Random Insult Table

Here’s a fun thing I dredged up while searching through my computer files. A table of archaic insults! :D Feel free to delight in them as I had in randomly finding them.

1. Codger
2. Fetcher
3. Churl (Coarse)
4. Cox-Comb (Vain)
5. Doxy (Promiscuous, Flirtatious)
6. Skamelar (Leech)
7. Scrounger
8. Hedge-born
9. Lowborn
10. Bespawler (Drooling, Idiotic)
11. Cumberground (Useless)
12. Peacock
13. Braggart
14. Muck-Spout (Someone who swears often)
15. Raggabrash (Grubby)
16. Tallowbag (Fat)
17. Whoreson (Son of a whore)
18. Demon
19. 
    

Old Campaign Castle Descriptions: Vampires!

Ooh! Spooky scary! Indeed, once upon a time, I had drafted some descriptions of a castle dungeon for tabletop hijinks! The result is... meh. But what helps is reflecting back and compiling things that may be effective while learning from descriptions that may not be! Anyhow, here it is:

Verok Castle Locations Descriptions-

Exterior:

In the village of Vatra: Even from below the ponderous crags up above, the stone set into the spiraling mountain seems an imposing figure keeping overwatch on all of Vatra. The dark face of the many battlements on gaunt towers climb higher into the night, looming guards surrounding their once and forever king, the large, spiraling keep of the Count of Vatra. You can see the notorious barbican in the distance, perilously set at an impossibly narrow weathered and broken bridge that seems to defy nature in its tenacious existence. Fog seems to collect as arduous  followers around the mountain and the schloss, hiding it from prying eyes and obscuring it in the heavy rain. Eight flying buttresses extend from the hollows of the second story, like spiders legs stretching their tendons.  

Moat: From below the imposing walls of the castle, you stand within sight distance of the notorious “Flightless Pond,” the spiked moat from which unruly cattle were flung from the battlements. The bastions look gravely upon it, almost disapprovingly, as the dark muddy brown waters churn on indifferently in the ceaseless rain. The water moves around the tips of spears

For a moment, glancing at one of the sharp stakes jutting out of the water’s edge, you swear you see a face from beneath the dark depths, staring up at you with black sockets. The image conjured of porous flesh is torn away with a crackle of lightning, however, and your mind feels as though it is on fire as you peer back down into the water, only to find it without a figure. A shiver courses through you, but you decide it better to press on. 

(Investigation of 13, you find a Ring of Animal Friendship https://www.dndbeyond.com/magic-items/ring-of-animal-influence)

P.S. If the adventurer’s wish to look here, they will have to make a 17 DEX saving throw or be dealt 1d6 + 7 piercing damage as well as a CON 15 saving throw and taking 1d4 poison damage every minute. This can be cured with an herbalism kit or lesser restoration. 

Crossbridge: The higher up you climb, the more intensely cold rakes its fingers through your water soaked flesh. The wind whips around you like a wraith, and you find it difficult to affix your gaze ahead of you in the thick fog. You try to concentrate on keeping warm, bundling up into your bits of clothing and pressing on. 

(Roll a DC 13 Constitution check or take 1 level of exhaustion)

You eventually make your way to the edge of a once beautiful stone bridge, now lying in tatters and unkempt by man or beasts. Wind and past conflicts have chewed out sizable chunks of the path, now leaving a crumbling mass of stone to remain. The path ahead is thin, and glancing at the sheen of rain along the cobblestones, you know that it nay be a perilous distance to fall. 

You continue forth, trying to ignore the danger yawning directly below you.

(Roll a DC 15 Dexterity check or higher, else slip off the side and need to be rescued, falling 50 ft each turn from a 300 ft drop)

Now, safely across, you glance back for a second time at the frighteningly unsafe bridge. Though you have successfully crossed it, something in the back of your mind reminds you that you are less safe now that you have passed than you were risking its slippery edge. 

Barbican: Before you stretches the mammoth gate which stands a sentinel against invaders, be they demon or man. Along its edges, old marks of char and sword scuff the resolute stone, dating the structure by how many battles and conflicts its wounds reveal and its health attests to. 

A huge portcullis is set down, the sharp prongs at its base spearing into slots set into the stonework. There are traces of ruddy brown along the edges of it, with mud or something else, you cannot say. The winch is visible at the top of the gate on the other side, shielded by a small overhang from the rain. The wind whips torn banners in the air, their frayed blue and white edges bleeding into a deep purple. The Steed on the Byries family crest rears nobily, though most of the features of its mane have receded into an amalgamation of blended color and rotted cloth tearing itself apart.

