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Facemaker, Tastemaker [This promotional book features detailed drawings of a variety of fashion designs, from standard capes with elaborate embroidery, to wide-brimmed hats in unusual patterns and materials, to patchwork gowns of a fashion unknown in Baldur's Gate.]
Fables of Rashemi [A book of old fairytales from the land of Rashemi. Folklore seems rich and complex there, and one particular story about a six-tingered scorpion and a spider overcoming great hurdles in a desert seems allegoric for the hardy Rashemi and their attitudes to thriving once children reach adolescence.]
Fables of Faerûn VI: The Cheerful Deep Gnome Deep in the Underdark lived Doyle, a plucky deep gnome slave. Day and night, he and his brother toiled for five duergar smiths, mining iron and mithral until their arms ached and their eyes burned. 'Faster', cried the duergar. And faster Doyle would dig, even into the night while his masters slept, smiling all the while. 'How can you smile while we slave?' asked the brother. 'Because I wish our masters much success!' was Doyle's reply. Words of the duergar's quality weapons and armour quickly spread. To meet demand, the duergar brought in more slaves, and began to forge and stockpile their wares at the dig site. Yet Doyle dug harder than ever, his wide grin never faltering. Soon, the duergar's operation grew so great that they commanded twenty deep gnome slaves. The day the twenty-first came, Doyle laughed and whooped so loud, his duergar captors sought silence in a nearby grotto. The slavers returned to find Doyle and his fellow deep gnomes clad in robust mithral armour and carrying mighty iron weapons, all taken from the slavers' stockpile. The five duergar fell quickly, for they were no match for twenty-one armed deep gnomes. And Doyle? He never stopped smiling. [Beneath the fable, an incensed reader has written a brief review.] GARBAGE. THIS WHERE THE GNOMES ARE GETTING BRIGHT IDEAS? ANYHOW I DON'T GET IT. THE LESSON MAKES NO DAMN SENSE!
Fables of Faerûn V: The Boy and the Beholder A shepherd's son tended to his father's flocks on the banks of the Chionthar. The days grew long and the boy grew bored. To amuse himself, he called out 'Beholder! Beholder!' The shepherd came running, but there was no beholder. The boy pointed and giggled, but the shepherd scolded him. 'Do not cry "beholder" when there is no beholder. Promise?' 'I promise', said the boy. But the next day was as boring as the last. 'Beholder!' the boy cried, and his father rushed to his side. The boy laughed and laughed, but the shepherd only frowned and shook his head. Three days later, the boy spotted a round figure floating in the distance. It had one giant eye in the middle of its face, a mouth full of pointed teeth, and thin stalks growing from it, each with an eye peeking from the tip. 'Beholder! Beholder!' he shouted, but no one came. The beholder began to float toward him, and the boy turned and sprinted along the river. He ran and ran until he reached a high bank and could run no more. The boy cried and cowered, bracing for the beholder's deadly ray. Instead, a familiar voice said 'Turn around!' The boy turned. There was no beholder, only the shepherd clad in a woolen cloak. A giant eye was painted on the front, and a toothy mouth below. Vines were sewn to the cloak's edges. 'You scared me!' sobbed the boy. 'That makes us even', said his father, as he dried the boy's tears. The boy never cried 'beholder' again.
Fables of Faerûn IV: The Magnanimous Miner In the underground city of Mantol-Derith lived a deep gnome called Sadie and her father Sam. Each morning, the hardworking Sadie travelled to the nearby grotto, pick in hand, to mine gems. Each night, the lazy Sam would count them and demand even more. 'You cannot rest until I am the richest man in all of Faerûn!' One day, Sadie encountered a stranger on her path home: a haggard creature, grey of skin and small of stature. 'A derro!' exclaimed Sadie. 'Please', said the derro. 'I have no money and no home. I beg of you - a single ruby, so I might sell it for food.' Sadie found pity in her heart and gave the beggar a ruby. She told her father about the derro upon returning home. 'Do not believe his lies!' warned Sam. 'Derro are selfish, demented creatures. Give him no more, lest I cast you away!' The derro was waiting for Sadie the next day. 'Please, give me ten rubies, so I might sell them for shelter.' Sadie, moved by his plea, did as he asked and journeyed home, where Sam rebuked her. 'An inferior haul', he said. 'This will not stand!' On the third day, the derro appeared in the grotto. 'A hundred rubies, please, so I might feed my brothers and sisters.' The kindhearted Sadie handed the beggar her entire sack of gems. As he took it, there was a great flash of light. Where the beggar had stood was a massive gold dragon! 'You prove yourself generous of heart and spirit. Come to my lair, and share in my golden hoard.' Sadie eagerly accepted, joining the dragon in his opulent hideaway. One year later, Sadie passed a beggar near the grotto - her own father, Sam. 'Sadie. I have no money and no home', he said. 'I beg of you - a single ruby, so I might sell it for food.' Sadie found no pity in her heart, and walked away.
Fables of Faerûn III: The Enticing Elder There were once two sisters, one a great fighter and one a great cleric, who longed for new adventure. 'I shall skewer an elder brain upon my sword!' cried the fighter. 'To the Underdark!' 'I wish to know the secrets of the brain's powers', said the cleric. 'Let us be off!' In the recesses of the deep, the sisters slayed darklings and derro, bugbears and bulettes. The two reached an illithid colony when the fourth tenday passed. Their quest would soon be complete. With great effort, they felled a half-dozen mind flayers and soon reached the elder brain's lair. It rose from the brine pool at the center of its chamber, flanked by illithids. The brain didn't speak aloud, but the sisters could hear it in their minds. 'I am called Qaoz. Why have you come?' 'I will make your powers my own', called the cleric. 'I will crush you and bring an end to your tyranny', said the fighter. The brain hovered in silence. A moment later, a burst of psionic energy shook the chamber, and the sisters lay dead. 'Good luck,' Qaoz replied. The illithids feasted heartily that day.
Fables of Faerûn II: The Daring Duergar In the deep city of Gracklstugh lived a young duergar named Shull, who could conjure eerie whispers in his brothers' minds. Eager to develop his psionic powers and take over his clan, he asked the Godfather who could teach him further.<br><br>'Cross the Darklake. On the south shore there is a chasm', said the Godfather. 'Within the chasm lives a rogue mind flayer called Ir. It will teach you all you must know.' Shull's voyage was fraught with danger. He fended off aboleths and cloakers alike until he reached the mind flayer's chasm. Ir emerged from its hovel, tentacles writhing. 'I am here to learn', Shull told it. 'Very well', came the response. On the first moon's passing, Ir taught Shull how to read minds. On the second, it taught Shull how to bend them. But this was not enough for Shull. He wanted to destroy minds with a mere word. 'So be it', said Ir, and it bestowed a blessing on Shull. 'It is yours - the knowledge to shatter a single mind. But you may only speak the command once', Ir told Shull, 'for then it is forever forgotten'. Ready to assume control of his clan, Shull returned to Gracklstugh. 'Show me what you have learned', the Godfather told Shull. Shull grinned, spoke the command - and his own skull shattered before the Godfather's eyes. Said the Godfather, 'The lesson is complete'.
Fables of Faerûn I: The Dimwitted Drow Long ago in the city of Menzoberranzan, a drow wizard called Zad studied magic in the academy of Sorcere. Each tenday, the Archmage would ask Zad to demonstrate his newfound skills - and each tenday, Zad would fail. 'Sorcere educates only the brightest of pupils', warned the Archmage. 'Your scholarship must improve, or you will be expelled'. That very night, Zad slipped out of Menzoberranzan to seek the hidden city of mind flayers, Oryndoll. The library there boasted the most complete body of knowledge in the whole of the Underdark. 'I'll learn about all that is and ever was', vowed Zad. 'The Archmage will have no choice but to keep me!' Yet the longer Zad searched for Oryndoll, the more lost he became. His body weak and his stomach empty, the drow fell to the ground and reality faded. Zad awoke within a vast circular hall lined with tomes and tablets, untold knowledge etched upon them. Oryndoll! 'I made it! I will know everything' he exclaimed. A wide smile crossed Zad's face. He barely noticed the tadpole wriggling just above his left eye. 'Yes', said a voice in Zad's head. 'Everything'.
