fizzlethorpe Bristlebane to become the demigoddess of an extension of the Plane of Mischief, the Sphere of Illusions. She would take the title “Maiden of Masks” and was said to be especially protective of young women who sought their own role in life, and not the one intended for them by others. Young children who had tearfully lost a beloved parent sometimes found a small masquerade mask under their pillow in the morning, or spoke of a beautiful masked lady who hugged them and let them cry in the middle of the night.