At the lefthand side of the gate, you see a pillar in which you would expect to see a fully functioning winch. (If they look) However, upon closer inspection, you see an absence of a vital piece of equipment: The crank handle. Looking around on the ground, you see no evidence as to where it could have gone. Searching around may prove to be helpful. 

(Lift gate without chain or crank, DC 25 Strength) 

(Crank Handle, located in small guardhouse; attaches to winch. Cloaker inside of guardhouse, can be spotted with 16 Perception check)

Guardhouse: If you believed it to be dark in the evening shadows and cloudcover, you have just begun to realize its effects on the poorly lit interiors of other locations. Turning to your righthand side, you see a small divot in the stone wall. It is almost too dark to see, and you count yourself grateful for your darkvision. As you enter, your eyes can barely discern a few shapes in the room. Littered on the ground is a shattered chair, the splinters sticking up in long, jagged shards and threatening to graze your leg as you pass. 

Set on a small wooden table, you see a few items strewn about atop it. There! The crank handle sits, slightly rusted but otherwise undisturbed.  There appears to be a yellowed page, cracked with age and hardly legible. A candle sits beside it, its wick burnt almost to the end. (If they try to pick up the candle holder) You attempt to move the silver holder, but find that it does not budge. Upon closer inspection, you note that it seems to be part of the table. Wax seems frozen in time, dripping forever. (Instructions, Turn winch left once, right twice, then left three times. Must put over flames to reveal the rest of the message, which states “Then turn right once for the fourth time, and say the words “Steed’s Charge,” and behold the gates will open.)

The Cloaker is an avoidable fight with a successful stealth and perception check.

After the gate has been opened: Feeling invigorated by your success, you press onward with more confidence… However fleeting it may be. 

Postern: Taking one uneasy glance at the front of the castle, it is a challenge not to feel overwhelmed by the intensely guarded look that the building imposes upon you. You wrestle with a sort of confliction, and eventually turn your eyes to a small path that has been beaten along by muddy feet, though holds no cobblestones for ease of feet. 

(Should they choose to continue along, they better get ready to make some rolls!)

As you follow along this makeshift path, you cross past a narrow cliff edge, dotted only with withered blackwood trees that sag pitifully like the knobby fingers of old men, and point wickedly in the direction of the different villages. But one thing is for certain: There is nothing to secure you here along this thin pass. 

Mud sloshes beneath your feet as you scale this pass, only four-foot breadth to separate you from a 400 ft demise.

(Roll a DC 15 Dexterity saving throw. If fail, then slide 30 ft down and take 3d6 bludgeoning damage. They must then roll again to catch themselves, a DC 11 Dexterity saving throw or fall another 50 ft, taking 5d6. To catch themselves will be significantly more difficult, and they must make a final 18 Dexterity saving throw or else fall 180 ft down, taking 18d6 bludgeoning damage, and sliding the remaining 40 ft into the churning waters below.)

You manage past the remainder of the difficult footholds. The occasional misplacement of footing has your heart tremble for a moment before you regain your composure and continue on. 

1st Floor:

Entrance Hall: The first thing you notice as you enter is the immensity of this hall, as well as the glittering ruby eyes of two stone dragons glaring in your direction. Their immensity is tucked to either side of the doorway, and seems cloaked by the thin veil of shadow that the corner allows them. Within your view, six large stained glass windows tower above you, out of reach by a good twenty feet. A long, elegant carpet flows far into the end of this room, that is currently invisible to your sights beyond the looming darkness ahead of you. The purple of its coloration is tinged with golden edges and red silks interwoven in strange, looping patterns, almost like archaic script. On the sides, you see beautifully carved stone benches, with patterns of spring chiseled into the side. The flowers on them seem to almost wilt in the wicked and brooding atmosphere of this house. Above, clinging to a ribbed vaulted ceiling, chandeliers of horned candles dangle down, limp as bodies. Though they do not offer any light, the gilded skeletons of them glint in the occasional flashes of lightning and reflect onto shapes of armor and weaponry set deeply in the wall. 

As you approach the end of the hall, you see something that momentarily jars you. From above the doorway, the skull of a large, bullike head gapes down at you, from it pinned to a placard. The head of it is so grand, it covers a good ten feet in width. Protruding from it, thick, shiny black horns just jut out. Golden rings loop around the base of them, glinting proudly from atop the wall.  Each of them cover a good seven feet. You can barely make out an inscription above and below the trophy mount, but your eyes are just able to find the right light. It reads “For one man, a menace. For one family, an honor.” 