Extracts - The Rule of Three [A long-winded introduction explains that Haskinn Xhesilaphin's notes - published as-is from their work journal - have helped bring alchemy to the masses. It starts with a full history on the dragonborn, who had been de-scaled as a teenager and started their alchemical research in hopes of restoring their hide. As the pages turn, it continues to wax poetic about how Xhesilaphin put aside their own research to help the common people. Much more interesting, though, are Xhesilaphin's actual research notes.] I have decided. I shall make all my notes - both those written and those still to come - available to those who would wish to study. You, reading this text now, are probably one such person. As enticing as potion-making is, we shall first start with the most basic alchemical rule: the Rule of Three. Most ingredients can be found throughout Faerûn. However, they need to be refined to be of any use in alchemy. Doing so is simple: just combine three of the same ingredients, and you will obtain an extract, which can be used to brew potions, poisons, oils, and elixirs. So remember: Three of the same ingredients make an extract. Or, in rhyme form, if you like:
Exploits of the Order of Keen Strike [A stained record that alternates between two different handwritings, one thick and measured, the other slanted and erratic.] I did it, again, didn't I? Struck keen, didn't I. Picture it: Helm and Cloak In.. Partiar [sp] stumbles to the latrine. Bends over the bowl - vomits everywhere. All I need to do is drop a brick from behind. He's done. A most glorious, most keen kill my friend. But it shudders in comparison to my recent escapade. POISON was the key - and it was ON the KEY! The poor creature reached for the key to lock her homestead, secure herself... and sealed her fate. We talking poison, are we? Myt last one was cooking a stew. Smelled bloody lush, too. Plenty of meat (lamb, I think) - reckon it was for a big celebration. Enough to feed a family - maybe even a whole street. It was missing only one ingredient, to my estimation. Had it in his cupboards, too, right there. Lye. Plenty of lye. Oh - how they gurgled, my friend. A wonderful chorus. Dropped a thin barb of steel into soup. She slurped it up, it lodged straight in the back of the gullet. Choked to death on soup and blood. FOund a lonely chef, bent over a bubbling vat of broth. It was simple, easy. Just pushed and held his head. Felt like barely a moment passed before he did. [The elaborate one-upmanship continues in a similar fashion.]
Experiment on Cruor NIGHTAL 3 Father sent a butler to fawn over me. I'm not my mind-mangled bloodkin. I need no coddling. I will send it back to Him, entrails and all. NIGHTAL 4 Not again. The wretched minion has returned, singing my praises over the way I slaughtered it. If it craves death, I will give it a lingering one. It's screams will silence Father's concerns. NIGHTAL 9 Again AGAIN this praise-poxing creature comes back to me. If it will not leave me be, I will make something beautiful of it. An effigy, stuffed with the flesh of every other butler in this city. Father will see I need no instruction, no inspiration. Nor does any true Chosen of Bhaal.
Exile [The author of Gnomefather also penned this book. A much bleaker read, Exile is full of sections like this:] And with his stony features wrinkling in a snarl, Laduguer, god of the duergar growled: 'You hounds and dribbling dogs. I shall have you flayed. I shall string lutes from your guts. What a music shall fill my halls, then! Hear me close, you mongrels and slobberers. Slavery is freedom. Freedom from difficult choice and from responsibility. When you enslave an elf, you enchain him to a bit of use, the simpering knife-eared slug. You make him worth a damn. Now throttle that morality of yours, and fetch me vassals!'
Excavation of the Enclave of Nhalloth Elminster said Nhalloth was a wonder to behold when it floated in Faerûn's sky. He was surely right. This Netherese enclave was once a jewel in the Empire of Magic, with towers that pierced the heavens. And yet it fell, just as all Netherese enclaves did, crashing down when Karsus' Folly ripped magic from the world. But even after it collapsed into the sea, its ruins still held a strange, twisted beauty. I travelled here from Halruaa when I heard the sea had retreated and the ruins of Nhalloth were visible once again. Alas, I was not the first. Looters have stripped the enclave of its material wealth, destroying much of its esoteric riches in the process. I've found arcane books used to make campfires, their magic lost now to the ages. I have met some Shadovar here whose interests align with mine, and we have agreed to search the ruins together. I'm grateful for these allies. The ruins are mostly filled with thick-skulled adventurers, but I cannot shake the feeling that someone is watching us, waiting to see what we uncover.
Evil's Ascent [The beginning of this book proudly declares it to be a play by Dame Inia, followed by an extensive introduction, and 23 pages of notes on the text. Though the book itself seems barely touched, one stanza is encircled twice.] There is a light in every living thing. It's crawling t'wards the surface to survive. And in its wake, it tramples everything. We'll kill the rest, so that the one can thrive.
Evading the Elder Brain The 'Emperor' as interrogated by Gortash, Part 3 Gortash: When we captured you, you were a rogue, an autonomous illithid beyond the power of the elder brain that transformed you. Emperor: That is correct. Gortash: When we brought you back into the psionic ambit of our hovering friend the Absolute, your defences were overwhelmed and you returned to your former servile state. Emperor: Also correct. Gortash: How did you escape the control of the elder brain in the first place? Emperor: In my original humanoid form, I possessed an exceptionally strong personality - so much so that even after ceremorphosis I was still substantially 'myself'. Of course, I concealed this beneath a semblance of perfect servitude. Gortash: And that's why the elder brain was willing to send you out of the colony on scouting missions? Emperor: Yes, as I told you before. Gortash: How long did you feign mental slavery before you were able to escape? Emperor: Thirteen and three-quarters years. Gortash: Until finally you were given a mission to Baldur's Gate, distant enough to be out of the elder brain's control? Gortash: Remarkable. Gortash: And you don't mind that we've brought you back under psionic control? Emperor: I am entirely devoted to the needs of our elder brain and of its masters. Gortash: You're not lying about that, right? Emperor: Correct. That would be impossible.
Ethical Review of the Flaming Fist [This review of the quotidian operations of the Flaming Fist order was written by the Patriars' Appointed Panel, namely its spokesperson, Qesenya Cestor. She is, in a word, scathing in her appraisal. She compares the Fist to a wormy gangplank, once useful, now creaking and bound to break apart and crumble any day. She writes: 'I have seen more moral and ethical perception in my one-year old, who excavates his nose with a crayon daily, than in this order of supposed adults.']
Estra's Insights [This Baldur's Mouth publication is a compilation of celebrity reporter Estra Stir's most famous interviews with notable individuals. It leads off with the interview that made Estra's career, a wide-ranging discussion with Ulder Ravengard conducted upon his ascension to the title of Grand Duke, containing the famous quote, 'Baldur's Gate is no Waterdeep, it's a hard-boiled city full of tough customers, and when it hits you, you only gain its respect by hitting it back even harder.']
Enver... Is your blood sweet? Gortash... what a specimen. I wonder about you... The wizard Irenicus managed to adopt the Slayer by imbibing the Divine Essence of a God's child, tricking Bhaal into thinking the wizard was one of his own. If I managed to imbibe the blood of this Enver Gortash, could Lord Bane be tricked into descending his powers onto me? To think I am Chosen? I shall tell Lord Gortash who I am: that soon I shall command an army in Menzoberranzan and be an eligible daughter of its most powerful House. I shall write a proposal, offering alliance... in exchange for a consistent supply of Baneite blood.