Music Lounge: The door gently swings open with nary a sound, almost seeming better maintained than the others. The image parts to open up to a beautiful room, not soiled by age or disuse. An inset of lacquered wood lines the bottom of the walls, with occasional twisting golden grape and vine, and reflects in gentle candle light. The very hall here seems to spout “peace.” The room extends to plush chairs and benches that are arranged casually throughout the room. From behind you, a small banquet table sits idly beneath a circular window, currently covered by a cloth curtain. The chairs there are positioned as though occupants are still conversing amicably about the days goings on, either never reset or still alive with the spirits of those who once resided here. 

Against the wall, a huge organ with pipes like the mouths of huge creatures sits prepared to churn out a lovely harmony at a moment’s  notice, though it is quiet as it stands. A narration in wood of a happy woodcutter setting out about his day is etched onto each of the pipes, and it seems as though this item was a gift, not quite fitting in with the remaining scheme of what you’ve seen, but still a jovial addition. 

To it’s right, a large, gilded harp sits angelically in the light, it’s strings seeming untouched in many years. 

There is something almost saddening to think of these beautiful instruments lying dormant, but as you look closer, it seems almost as though dust has not found many of the organ’s keys yet, despite time. 

As you take a closer look at the keys, you see some are specifically cleared of dust, while others remain with their ivory keys grey under copious dust. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhYl6wYcR8I

Grand Hall: As the door gently squeaks open, your eyes rest upon a grand room, bathed in . The once white marble floor shines dimly up at you, like a visage of something once great, now hidden and covered by grime and dust. Images loom over you from the walls. Depictions of men and women on horseback trailing behind large, hapless beasts, armored figures with revelrous stance amongst a small army of knights, and nobly adorned lords and ladies gracefully exchanging steps and bows while in dance with one another. A few smatterings of candelabras illuminate their still visages. Though the rest of the room is stagnant, these figures seem… almost alive, in the playing light. The only thing to be so in this room. But the most notable thing to you, by far, is a large, magnificent skylight of stained glass and gold, warping the golden light from the room into a serene purplish blue. You can hear the pattering of rain from atop it, and a strike of lightning momentarily illuminates the room. A sloping overhang, which you now stand under, stands across one identical to it. From it, two great pillars with twisting golden adornments tower up to secure it, and a pair of ornate, sharp steps of marble ascend to meet the landings faces. In front of you are two doors, one directly North, and the other to the Northeast, behind one of the pillars. 

Right Hallway: Going down to the eastern hall, you step through strangely sticky puddles of brown, residual liquid that seems to be dripping from above. 

Looking up, you see thick splotches of ruddy liquid oozing from the cracked stone ceiling. The scent is sharply one of copper. 

Peering closer through the crack in the ceiling, what you see momentarily jars you. Though it is only the barest of glimmers… it seems as though the filmy white of an eye is glaring at you sightlessly from above. 

Suddenly, a phantom wind in the hallway kicks some dust from the crumbling rock and sprinkles it around you like grey snow. 

(If Passive Perception exceeds 13) You hear a faint groan from above you. 

Smoking Room: Opening the door to this room,  a heavy scent of tobacco fills your nostrils, even before parting ponderous purple and blue curtains that shield the view from the rest of the room. Rolling them to the side- you are granted an exquisite yet grisly view. 

Before lies a lighter room, once bright stone emblazoned with various depictions of the hunt suggests a room where men would opine opinions on various subjects. But now, turning your eyes about the room, you glimpse at feverish carnage. Layered in ash, skeletons of decadently dressed nobles prostrate in silken remains of fire, coated in char. 

One figure with a loose jaw seems to be clawing with skeletal hands at another man’s face, one finger stuck between his teeth. Another mistress is forever immortalized in a state of weeping, clutching the casement haplessly. 

You find old pipes of various make, designs of animal heads or boats or castles or faces, one particular a jade jumping fish with gold inlay. 

(With a DC 13 Investigation check)

Taking apart the stem of the pipe from the chamber and bowl, you find it to be platinum. An engraving on the metal reads “An Esmer, meine lillien”. (When activated, this pipe can cause an illusory fish of smoke to leap from the bow of the pipe.)

War Room: You approach a door which seems sturdier than the others, wrought of a reinforced steel and dark oak. 

(If they try to open it) You try for the handle, but it appears to be locked. 

Either finding the key, using an Open spell, or picking / kicking it down (DC 15 and 18 respectively), the room is opened. 

As the lock clicks open, you see a room of dark grey stone. Columns cling to the sides of the door, dividing into eight along the room. In the center, a massive table extends to about thirty feet in size. Alongside the westbound wall, a line of rakes (war room sticks) of various sizes are stacked. Below them, there seem to be tiny figurines on the surface. 

The miniatures depicting various vile and despicable creatures snark with angry visages, as well as human units downed in different colors, horse heads, elves in deep green, and, perhaps strangest of all, a towering dragon flanked by smaller brethren. Investigating the 

In the center of the map sits a fortress piece, isolated from the rest. Four avian gargoyles sit atop it, eagle like eyes spying tiny troubles from afar. 

The inscription: “Unbezwingbar”.

(You have gained Daern’s Instant Fortress)

Playroom: Here, one small wooden horse on four crude legs lay inert, with two of the wheels on its hind haunches rusted beyond movement. 

You note the taciturn stares of the stone above. Something sets you at unease. 

Make a DC 10 Wisdom Saving throw, otherwise, see this. 

One of the dolls that lie tossled among the rest shakes violently. Suddenly, it’s head whips around as though on a swivel, and it fixated a dead stare at you, one eye blinking, the other melted shut. You blink, and it hasn’t changed from where it sat, unmoving and inanimate. You distantly hear a child’s laughter. 

Under a pile of forgotten toys, something glints in the poor light.

Tossing these things aside, you grasp a small metal item. A green eye glints up at you from an avian face. (You have gained the Bird Token)

Left Hallway: Approaching the side of the hall, you avoid the northbound grandiose entrance in favor of one of the side rooms in the hall to the left. Following this way, you enter a confined, dark hallway. Though barely visible and covered by curtains, you can glance two doors: One ahead of you, and one to the east. 

East, Scullery: Turning into the right doorway, you find yourself in a narrow tunnel of sorts, still decently lavish, though with less mind laid to its beauty. 

Above a plain doorway, you see the words “Dictum/Reinigung”. 

Ahead, you see what appears to be the insides of a storeroom. You spot a barrel packed with what seem to be bushels of wilted wheat. Herbs hang form cast iron racks on the ceiling, and greet you with bland, exhausted fragrance. Among foul sacks of potatoes, mold-caked cheeses, and black mushy remains of what might have resembled carrots at one point in life, you glimpse five small, red vials. You gain five minor potions of healing. 

Taking a further look around, there seems to be little else of note. A selection of crystal glasses may be the only other thing that is telli. An old bottle of mead, opened with mildew covering the lip of it, indicates a toast with the staff. 

North, Ehren Hall: Looking above you, you see a bronze placard “Ehrenhalle”.

The corridor stretches out to open up to three ornate doors on the eastern side, the door on the farthest end from you seemingly the grandest. At the end of the hallway opens up a winding, twisting set of stairs. 

As you pass, something outside flickers briefly in the window before disappearing. It happened too fast for you to catch, but it doesn’t seem to return. 

A peculiar knocking sound ensnares from the center door. 

Guest Bedroom: Opening the heavy wooden door, you are greeted by dust and shrieking hinges.

The room opens up to a decadently large residence, the entrance of which is in almost perfect condition. 

A tall looking glass to your right reflects the image of a mural on your left. The depiction is one of playful nymphs and fairies amidst a golden forest. Some rest on the backs of large stags. Others hold golden fruits. One in particular seems crowned in sunlight, and is being greeted by a dark looking man on horseback. The paint is cracked and faded, but something pure about the image is still preserved.

Going forth, you spy the telltale signs of a struggle off to your right. Against the wall, a baroque bed-frame of dark wood twisted to look like woven branches supports a mattress that has been nearly utterly destroyed. Claw marks appear to rake down much of the bed itself, leaving copious amounts of down and debris scattered on the surface. Tousled sheets lay atop, brownish red peeking from beneath their tangled folds. 

Across you in the room, a windowed door opens up to a balcony overlooking the rapids. Rain strikes the panes listlessly. An old stone bench and table can be spied from this angle.

A long willow chest lies at the foot of the bed. The lid has been wrenched open, and similar marks of distress mark the edges. The inside appears to be empty, save for some torn books and emptied vials of ink. 