Enhanced' Weapons - Sales Ledger [This ledger records acquisitions and sales in Gortash's infernal weapons trade - infernal iron acquired from diabolic sources, use thereof in forging 'enhanced' arms and armour, and sales and distribution through Gortash's network and to other wholesalers such as the Zhentarim and the Knights of the Shield. The final entry is as follows.] Note for Lord Gortash - The Knights organisation appears to be collapsing, and sales to them are in steep decline. However, this is more than made up for by shipments to our new contacts in Amn, and the Athkatla receipts next month should make everyone happy. - Peartree
Encyclopaedia Apotheca, by Sandre Toliar [One particular page's corner in this curative tome is more dog-eared than the rest.] ARCANE PARALYSIS COMMON SOURCES - Suckling on fizztree blossom - Deep monastic meditation - Curious meenlocks - Misc. poisons (Karabasan's Gift, chuul extract, etc.) - Incurious meenlocks CURATIVE SOLUTIONS - Healing abjurations (Lesser Restoration, etc.) - Restorative elixers (general antidotes, remedial potions, etc.)
Enchanted Me [This book describes an elderly spellcaster's years learning the art of Enchantment.] Cold and frigid was the day I learned that to fail in charming a better wizard was the most dangerous game of all. I first met Cavalieryn Draithwaite at a Calishite barroom. The game was a complicated play of cards I hadn't mastered, but being young, foolhardy, and over-confident in my abilities as a student wizard, I thought I'd use my (minimal) talent with enchantment to gain the upper hand. Quietly did I seek to charm the feeble old woman to my left - she appeared to me a parochial sort and unlikely to put up much resistance to my trick. I'd been blown against the barroom's back wall, then up to the ceiling, and back down again before I realised this 'feeble' woman was none other than Cavalieryn Draithwaite, master of charms, author of the very textbook from which I learnt the enchantment I attempted to use against her. After she gave me a good thrashing for my audacity, we became lifelong friends.
Employee Pay Log [The pay slips of all the employees of the Post-House. Dringo's pay is marked 'docked two copper pieces at Mar'hyah's request'.]
Emboldening the Craven Heart [A self-help volume, claiming to be able to help the timid and weak-spirited find their inner strength.] Not everyone needs to be a hero, but all hearts need courage just as all stomachs need food. But what if you find yourself denied your measure? What if fear and doubt grips you all-too-easily? You must stand fast and face your fears resolutely. Do not flee, or take desperate, futile action. Present your best self to the world, and soon your heart shall believe in it also.
Elminster by Cherish Holdomen [This text doesn't approach the wizard Elminster with the near-fanatical affection many scholars lay at the feet of his legend. It seems to condemn mealy-mouthed assertions of Elminster's greatness. Take this passage from Chapter Six:] I spoke to a serving girl at a roadside tavern in the boonies of the Sword Coast. I told her I was researching Elminster. Who was Elminster? Well, he was this astonishing figure in the arcane community. He'd shed the blood of the world's most cunning villains like Manshoon of the Zhentarim, shared his bed with a Goddess, and inspired hundreds of magic-wielders to explore themselves, their craft, widen the scope of their ambitions. She nodded politely. I pressed her. Had she truly not heard of Elminster? 'Miss,' she said. 'Aside from random drinkers in here, I know eight people. Nine including my dog, Binky. Those were nice little stories you told, but what has this Elminster to do with the price of butter?'
Elder's Journal The clan's gone soft. Maybe even me. No way around it. I spent ten tides of the Darklake with my head bowed to the Exile. I spent twenty tides with pick and shovel in hand, mining for steel in Dunspeirrin. And for seven tides, I stood motionless between the block-stones till the thuldors released me. I was forged in Laduguer's fires - I learned to toil without complaint, to expect no reward without effort. Laduguer is the taskmaster. We are His workers. This is our way. Fifty wet-seasons have passed since the thuldors refused to admit me. For forty of them, Thrinn would have lifted mountains herself if Laduguer willed it. Now, she canes slaves at the behest of this drow and his so-called Absolute. Magmar will drown in that ale of his, if the night-terrors don't claim him first. And me? I'll toil for the Exile. But till I see a mountain of coin, I won't lift a damned finger for Thrinn OR that shit-grinned Nere she's been fawning over.
Elder Brain Domination Confidential: Dictated to Scribe Yanthus by General Kethric Young Gortash's plan to enslave an illithid elder brain and make it our marionette under control of the Crown of Karsus has proceeded almost without flaw, barring the slight delay while our Bhaalist allies sorted out their leadership conflict. The weak point must surely be the sharing of the Netherstones - it was necessary to secure my engagement and that of the murder cult, but eventually it's certain to fracture our fragile alliance. Clearly, all three Netherstones must be controlled by a single leader - me, by preference - but not until after all the stakeholders have made their essential contribution. Gortash fears that, energised by the dark energies of the Crown, the brain we now call the Absolute will eventually metamorphose into something new and more difficult to control. If he's right, the need to invest the power of the Netherstones in a single wielder is urgent. Even more so in that Enver Gortash, at least, must be thinking the same way.
Eilistraee: Lady Silverhair [Sparing no detail, no matter how innocuous, this tale grants the reader comprehensive insight into the life, death, and rebirth of the child of Llolth and Corellon Larethian, the Goddess Eilistraee. One section runs thusly:] An important note; immortals like Eilistraee view relationships differently than we do. The gaze is cold, abstracted even in the most passionate and vivacious of Gods such as she. Think of Tellemun's Theatre of Distance. The viewer is somehow allowed space from the action of the play while still being immersed in the experience. That is how deities think. That is how they view everything, in an auditorium of icy-long infinity, in the nosebleed seats. No wonder Eillistraee smiled and wept with equal fierceness when she defeated her mother.
Efficacious Brain Removal [An excerpt from A Practical Introduction to Myrkulite Operative Necromancy. A note has been scrawled at the top of the pages 'Make full use of the Motivator should the Gondian artificers prove unwilling.'] Step One: Orbital trepanation of the cranium can be completed using the provided trephine or drill. Ensure the surgical tool does not pierce the somatosensory cortex...
Easy Furnitures DIY [A practical guide to furniture building.] The False Bottomed Chest Now, this false bottom ain't an illusory glamour, but a sure-fire way of stopping your most precious belongings becoming someone else's. Prying kids, snooping houseguests or even overzealous City Watchmen will all be stumped by this simple trick. 1. Construct chest (see Buildin' Bits Vol 2 for more instructions) 2. Cut some wood to the dimensions of your chest's internal base (make sure to match the grain and hue!) 3. Nail in some wine corks to the original base 4. Punch a wee hole in the new bottom 5. Drop the new bottom into the chest 6. If you need to move the false bottom, use a long, bent nail to lift it out and peruse the goodies as you please
Dwarven Taxonomy [This species taxonomy by Reginald 'Cultural Eavesdropper' Wily gives a fully and complete categorisation of dwarves, from the gust-wrinkled pale arctic dwarves, to the tanned Great-Riften gold dwarves, to the once-enslaved duergar, to the tall and gregarious shield dwarves, to the Underdark-dwelling Urdunnir, to the brilliantly adaptive and culturally rich wild dwarves living in the jungles of Chult.]
Dusty Prayerbook [A Lathanderian prayerbook - the dust on its cover seems to catch every errant beam of sunlight.] Lo, Morninglord! Hear us cry! Let us too be wardens of creation - let us bless your world with child. Light our wandering way. Consecrate our union, Morninglord, we pray, bless our bond with the life you would have us bring. Light our wandering way. [The rest of the prayers follow a very similar tact.]