One room sits to the left of the foot of the bed itself. There is a door here, standalone and heavily damaged. You cannot see past it, but a chest of drawers seems to block off where it swings open. 

(If the party tries for the door handle) It appears to be locked. Trying for the door results in the handle shaking loosely. (Passive Perception 14) You hear what sounds like faint scratching from the other side.

(If the party moves the chest of drawers) You push the chest of drawers away from the door. As you do, the scratching within stills. There seems to be an air of tension stagnating. 

Guest Bedroom WC: (If the party has opened the door make a DC 16 Dex) Without warning, the door gives way. A rotted shelving unit dumps porcelain pots and artisans wares atop your head. You take two points of damage.

The first thing that hits you is a horrendous torrent of smell- an intermixing of feces and mold and rot- and the sight of a ramshackle garderobe (or a kind of water closet). The second thing that hits you, more or less literally, is something at your feet. 

Looking down, you glimpse the hollow sockets of a skeleton. Though the darkness of the room prevents much color to be seen, you catch little white masses wriggling within them. The clothing of the individual seem to be in tatters as well. A nightgown, perhaps?

Pushing the body aside, you enter.

A laquered privy sits to your left as you enter, though much of it is splintered and stained. To your right, a flashes of lightning peek beneath a heavy curtain. From behind said curtain, you see the outline of what appears to be a heavy wooden tub. 

(If the players decide to investigate the tub) Looking to your right is somewhat of a mistake. As you approach, you kick aside the shriveled bodies of several rats. Their exposed teeth grimace at you in dismay. Pulling back the curtains, your hand stays still for a moment.

There, sitting huddled in the tub, is a wiry figure. Their grey skin is sunken and torn and their greasy hair clings to their scalp like black wires. You hear a quiet crunching as the figure occasionally twitches. It appears to be crying.

(If players attempt to approach or intervene) You attempt to approach the creature. As you reach towards them, their head snaps to you. Glowing eyes glisten under the scarce pale light and their hollow cheeks are streaked with tears. Though their face is an abject horror- exposed gums revealing extended incisors resting atop cracked yet full lips, like some horrid balance between tempestuous life and settling death- you see some mad shred of humanity lost in those eyes. They feel as though they are drawing you in.yes my friend

(If the players stealth away, DC 16) You quietly exit the scene, taking care not to disturb the creature in the tub. (If failed) But along the way, your foot sails into the side of the skeleton’s head. As though looking at you aghast, it’s slack jaw gapes up at you. From the curtained corner, you see the shadow stand up. Slowly the curtain parts to reveal two glowing eyes darting at you. 

With a tormented shriek, the creature lunges. (Engage fight with Blood Starved Vampire Spawn)

Dragonborn Celebrations (maybe using for something else in the future)

I was thinking of adding onto this, but might use some of these celebrations as reference for another world I’m working on soon :-) Thought it might be good to add it to the archives and reflect. Lots subject to change, but it’s fun to see old ideas and clean them up a bit!



Dragonborn Celebrations

Gathering of the Clans, or “Conifir Unlaus”:
This holiday is dedicated to the kinship and management of all of the Clans, in which most Dragonborn are affiliated. On this day, the Elder Council of Thrak’sin and the leaders of each clan participate in an open discussion on terms of their status, condition, and important decisions that may impact all. Citizens are welcome to ask questions. This celebration is special in that it serves to unite all of the Dragonborn people and allow them to voice their concerns. It is also a time of great joviality, with special drinks, foods, and fun activities being open for all subraces and cultures. (For instance, a more desert-faring Ka’llean may be able to try an odd Eastern Coparian dish of Longshetou noodles, or some of the famous Nadurian honey mead). It is a decennial celebration, and as such, most participants in the festivities tend to be more mature. Admittance begins at the age of six.

Frostgleam, or “Fro’manam
The traditional Doronian holiday that celebrates the migration of the Doronian people from their ancient homelands in the desert to the cold mountains of Ranskill under the watchful and wise eye of Doron. The celebration includes a multitude of festivities, many of them snow-related (for instance, one of the most popular competitions is the Ash’cor Challenge, or snowbody challenge, where contestants have to gather as many bluebells as possible while wearing an armor full of ice). There are carnival type activities as well, and small children’s plays that are put on. One of the favorites is the ancient tale of the defeat of Kanagnos: Both children and parents alike find delight in the firebreathers and the playfighting against the aforementioned villainous beast. In the modern age, there is also a vigil held every year to honor the memory of those lost on Ash’kell, which occurred during the time of the Frostgleam celebrations.