Dusty Book Praise be to the Lady of Loss. She has, through Sister Ansar, taught Brother Silouv the true nature of our lives - that they are loss and nothing but loss. Through that sorrowful lesson, he has turned from his fame and following, and come to us, into the Lady's loving embrace. But he has not left everything behind - the man once known as Silouv Yali brings with him his miracles of metallurgy. This dark alloy, adamantine, will let us spread the Dark Lady's will with new fervour.
Dufay's Diary Diary of Antwun Dufay, Chamberlain of Cazador's Palace [The final page of the diary reads] I know enough about what the master has in mind with his ritual that I refuse to be the stand-in for that missing brat Astarion. Even if Cazador finds my body, the potion Bonecloak's sold me is promised to provide a convincing illusion of death - especially since I'll leave behind a lookalike potion of acid poison. My one regret is dear Lurianna - but I simply cannot trust her with the secret of my one chance of escape. When the potion wears off, Cazador will have Ascended and will have need of my services - or he will be no more, and mastery of the place will fall to me.
Druids' Ledger ['SUPPLY LOG' is scrawled and underlined on the inside cover. The dirt-stained pages that follow track the storage and use of food and medical supplies. A flurry of entries near the end suggest that the reserves are nearly depleted.]
Druid Notebook [This is an ancient notebook, whose ink is faded and pages are starting to crumble. It's not easy, but some words can still be made out.] Ketheric is finished, but it cost us the land. Darkness has fallen, corruption is everywhere. [...] ...chased by shadows, picking us off, druids and Harpers alike. ...our wounded were safe, I returned, searching for survivors... ...lost, but I found his shade. I put it to rest and took his glaive... ...blade infused with shadow. I have locked it away, to serve as a reminder that even victory can taste bitter.
Downfall of the Iron Throne [A top corner is folded down on one of the final pages] ... and with the downfall of Sarevok, the city Mages' Council was asked to make a memorable example of the Iron Throne, whose criminal headquarters squatted like a dire toad in the centre of Baldur's Gate, looming over the disgusted citizenry its thugs had so recently preyed upon. The Council, hastily convened, decided upon a dramatic demonstration of the city's rejection of the Iron Throne, and seventeen of their number joined their magical powers in a 48-hour ritual that concluded by levitating the Iron Throne building from its foundations, conveying it across the docks and out over the deepest channel of Grey Harbour, where it was plunged beneath the waves and fog to be seen no more. And in this way the most prominent symbol of the bloody reign of Sarevok Anchev was obliterated.
Donation Record [The Flaming Fist, tasked by the city's Parliament with oversight of the gathering and distribution of donations to the refugees in Rivington, responded with what appears to be a half-hearted attempt to list donations and donors. The list, much amended, possibly to conceal peculation by the Fists, includes the following entries.] - Alan Alyth, nine (9) worn blankets of indifferent cleanliness - Lord Whitburn, twenty-three (23) male shoes, mid-size, suitable for urban wear only - Entharl Danthelon, three (3) sets of worn travel cookware and utensils - Figaro Pennygood, six (6) muslin pillows stuffed with human/humanoid hair - Arfur Gregorio, twenty-one (21) stuffed toy bears, unusually weighty - Nansi Gretta, sixteen (16) books, all copies of Lord Gortash's memoirs - Astele Sharpe, three jars of preserved fish, six canisters of dried beans, small crate of rothé jerky, first aid supplies, blankets, cookware - this is a jumble, I'm not sorting through all this!
Don't Swallow the Specimen [In his third work Don't Swallow the Specimen Even If You Have Just Had An Overspiced Curry And It Looks Like It Might Help, Professor Olimuncle Shrewsburry lays out in languid detail his experiences cataloguing the many plants and mushrooms he encountered across the mischievous twilit forests of the Feywild. He reports the fact that Weavemoss common to the Sword Coast has its origins in the Feywild, which explains its tendency to germinate near sources of magic on Toril; the properties of the Acorn Truffle when carefully inculcated into the Alchemy process (i.e. it can be used for a potion that allows the drinkers to speak to animals); and many more things besides over the stretch of... now that's simply ridiculous. Six-thousand pages?
Don't Sniff the Specimen [In his debut work Don't Sniff the Specimen, Professor Olimuncle Shrewsburry lays out in languid detail his experriences cataloguing the many plants a nd mushrooms he encountered along the highways and herreby woodlands of Faerun. He discusses the odd property of Daggerroot which grows near dungeon entrances; Bonecap which blooms near corpses; the rich and dangerous alchemical properties of Yellow Musk Creeper; and much more over... gosh, this book is over two-thousand pages long. Not including appendices.]
Don't Prod the Specimen [In his second work Don't Prod the Specimen, Professor Olimuncle Shrewsburry lays out in languid detail his experiences cataloguing the many plants and mushrooms he encountered in the weird bioluminous canverns of the Underdark. He propounds the bambozzling properties of the Timmask Spore; the luminosity of the Nightlight mushroom; the rarity of the Sussur Tree; preponderance of the charming myconid folk, who are sentient fungi; and much more for... golly gosh gumdrops, three-thousand pages, and not including appendices.]
Divine Rapture of Ilmater [The faded text and battered parchment of this Ixinan manuscript date back to 4th century DR.] And lo, he walked among us! But a for brief and brilliant moment, the Crying God wept upon our earth with the tears of a most fortunate faithful. He took the cur of Gehenna, this most defiled creature of Murder, and held it in His immutable embrace. In His most perfect knowing he walked with it into the Sea of Fallen Stars - the cur clawed and screamed and ripped and tore, but he brooked no quarter. And when the sea ran red with the blood of the Divine, the wailing and gnashing ceased. The creature was dead. No trace of His commanded faithful remained, save for a humble iron helm, which washed ashore with nary a scratch or sea-rust about it.
Dispatches Ledger [A log of dispatched passages, turned to the most recent page] Packages Sent Pigeon acquisition request - Bloomridge Park Posthouse apology missives - Nit, Frigglebottom, Carrion, Vanthampur Baldur's Mouth Gazettes - Outer City Circulation (note, chase up Estra for promised personal interview - D) Frontline war report - Duke Ravengard Component pouches - Sorcerous Sundries Refugee letters - Rector Yannis, Open Hand Temple
Disorders of the Nerves and Mind: A Treatise There came to me a woman (whom I shall henceforth call 'R'), greatly distraught at the unusual tempers of her husband (whom I shall henceforth call 'B'). Three months prior, he'd suffered night sweats, crying out from sleep that he bore the 'mark of chaos'. Two months prior, he'd taken to calling himself by the name 'Sarevok'. One month ago, he'd speak of little else but 'the throne for which he is destined'. I attended to B at the couple's farmhouse. He sat calmly at the table, an unknown book clutched to his chest. I detected no curse nor loathsome spirit upon him, nor the presence of magic. Yet upon shining the light of candleflame upon him, he raised the book high and exclaimed, 'The deaths they bring shall awaken the father, and through them he will rise!' I snatched the book from his hand and flung it into the hearth, where it burned not in red or yellow flame, but pure black. It left but a single scrap, reading: 'He foresaw his coming death, and seeded his essence across the land.' B shivered and sighed, as if waking from nightmare. He had no memory of the book, nor the words he had spoken. Diagnosis: Unspecified Neurotic Enthrallment Treatment: Herbal tincture of garlic and drace, sipped thrice daily until exhaustion lifts.
Disintegrating Journal [The brittle pages of this book have been rendered illegible with age, save for the occasional name written in crimson ink. A newer, sturdier page has been inserted behind the front cover. It reads:] Found in the riverside structure to the south. Sheds no light on the purpose of that grim place, but confirms what we already know - it is very old. All else is speculation.
Diseases of the Blood [This is a journal handwritten by a vampire known only as Lady Incognita in which she describes two different blood diseases that, if contracted by ingestion of infected blood, might inconvenience a vampire with a brief illness. The bulk of the text is descriptions of symptoms and diagnoses of Red Thrombosis and Thandal's Paroxysm. Lady Incognita notes that, with a vampire's superior senses, it's possible to train oneself to recognise infected prey by scent before biting them, 'Red Thrombosis by a piquant, gingery odour, and the Paroxysm by a sharp astringency.']
Discarded Journal We threw a surprise party for Ironfoot. How that idiot made it past 150 is a mystery, but it's cause for celebration either way. When he saw the fire-whiskey we'd been brewing, I swear he teared up. I'd only a cup of the stuff, but I can't feel my tongue anymore. The lunatic finished the barrel that night. I have no idea how he made it to his next shift, but Meerna claimed she needed him inside the wagon to 'guard inventory'. The Burrow Warden didn't say a word when the snores started. Layabout is lucky she's got a soft touch. I'd best get some sleep. Orders just came in for practice shovels and pickaxes for the younglings, and I've yet to harvest the Zurkhwood. Where does the time go?
Diary, 1492DR, Ffion Goldgrind [A new, mostly blank book with only a handful of diary entries.] I've not written a diary before - Dashkent said it might do wonders to settle my mind. Maybe distance is just what happens when the weans grow up, but it's still hard. My boy's never left the nest before, really, never cared to. I know he's older than most who still live with their mams, but I've never cared about that, and I don't think he has either! It's just... he acts so differently too. Secretive. Rude. Brash. Gods, I don't know about this. Maybe Dashkent was wrong - I don't feel better at all.
Diary of Ketheric Thorm, Vol 3 Melodia would understand, if she knew my aim. She too, I believe, would have turned to Myrkul under such conditions as these. Our darling will live again. What kind of man would I be if I didn't raze the world entire for her sake?
Diary of Ketheric Thorm, Vol 2 Forgetting evades me in this infinite darkness. Balthazar is my own source of the barest comfort - the thought that, perhaps, she might be brought back to me. If oblivion can fail, what defence have we against death? None except its mastery. Balthazar's words have never felt more promising.
Diary of Ketheric Thorm, Vol 1 [A journal spanning years, beginning with the birth of a child and ending with what appears to be a series of dateless tragedies.] How can she be gone? Where did she go? The Moonmaiden cannot be so unfeeling - so cruel. Not toward her most devoted servant. Not after Melodia. It makes no sense. It makes no sense. I won't survive it. That much I know. Forgetting is the only possibility. The embrace of oblivion. The reprieve of nothingness. It would not be possible for a man to survive knowing what he knows. Knowing what can be lost. Shar understands that. Hers is the only mercy I can comprehend. My mind is full of holes - yet not enough. The emptiness. The time. The nothingness. And still I remember. Still I remember it all. There is no mercy in this beating heart. There is no mercy in life at all.
Devil's Fee Observer's Report [Notes from Himberloo, a street beggar employed by the Guild as a spy, on activity at the Devil's Fee antiquities shop. The report concludes with the following.] Though the majority of my report concerns the visits of well-known patriars to Helsik's establishment, aristocrats who might be blackmailed to keep such visits secret, there was another visitation that I feel should not be overlooked. The arms dealer Gortash, along with a known Bhaalist leader, met yesterday with Helsik for a considerable period. Upon leaving the shop, I overheard Gortash to remark, 'What did I tell you? If Helsik can get us into the House of Hope, she can get us into Mephistar, too.'
Devil Don't Rhyme - A Verse Epic [This is a heroic fantasy in verse form, told in the first person by a bold poet who challenges a devil (clearly modelled on Raphael) to an improvised poetry contest to win back the soul of his lover. The following couplet has been circled in red ink.] 'If the line doesn’t scan,' the devil sneers, 'you forfeit your soul and end in tears.' / 'Ha! I’ll keep my time and make my rhyme, with vim and snap and no "down came the claw" crap.'
Derryth's Journal The following text appears if Baelen was not given the Noblestalk Dumathoin take the man! I thought when we got back to the city and were in familiar surroundings again that he'd mellow a bit and regain some focus. But no. He's as fuddled as ever, the old tarantula, and even more short-tempered about it than in the Underdark. He needs my help, and he hates that—always has. I won't take it any more. If he hits me again, he's going to find some wyvern toxin in his porridge the next morning! Worg shit, did I actually write those words? I'd better hide this. The following text appears if Baelen was given the Noblestalk I know I'm no saint, never have been, and though I've always had a sharp tongue, if you asked me I'd have told I don't have a mean bone in my body. Not really mean, anyway. But look at the sorry sack of shit I have become. I guess being married to Baelen for so long left more of a mark than I thought. Even Baelen when his fury came on him never left me more than bruised, but now I feel broken. And why, for the love of Dumathoin? Baelen is healed! He got his mind back in the Underdark, and he's his old self. And I guess that's the problem. When he was addled, I could blame our problems on his befuddlement and how angry it made him—and me. Now he's back to his old self. And his old self isn't someone I want to be around. The following text appears if Baelen died in Act One Baelen is dead, the old hook horror. He's dead and I miss him, fool that I am. He was a cranky old son of a worg who only got crankier once he started losing his wits, he hated that he needed my help, and I hated having to help him because he was resentful rather than grateful. I didn't think I'd miss him when he was gone, I told him so myself, but now there's a great big empty hole in my life that cats aren't going to fill. Damn fool, getting himself killed that way. And now what am I going to do? I'm tempted to sample some of my own merchandise to improve my mood, as it were, but that's how Baelen got started on his slide into fuddlement, so I guess I won't. I wonder if Glumbor is still alive? When I was a young hottie, him being twenty years older than me seemed important, but what's twenty years to a dwarf? Though with my luck,, he's probably as dead as Baelen.
Denying the Prying Heart [A self-help tome, boasting means of moving past inclinations towards nosiness and interfering with others.] To become involved in the lives of others is a simple fact of life, but what if you become too involved? To vicariously sup upon the joys, sadnesses and secrets of those around yourself points to a sickening emptiness in the heart. You must fill it with life and feeling of your own, even if it hurts you. Even if it poisons you. Otherwise, you will remain an empty vessel. [The book continues on at great length, suggesting treatments pioneered by the House of Grief may help, should self-improvement fail.]
Death & Divinity: A Godly Guide Death is too powerful a force for even a single god to contain. It is a duty that has been passed from hand to hand, splintered into smaller pieces - disease, war, funeral rites - but there must always be an overseer of the cycle as life falls away. For countless aeons, it was Jergal. The Lord of the End of Everything presided over mortality with his unblinking stare, until even he grew weary. Young Bhaal, Bane, and Myrkul must have thought themselves conquerors when they came for the god of death, yet he used their ambitions to free himself. Myrkul claimed primacy over death from Jergal's bargain, but even he does not rule death alone. What is murder if not the most violent of deaths, seized by Bhaal in his incessant greed? What need would there be for noble Kelemvor to judge passing souls, if one deity could hold the process entire? Even gods can die, after all. Those who worship death should remember that above all else.