Dorvak’ir’s Day
The day of celebration that honors love and attraction (amongst other things that come with that). It is named after the half-dragon Dorvak’ir, who was an ancient swooner of women and men of all types and convinced several to fall in love with him through his various mischievous ways. The word dorvak, which is a term of endearment equivalent to the words “dear” or “love”, stems from Dorvak’ir’s own name. There are a few odd traditions on Dorvak’ir’s Day that have spawned from the antics that the odd Half-Dragon engaged in: Pouring a mug of ale on the one you are attracted to, giving them a saddle so that they may “ride easy”, and filling a house with songbirds are just some to name a few. Each clan typically has a different take on this celebration, as each has its own concept of love and affection. For instance, it may be more base to spar with someone you love on Dorvak’ir’s Day if you are a red or blue dragonborn, though not in many other cultures, whilst writing a ballad of love to a Hakiman likely won’t get you as far as perhaps stealthily slipping a nightshade flower into their back pocket.





The Taking of the Mentor, or “Clax’zhira”.
Traditionally a Ka’llean celebration, this honorary event marks the taking of an apprentice by a mentor. In Ka’llean culture and other southeastern Dragonborn areas, the significance of taking an apprentice is great, being one of the most important aspects of a dragonborn’s life. The spiritual bond which is celebrated is highly revered, unrivaled by even the aspect of matrimony and brother-hood. In a sense, it is a marriage, for the first time that it was said that the celebration began it was between the Ka’llean Great Winged One Iocin and the daughter of the Brelethaad chief, Daleria. The training begun by Iocin developed and blossomed into a relationship of love and respect, as well as unmatched combat strength. Daleria became the Tilabi Dareev, or the Elder God Queen, and is said to have ruled the land flawlessly for 300 years before her death. Even in the afterlife, statues of Mentor and Student are depicted together, and in Ka’llean graves mentors are buried along with the student and their wives/husbands, siblings, parents, and children. This is why the apprenticeship of Halhadim to Malik’al is so important: It is diplomatic symbolism.


Elephani Tur’gara, or “Elephant Day”
Also known as “Elephant Day”, this Ka’llean celebration is dedicated to the titular sacred animal which had become central to the Ka’llean warrior culture. It is a day of racing and bonding, where games are played with elephant warrior companions. Royals parade their elephants adorned in garments of silks and leopard furs, richly adorned owners on their backs and servants darting around their feet to clean the beasts. The queen’s elephant- always the strongest leading female in a herd- wears a tajimnamke, or a “womanly crown”, that symbolizes her power over others and fertility to bear more heirs. The king’s elephant wears a special-made custom fit leg armor made of gold and a warrior crown, or mfukichwa, fashioned of the bones of the king’s first major hunt. The king’s elephant is then painted in warrior stripes (shujaa kupigwa, in the dialect) thereafter. The king and the other warriors go on a hunt that lasts from the stroke of midday until the moon is in the center of the sky. The aim of it is for the fresh blood to find companions. The new warriors then must utilize the time to catch elephants of their own. If they do not return by night with an elephant, they are no longer considered warriors until they can redeem themselves. If any are lost along the way in the night, traditions demands that the tribe must wait until the next day in order to recover them.



Nemsimi Kir, or “The Day of Old Traditions”
Before the eastern culture of the Tirian more or less integrated with that of the Toirneachs, the bronze dragonborn were more Roman in nature. When the Eastern Migrations began in the advent of the Tirian Civil War, the immigrants left lasting impressions on the people and culture. Much of the previous way of life was dissipating or assimilating As such, they have dedicated a day to dress up and engage in traditional festivities. This includes gladiatorial combat, the traditional weaving of fashions, the opening of the Bath House, the Circus Maxima, and the making of wine. Even though those of Tirian descent participate, the point is typically to draw those families with strong hereditary ties to the land back to their traditional ancestral land.


Jinshouro, or “The Bloodless Brothers Day”
An old Tirian tradition which replicates the old days of making family constructs from metals and appreciating the earth’s magical properties. There was once a time when the Warforged were called Kinto, or Metalmen. Warforged in of itself is an insult and accusatory name playing off of the conspiracy of Dinh Ahn murdering his adopted dragonborn father Emperor Duran Ghang Wu. While the age of harmony and creation of Warforged is believed to have passed, there is still a vein of creation that the Tirian exercise, though rather than creating fully fledged sentient beings with what they believe to have souls, they simply make small constructs or servants.