Dead Druid's Journal [A handwritten journal, abandoned for some fifty years. It details a druid's attempt to learn more about the shadow curse. The entries grow shorter and more sporadic as time passes:] Made good progress through the mountains. Seeing the curse for the first time filled me with an awe and fear that was difficult to describe. No writing could have prepared me, nor any artist's rendition. As grave as the Archdruid Halsin's warnings were, they were still lacking compared to the reality. I shall make camp soon, and press on in the morning... though in truth, such terms have little meaning in this place. A dreadful night. The campfire needed thrice the wood that would normally be needed in order to keep it burning. Terrible sounds came to my ears from beyond the firelight. Rest has not restored me. If anything, I feel weaker. But I must persevere. I must trust in Silvanus. I must venture deeper. Creatures, from the darkness. Foul things. One grazed me. Only my torch saved me. Deep darkness. Flames are instantly doused. The wound stings. Flesh is turning black with corruption. The shadows are growing stronger. They are spreading. I need to return to light. The wood will not burn. I can barely see the page. I am surrounded.
De Hurst's Diary [Crisp cursive fills the pages of the diary, detailing the daily struggles of a cleric of Mystra studying the magical properties of the Underdark. The last entry dates back about ten years.] 2 Alturiak, 1481 DR Who would have thought, three years ago, that I would start a diary - not a research journal, but a real diary. I guess when every soul is more like to kill you than converse with you, talking to a book starts making sense. And who would have thought, three years ago, that I would be called back to Baldur's Gate to confer with the other clerics of Mystra, right at the apex of my studies: I have all the pieces, but I have barely started my treatise. No matter. I will take my ring with me, to show them a glimpse of the possibilities. I will leave you, my dear book, here, together with the rest of my research, waiting to be finished. I should be back before next Ches. - L.D.H.
Dawsen Kiltmaker's Confession After that gloating visit by the master of the vampires, named Cazador it seems, I believe my incarceration can end in nothing but death - or worse. As such, it behoves me to confess my sins, if only in this small notebook, to lift their burden from my soul or, if that is not granted me, to record the reasons for my atonement. As a child, I was often coldly cruel to small animals, though I kept such abuse well hidden. As a youth, I teased my younger sister Thara unmercifully about her weight and skin blemishes, which I fear contributed to her chronic melancholy upon reaching adulthood. When I took the city accountants' certification test, I feared that I lacked the skills to pass, so I cheated by buying an illicit answers sheet. [The above is followed by six more pages of similar transgressions.]
Dark Justiciar's Plea Shar, Singer of Eternal Night, Is this the glory You spoke of? I have journeyed through sheer darkness, with once-unerring faith as my guide. I have faced myself in mortal battle. I have been hunter and the hunted within your labyrinth of shadow. In these trials, I sought your favour, yet felt nothing but your contempt. I was promised the comfort of nothing. So why do I feel the torment of everything? In the final trial, I felt no triumph. The girl barely flinched as my blade pierced her flesh, yet her eyes betrayed her grief. How much torture had she endured, how many tears had she shed? What sort of man have I become, that I would inflict such torture? What sort of goddess would demand it of me? And still, only silence. And in silence, I have my answer.
Dark Justiciar's Journal [Cycle Forty] I know it is forbidden to enter the Inquisitor's chambers, but I could not help myself. Has Master Ketheric not commanded us to use every possible tool to best Shar's rivals? Besides, if Sybil meant to keep the amulet a secret, she would have hidden it better. [Cycle Forty and Two] The amulet has gifted me a power, an energy, heretofore unknown to me. I've never known such might - and such... cheer! I can barely keep myself from smiling, much to the others' chagrin. [Cy... Ff n! Ha!] I c... Ha. HAHAHA! ... hBGM ... [Cycle Forty and Five] It is done, thank the Dark Lady. Sybil ripped the amulet from my throat and cast it into the lava, having found me racked by laughter. The madness has lifted - but I do not yet know my penance. Sybil is not known to take pity on thieves.
Dark Journal 6 Nightal, 1371 DR I pay no service to the gods, but by some blessing, this village believes me and my apprentice to be simple healers. My tattoos are hidden, my red robes locked away, and my lab secured. I have not heard the word 'Thay' since we arrived and only my apprentice knows me as Ilyn Toth. This place is not ideal for my research, but I can never return home - not the way I escaped. I'd be put to death, with worse to follow. The work here is simple and allows me to continue my research at night, but progress is slow. Reanimation seems easy, but restoring life? That prize eludes me. The tome contains the magic I need, but it fights me at every step. As does my apprentice. At least my familiar has made it easy to secure bodies without raising suspicion. This will take time. Will the zulkirs find me before I can bring her back? I cannot say, but if they do come for me, they'll have to face the guardians I've raised.
Dangerous Tunes [This a popular history of magical song and singing, with an emphasis on tunes that ensorcel or entrance their listeners, such as the 'Chionthar Harpy's Siren Song' and 'Glimmergad's Stupefying Melancholy'.]
Dammon's Journal Devils take it, but it's hard to hold a pen properly after pounding with a forge hammer all day. However, I want to get this down while it's on my mind. The issue: for a Faerûnian city, Baldur's Gate is practically SWIMMING in infernal arms. Before Elturel was taken, I saw maybe two weapons of infernal iron in three years; here in the Gate, I see that many every tenday! Not that I'm complaining - as a specialist in infernal iron, it's great to have sources of the metal available. I just have to hope this isn't a harbinger of an event like what happened to Elturel!
Damaged Journal [Most of this old journal's pages are tattered, singed, or stained - though a few remain unblemished.] How much time did I waste, turning my back to the shadows to gaze at the moon? How many years seeking Selûne's silver radiance, when the darkness was always in reach? Hail Ketheric Thorm, who uttered these words strange and true: if I wished to see, I must first snuff out the light. A new path lies ahead. And it is Shar's Chosen, Ketheric, who will guide me.
Dalyria's Journal Dalyria's Private Diary Before I was Dalyria, vampire spawn slave to Cazador Szarr, I was Doctor Dalyria, Physician General to the Parliament of Baldur's Gate. Spawn or no, I'm still Doctor Dalyria, and I will not submit to this lowly status. The others say vampirism is a curse, but in my educated opinion, it's a disease, and therefore must be vulnerable to medical treatment. I believe a massive infusion of fresh, youthful blood may overwhelm the vampirism infection and enable my body to heal. There is one potential source of such blood here: Victoria, the as-yet pureblooded daughter of Leon Onufrio. Leon was a sorcerer before he was a vampiric slave, and has warned us not to prey upon Victoria as he has imbued her with a counter-curse in the event of attack - made her a necrotic booby-trap, as it were. I think Leon is bluffing.
Curfew (Confidential Orders) SECRET: BANE HIERARCHY ONLY. When Steel Watch placement in the city reaches the agreed threshold, Steel Watchers and co-opted Flaming Fists will institute the 'curfew'. Each night a different Baldur's Gate neighbourhood will be surrounded, conversion teams will be deployed, and all residents will be tadpoled by dawn. By Order of Lord Gortash
Crumbling Journal I was still a supplicant when I came face to face with him: Masked in gold, his skin fine and worn as parchment. Jergal, the death-keeper, the End of Everything. I asked what he needed of me. He asked a simple question: “What is the worth of a single mortal's life?” I knew not how to respond, and said as such. He seemed nonplussed; neither disappointed nor pleased. I fell to my knees in respect for his awesome power. This garnered no reaction. There I stayed, trembling with an emotion I could not name. And when I stood again, the Final Scribe was gone.
Crumbling File REPORT: Unknown actor influencing city politics. It has come to our attention that an individual calling themselves 'the Emperor' a suspected [REDACTED], has been exerting an undue amount of power over influential actors within the city, including members of the ducal council. Where there has been no report of nefarious intent, the unofficial and secretive nature of this individual's doings has raised the alarm amongst several sources. If this 'Emperor' really is a [REDACTED] we must take swift action to ensure [REDACTED] has not become [REDACTED].