Teachtaire lá, or “Messenger Day”
A Nadurian festival which honors the brave souls who sacrificed their lives in the course of history- from the Dragonkin Wars to the Ka’llean Besiegement- to deliver their message as the Seahbacan scouts (druid scouts who would shapeshift to deliver their messages: Though they were known as “the Hawks,” they went by many other animal shapes as well.) On this day, the entire youth grouping of the village gets together to play a large game that spans over 600 acres of woodland and 13 of mountainside. Everyone is invited to play. In the evening, the actual trainees of the Scouts go out and undergo an overnight trial to find a flag at the top of Calghony Mountain, retrieve it, and bring it back by sunrise of the next day. The winners- there are three separate ones who are picked for the three flags on the mountaintop- are then brought in as members and trained. They receive their arm markings by the Weseleher and are initiated into their roles by their respective leader.

Some Vampire Stuff!

As the title says, it’s some old writing from 2017 or so. Kind of edgy but eh, whatcha gonna do?

Lord Tyrathin was one of the strongest men that Count Adelmar Byries had known in life. In death, Adelmar found him even stronger. It took a certain kind of courage to see the horrors that opened up here, stretching its jaws before the very entirety of this land and threatening to swallow it whole and deciding to stay and fight. It had been many moons since Adelmar had seen him, and though age had both wrought his once thinning salt and pepper hair into a white mess and carved wrinkles into his features, he still seemed as strong as any twenty summers younger.

Yet there he stood, with the resignation of a dead man. Adelmar found it hard to look at him. 

“I know who you were, once,” The raspy voice echoed off of the ribbed vaulted ceiling. Though he thought as much to be amused at the slight tremor in his voice, Adelmar frowned at the tremble. The old codger faced his back, shield raised and ram headed flail at his thigh. The Count turned to him, just enough to catch the man’s feeble form in his periphery. Adelmar imagined his face; the one he always wore when he would talk politics and war strategy to his father as a much younger man. A stern face that looked as though he had tasted something sour and could never quite place what it was. 

“And who was I, once? You seem to know my title. Perhaps you’ve become well-acquainted with my work?” The Count gestured with one arm to the walls. There, dressed in black clothes of mourning, were strung eight skeletons, each in some unique sprawl and long since stripped of their flesh and name. They were simply decorative pieces now, the warning of their death long since lost its potency when the town became abandoned. They danced in the shadows cast by flickering candlelight. Lord Tyrathin quieted at this, perhaps appalled. Good. The Count thought dryly. Perhaps it’ll scare him off.

But Adelmar knew that it would not. Lord Tyrathin was bred of tougher stock, despite the fool that he was for standing there. It was an unexpected meeting, to be certain. Adelmar had believed all of the men who knew his family intimately to be dead or driven out of the country by the other demons who stayed. He should have expected a house as stubborn as the Kasyaels to remain, but the last of his hopes had perished when the familiar, almost forgotten face of Lord Tyrathin had dawdled in, stained with blood from minor gashes and his armor bearing the familiar handiwork of his gargoyles’ claws. 

Tyrathin did not disappoint, Adelmar discovered. The elderly knight instead took a bold step forth, testing his luck. That’ll do him no good. Adelmar raised his brow. The man was breathing heavily, now, no doubt in equal parts exhaustion and fear. Finally, The Count decided to turn and face him. It truly was as he remembered. The man who stood before him was, indeed, undoubtedly Lord Tyrathin. That same pair of sad brown eyes widened as Adelmar stared back at him. The Count glowered, growling slightly at the sight, and felt something clench within his dead heart. Lord Tyrathin seemed, for once, at a loss of words. He faltered for a moment, his gauntleted hand falling slowly to his side as he continued to gawk. 

“Are you enthralled yet, ser? Do you still see the remnants of the child that died long ago? Or do you stand before The Demon of Vatra, the Gargoyle of Castle Verko?” The stonework beams shook with the assertion in Adelmar’s voice. He himself grew wary at his own voice. The feral quality in it put Lord Tyrathin at greater unease, but the man seemed to wane in fear. In its stead, his eyes grew misty with pity and sorrow. Adelmar felt his eyes widen, but closed them quickly and looked away. I do not need the pity of some ghost of a man. Still, as the seething thoughts stewed in his mind, a burning he had not felt in some time clawed at his throat and it clenched. 