Credo of the Rack-Stricken Lord Lord on the Rack, weep for us. For we are week, and you endure. Let your heavy tears fall And let us wince on the salts as we sup. Shoulder our pain, we beg you - As we salve others gathered near. Cry agony and we Shall gift your words to souls that need them most.
Crawler Mucus Poison Recipe My old friend Nikros paid me a visit. While I was brewing some hot chocolate (Nikros takes his with vanilla extract, which is perverse, but I'd be lying if I said him asking for extra didn't put a smile on my face), he read some of my notes. Upset by what I'd said about potions (see my other work, Drow Poison), he told me I ought to view things in a more positive light. I voiced my difficulties in doing so, given what I feel are fairly credible and germane reasons. We went back and forth, our drinks growing cold, vanilla congealing, and he revealed that, of course, he had in fact come here for a form of poison. Was it for a monster? Oh, that soured him. His mouth made an unhappy bow. No, he admitted. It was for a traitorous comrade of his. Naturally that ended the argument, and he left mumbling and hunched and sullen. Add Salts of Carrion Crawler Tentacle to any Vitriol, and presto! There shall be a Poison of very high lethality, good for killing old comrades in particular.
Counting the Conchs For the first conch on your cord, remember the salt which cleanses, nourishes and stings. For the second conch on your cord, remember the drowned. For the third conch on your cord, remember the tempests that whip her. For the fourth conch on your cord, remember the breath which fills your lungs, but that she might press out of you according to her will. For the fifth conch on your cord, remember the bounty of her body, the queen, the sea.
Corsairs of Luskan [This cultural analysis spends a good number of pages on Luskan...] Tucked like a gold filling (or some would say a pus-filled abscess) at the mouth of the River Mirar, Luskan is a city of merchant princesses, swarthy bandit princes, and the most diverse, cutthroat, and fractured cabal of pirates on Toril. Torn into factions, these piratical groups are known as 'Ships.' [Here the book details each faction with a frankly dizzying attention to detail. The one point of interest is that the Ship Kurth faction are in fact controlled by a secret mercenary company of drow.]
Control Centre Guards Now that the Titan is operational, there is no more reason to maintain Banite guards in the Control Centre - in fact, it would be needlessly dangerous. The Steel Watchers will handle guard duty in the Centre henceforth. Stay out. Black Gauntlet Rives
Confronting the False Heart [A self-help volume, purporting to help those prone to deceit and insincerity.] Let us speak plainly, dear reader. You may believe deception to be an artform - one that benefits you more than it harms you. But this is the worst lie of all - the self-deception that shall one day be your ruin. But how can you break the cycle? It can prove difficult to speak the truth when lies come so easily. Instead, perhaps do not speak at all. If you cannot be honest, then at least you can be silent.
Confiscated Book [The pages of this book have been entirely ripped out and replaced with one crudely pasted message in the common tongue.] Please note that any literature concerning the below topics is strictly prohibited. If it is found in your possession, it will be confiscated. If you are found to be reading it, you will answer to Kith'rak Therezzyn herself. Orpheus infernal metals magic of the undead.
Confidant of a Duke Perhaps because he rose from humble beginnings before becoming a Duke of Baldur's Gate, Abdel Adrian made a habit of donning a hooded cloak and roaming his city's streets incognito, observing the citizenry and 'taking the pulse of the town', as he used to put it. It was on one of these urban excursions that I first met him, at an outside table on the Elfsong's terrace, when we both summoned the same server and ended up buying each other's ales. We struck up a conversation, and upon finding that I was an adventurer, my new friend plied me with questions about my trade as a monster hunter. He soon let slip that he once followed the adventurers' trade, and thereafter we met regularly to share a mug or two and talk tales and tactics. It was some tendays before I realised my interlocutor was none other than the city's Grand Duke, by which time we were already fast friends, so I wasn't overawed at sharing a table with him. [This is followed by a rambling account of Golbraith's history with Duke Adrian, consisting primarily of a list of what stories Golbraith told the duke about himself.]
Confessions, Vol. 1, Father Lorgan [The most recent entry in this journal bears particularly heavy quill-marks and crossed-through revisions.] I pen this from the temple cellar - the only place I feel close to the Ilmater's will anymore. I pass my gaze between the crests that hide my sin apparent, and I wonder: Who are they to pass any judgement? They bark that those who arrive on our doorstep - bloodied, beaten, fleeing from heretical hordes - are dirty, unwelcome, to be shunned. That it is a crime to house them, to bring them into the city proper - but if my back must be broken so others may step to the light, so be it.
Concerning Orin the Red Little sister, whatever in the Grey Wastes are we going to do with you? Bhaal will never care that you waste your time, posing your corpse-dollies. Bhaal doesn't care whether you give him the corpse of a pauper or a king. At the end of the day, all Father wants is death in droves, death in numbers. To sap away the life of this dull world as swiftly and widely as we can. You plan, you plot, you prevaricate, and you waste his time. Bhaal doesn't need us to think. He needs us to kill. You kill beautifully, and have talents in your shapes' magics that I never will. But you do not understand Lord Bhaal. Perhaps it is a failing of your diluted blood, as a mere grandchild. I am his sole living pureblood. I will accept no challenge from you, until you show some damned respect.
Colfax's Compendium of Consecrated Creatures [An Ilmatari bookmark in this uncharmingly alliterative tome brings attention to one particular page.] The Hollyphant: A Most Mild-Mannered Mastodon 'Tis rare to find, dear reader, a creature of such benevolent countenance as the noble hollyphant. The only wrinkle with the fine beast I have found is 'pon its leathery hide! (On the topic of the wrinkled skins - other angelic forms in Mount Celestia are gigantic, so mayhaps this skin will tighten when the hollyphant engorges in celestial size? Ah, 'tis but an errant wondering.) Whilst conversing with one of their breed, Lulu, I learnt that the hollyphant averts its wants from mortal vice at all cost, and has an indefatigably buoyant and cherry view of the moral planes. I could not bring myself to quash these imaginings of our realm, and only hope we one day rise to this creature's conception of our kind.
Codicilliary Rules of Engagements for the Flaming Fist [This thick tome has been hollowed out in a perfect square, exactly the size of a common flask. For now, all you see inside the book is a few pungent-smelling stains.]
Cobbler's Ledger [Ledger of orders received and fulfilled at Flymm's cobbler shop. After a moderate listing of jobs in and out, there is a large order for 26 pairs of Flaming Fist Scout Boots, due for delivery at Wyrm's Rock at the end of the current tenday. The order has been underlined three times, with a note in the margin that reads, 'Tymora's tits, we'll never get this done in time! ...I mean, how generous.']
Client List Oloric Witmirth - melancholy heart. Paid in full and referred for Unburdening. Elvere Sunberry - craven heart. Paid in full, then backed out. Partial refund. Luddrick Cromps - jealous heart. Paid in full and referred for Unburdening. Jackrell Ironthumbs - prying heart. Paid in full. Had an adverse reaction to the Mapping of the Heart and fled. No refund. Marco Creenn (possible false name) - curious sort, not local, by accent. Black hair, pale complexion - prying heart. Paid in full with unknown gold currency and was referred for Unburdening, but fled. Note: Mother V has ordered we seek out this 'Marco Creenn' if possible; during his Mapping, she detected thoughts and memories of strange lands and unfamiliar people. Fixated on a sword - or possibly zord(?) Mother V's interest was piqued - she wants that mind. Update: The trail has gone cold. It is as if he vanished entirely. Cliona Frossly - violent heart. Paid in full and referred for Unburdening. Arves Silvermount - melancholy heart. Paid in full and referred for Unburdening.
Clasped Book (The Glitter Gala) This book has all but crumbled to dust, making it impossible to read.
Clasped Book (Moonrise Towers) [This is a log on the work of one of Balthazar's necromancers, Kressa Bonedaughter, dated two tendays ago.] After the state the fallen one was in, I never expected Kressa would be able to save it. I was hoping the usurped thing would die; that's what it would have wanted. It's not as if Kressa studying it is going to prove much - it was damaged in the attack far beyond what the mere tadpole could do. But she seems fond of the foul creature. Let her play with it. [Another entry seems to be written into this log, dated a tenday later.] I should not have, in hindsight, let Kressa keep her pet. Ever since it was shipped onto one of the nautiloids to be deployed, she has been inconsolable. 'It won't survive out there. It needs me. It isn't like the others.' The feral thing will make a fine warrior for the Absolute, and now my best assistant is distracted thinking about it. Pah. She will come to heel again soon enough.
Circus of the Last Days: Employees [A ledger containing all past and current circus employees. It's written in a dark brown ink that looks suspiciously like blood.] Akabi: Tried to trap and rob us in a demiplane. Bound him in a chamber pot until he freed us - lasted less than an hour. 110 years. Zethino: Appeared in my tent in the dead of night asking for a job. Agreed on the condition she let me sleep. She obliged. Zara the Mummy: Showed up one day selling face-paints. Said nothing. Asked nothing. Popper: Caught him pickpocketing. The little minx tried to sell me what he'd just nicked. Hired him on the spot. Fred/Paramidious (I forget which is which): 'Borrowed' from a hag. Excellent cleaners. 25 years. Boney/Stoney: Elemental Plane of Earth. Rescued them from an angry mob. Something about 'wonky lines'. No time debt - just a portion of their commissions.
Chronicles of the Gur People [The book's pages are worn and weather-beaten, but the text remains clear: hundreds, maybe thousands of entries, listing names, dates, and mighty deeds. Written in many different hands, it chronicles the history of a people as they travel across Faerûn. There is also an extensive bestiary, describing all manner of monsters and how to slay them. The descriptions are graphically detailed.]
Cheese Record Successful cheeses: - Red - White - Yellow - Sharp - Mellow Unsuccessful cheeses: - Smoked - Blue - Waxed He prefers his cheeses crumbled to little pieces.
Charred Prayer Book MY DARK GODDESS. when i lost my daughter, i learned my purpose MY DARK GODDESS when i learned my purpose, i gathered the flock when the flock was full, i punished the wicked when the wicked struggled, i struck them down my dark goddess i am yours
Chapel Records [Fine dust coats the pages of this weathered book. Beneath the bone-white powder, hundreds of short obituaries are recorded in tiny script.] Grobian Tipple, Ilmater - Drowning. Ivian Arkenson, Oghma - Internal Rot. Devryn Stoutt, Selûne - Fever.
Caution Before the Seelie [This tome recounts the experience of an unfortunate halfling forced to join the Seelie Court during an ill-fated tour of the Beastlands. It is caked with dust and grime; yellowed feathers and black fur fall from between its pages.]
Captives of Shar [A ledger bearing the names of those incarcerated in the Chamber of Loss. Some are noted to have died.] T'reshk Lir (githyanki - double guard at all times) - deceased Arnell Hallowleaf Emmeline Hallowleaf Baron Allice Bormul - deceased Unknown interloper - deceased
Canticles of the Dark Mistress Let shadow fall where the light doth creep, And silence cloak the din. Let blackness into lost hearts seep, And bid our Lady in. Behold! Shar, who shades our path. Behold! Shar, from Ao born. Behold! Shar, the primal dark. Our Goddess of Night, behold!
Calishem Awaits [A gauntlet with a staring eye is carefully drawn at the top of the page.] I came to this city to find others like me who'd fallen prey to a hag's wicked ways - and all I've met are scowls and slammed doors. I sought to make this house my base, but alas, my neighbours have banded together and made their intentions clear. One even accused me of trying to lure a hag here. I've decided to leave and try my hand in Calishem - I've heard stories of a group who not only defeated a hag, but trapped her in a salt shaker. Likely the ravings of a money-hungry bard, but it's still a lead worth following up on. I pray I can one day return to Baldur's Gate, and rid this city of evil's hold - but that is likely far, far in the future.
Burnt Journal [Most of this book's pages have been carefully burned away. Those that remain contain a single sentence, rewritten in varying states of agitation.] In Her form I find ecstasy. The spell is not enough.
Broom and Bucket [A collection of anecdotes about kobolds in Baldur's Gate. It seems a tribe of the industrious little scaly creatures were employed by the city to take care of sanitation. In essence, they were sewer workers, drain wardens, and waste-disposers. However, in recent times the city has been perplexed and thoroughly nose-wrinkled by the seeming departure of the kobolds. When asked about their disappearance, one citizen said, 'Yeah, right. Hope they turn up. Meantime, who's gonna broom up my piss and bucket my shit?']
Born to be Wild [This unlicensed, and certainly libellous pamphlet describes its contents.] 'In this magical adventure, the one and only Elminster explains the inaccuracies to Volo of his accounts of the mating rituals of the feywild. With very graphic demonstrations.'
Book of Poetry [A book of handwritten poems, the ink almost completely faded but for a few enduring words.] I hold my breath for the sun to fall, For in the hot collapse of day, I'm brought to you. While Reithwin sleeps, the world entire is ours, The grass - our bed, the dew - our silver candles, The moon and stars our private canopy, And you the brightest of them all, My light, my heart, my world. I would watch the stars with you to the end of time - But night forever arches into day, And the sleepy nothing of the sunlit hours will mutter on. So instead I shall find eternity in a moment, And by the glance of moonbeams in your eyes will I be brought to rest As rest should be - enduring, still, Longing for naught but itself.
Book of Final Breath [Dense rows of scrawled text. The few legible entries seem to detail the names and final words of numerous individuals.] 'Come see this! It's mov-' -Maj Pinner, laboratory explosion 'Hm?' -Hroth Kress, waylaid in a Neverwinter alley 'You're blocking my light.' -Dhana Ree, Waterdhavian featherlung
Book of Dead Gods [The names of dead gods - most of them unfamiliar and unpronounceable - fill the pages of this ancient tome. Several entries on the last page have been stricken through, the final three thoroughly enough to be completely illegible.]
Book Draft - Volume IV ['Shadow's Kiss' is written in bold on the front. Pages of crossed out lines have notes in the margin reading 'finale!', 'more exciting!'. The final entry reads:] 'Get out of here.' Roa whispers, clutching his side. Blood pours from his fingers, a final gift from Ketheric's blade. 'I'm not leaving you,' Selene sobs, blue eyes filling with tears. Roa cups her face. 'I won't make it out in time. But you can.' Selene presses her forehead against his. Her ebony hair falls forward, forming a curtain that envelops them both. Roa closes his eyes, a smile lifting his lips as her scent, wild roses, washes over him. 'That grappling hook. You still have it?' He asks. 'Of course. Why do you -' With the last of his strength, Roa pushes her from the balcony. He watches her fall, watches her pull the hook from her pack and expertly throw it, swinging gracefully to the ground. A mighty crack splits the floor beneath him as the tower crumbles. He smiles contentedly. Selene was safe. That's all that mattered. Epilogue: 'Selfish bastard.' Selene says, kicking the base of the grave. Balsin places a comforting hand on her shoulder. 'He was the greatest of us all,' Balsin says, a towering behemoth of a druid, although not as tall as Roa. 'We will forever honour him, for he single-handedly broke Shar's hold on the land, and helped -' [A different hand appears beneath the final entry.] Roan, you had one job. This is not a historical record of what occurred, it is poorly written romance with no basis in fact. And if I ever see the name 'Balsin' again, I will personally feed you to Ormn. Halsin