Then, unwittingly of instinct, Lord Tyrathin began to approach. But Adelmar was quicker, and grabbed the man by the mail at his throat. The metal hissed against his flesh, and Adelmar sucked in through his teeth as he retracted his wounded hand. With a quick glance down, he could already see his palm begin to blacken. He looked back up to Lord Tyrathin and snarled. 

“Silver chain,” Tyrathin began, roused from his spell of remorse. The knight hefted up his shield and got into a defensive stance. Adelmar watched him with predatory eyes, flicking to the flail in his hand and the clink of his boots against the steps. “I had hoped to come to find a man, but prepared myself to fight what I feared: A monster.” At these words, Adelmar launched himself in a fury. His now elongated claws glanced off of Tyrathin’s shield. Adelmar knew that if he were still a mortal man, he would see his reflection clear as day in its polished metal. Its absence simply made him all the more bitter, and he bashed at it with inhuman strength. Tyrathin, who was not expecting the strength in such a vigorous blow, was knocked back off of one of the steps.

Adelmar took the opportunity to rake a claw against the man’s exposed neck, but Tyrathin caught himself and swung his flail, narrowly missing the crown of Adelmar’s head. Adelmar spun wildly around the knight, his teeth flashed in the dark. Tyrathin chanced another blow, but this time it split a bench. The thing shattered into mere splinters, and rained across the room. Adelmar flicked his attention to it briefly, before goading Tyrathin into another attack.

Recovering from his miss, Tyrathin arced his flail around his head and sent it towards Adelmar’s shoulder. The ram’s head hit its mark, iron horns butting against the unprotected flesh and eliciting a small gasp of pain as the strike shot through Adelmar’s body. The Count’s eyes trained on the candles around the room, and an idea struck him. He quickly maneuvered out of the way of another well-placed blow, and fled to one of the candleholders. Easily, Adelmar dodged another wound to the abdomen, sending a well-delivered strike to Tyrathin’s own body and pushing the knight back with a grunt. The old man had grimaced, a drawn calculating expression locked on his face, before charging towards Adelmar and the last lit candelabra standing. Watching for the moment of the wind up, Adelmar deftly dodged another swing that threatened to shatter his hip. Rather, the chain of the flail wrapped around the iron stand, and the ram head knocked it promptly to the ground. 

Now, the pair stood in darkness. The knight’s eyes seemed dinner saucers in the dark, his head turning anxiously on a swivel to search the darkness. Adelmar gave a humorless laugh, and Tyrathin’s head shot in the direction. A blind swing missed by a man’s length, and Adelmar knew he had the old knight right where he wanted him. 

Steel sung through the air as the gorget and Lord Tyrathin’s throat sailed across the floor. For a moment, his terrified eyes regarded it with wonder, before promptly catching a final lorn glimpse at Adelmar. Adelmar had little time to think, little time to regret. Before he knew it, he felt his breath and the radiation of warmth off of skin. Adelmar took in that delectable heat a moment, appreciating it and hesitating. Lord Tyrathin was locked in his grasp, shaking. 

“Apologies, old friend.” A ghost of a whisper. There was no time for him to react. Nor to contemplate the ponderous grief that threatened to choke him when he heard the sigh of a resigned man. Adelmar tasted the blood, mercury and copper, and for its worth a slight burning where silver had once wound around Lord Tyrathin’s neck from his chain. He slipped further in, not drinking in the Lord like cattle- his blood was too pure- but sipping, his lifesblood an ancient wine in an aging cask. Adelmar heard him  stir not once while he was being drained, only felt a weak gauntleted fist press up against his collarbone. Fool, Adelmar grinned grimly into the embrace. Your steel will not work on me as your accursed silver. 

By the time he was finished, Adelmar could already feel the deflation of the man’s flesh. Lord Tyrathin, for his age and harrowing experience, had still looked the part of a man despite it all. But now, his veins ran empty, and the man’s face turned to one flat and ghastly white. His eye sockets had become hollow with the lack of blood to aid the flesh in taking form, and where once they appeared grim, they now seemed nightmarish portals staring into an unseen void. Adelmar thought twice to shake at their forever onward gaze, but instead he roughly shoved the limp body to the floor. Lord Tyrathin’s remains thumped as hard as a stone, his armor weighing likely more than he did.

Adelmar stepped back a moment, surveying the job he had done. From the rafters, the engraved faces of Seraphim stared down at him, watching with judgemental gaze. The dying flames of the candles flickered, curious creatures’ eyes at his feet. He stomped them down without so much as a second glance.