LOST LORE OF THE REALMS #30

Once more into the lore vaults and back out again...

How Elminster Got A Grand-Nephew

Elminster’s parents, Prince Elthryn Aumar and Amrythale Goldsheaf, were married in 210 DR, and had a daughter, Narrune (named for Amrythale’s grandmother) in early 211 DR.

When she was four months old, Narrune vanished from her cradle one night without her parents being awakened. When they did rise, come morn, they found much blood and her torn swaddlings, and the attic hay-hatch (through which rural folk forked hay to feed their horses and oxen through the worst deep-snow months) forced open. Unlikely though it was that any stealthy forest creature could slink past the village dogs, climb one of the taller cottages, and tear apart a stout wooden barred-from-within hatch, that’s what had obviously happened: Narrune had been devoured and lost.

A wolf had been raiding the village that winter, and Elthryn tirelessly hunted it all the rest of the year, until he finally slew it as the snows came again.

By then, Elthryn and Amrythale (in the way of hardy folk, in those perilous times) were done grieving. Their son Elminster was born in 212 DR, and his parents never spoke of Narrune to him, so for some centuries thereafter, El never knew he’d even had a sister—until Mystra herself informed him that “one of her servants” (she never told him who, though El has suspected for some time that it was Azuth) had spirited Narrune away scant moments before a poisoner sent by Elthryn’s brother Othglas (the person who with needle-saws so quietly forced open the hay-hatch) entered the cottage. That servant’s spells snatched the poisoner halfway across the Kingdom of the Stag, into a swamp where he perished in the jaws of watery predators.

Mystra originally intended to return Narrune “with portents and manifestations suitable to impress Elthryn that the goddess of magic desired him to obey her.” Her commandment to him would have been to withdraw from Athalantar and dwell elsewhere in hiding, until the coming strife-of-mages was over, so that the realm might endure as a place friendly to wizards, not turned against all workers-of-Art by the fell Magelords.

However, she then reconsidered: holding a royal heir of Athalantar might prove useful in refounding the kingdom. So Narrune was never returned, but instead was magically disguised to closely resemble another infant girl, and substituted for that child.

Darondblas (“DAIR-ond-blaz”) and Mareetha Sparcastle were a happy couple, and minor mages both. They dwelt in the rolling forests of what is today called the Border Kingdoms, relieved to have escaped the politics of the Vilhon (where workers-of-Art were being impressed into the service of this or that petty ruler of the time, for use in covert ‘shadow wars’ of slayings, coercion, and oppression). A daughter, Unethe (“OO-nethh”) had been born to them, but had sickened of a fever. Unethe died the very night Narrune was stolen from Athalantar, and the one babe was substituted for the other without the exhausted Sparcastles being any the wiser.

Narrune Sparcastle grew to adulthood ignorant of her true heritage. She lacked great beauty but also any touch of ugliness, and had a pleasant disposition. Like her mother, she became a good cook and seamstress, and in the fullness of time wed a local farmer, Oblyn Taetyn.

From the view of sages or enthusiasts of warfare and adventure, their life together was uneventful. They had a son, Moeblur (“Mmm-OH-blurr”) Taetyn (named for Oblyn’s father), who in time inherited their farm. Like his parents, Elminster’s nephew had no aptitude for magic.

What he did have was a restlessness. He travelled Faerun constantly as a caravan guard, peddler, or simply a vagabond wayfarer. When word came to him that his mother Narrune had died and the farm was now his, he returned to it only long enough to sell it, and set forth again.

In time he came to Iriaebor, and hired on as a cellarer there (intending to stay only long enough to fill his belly and stay warm during the winter months) in a tavern. Whilst rummaging for long-forgotten bottles in an undercellar, he found a loose stone behind which was an even deeper cellar. Being Moeblur, he had to explore it without delay—and so found a long-hidden Netherese tomb.

And its traps found him. Caught in a spell that was either Phezult’s Sleep of Ages or a close equivalent that renders its victims invisible, he simply “vanished” as far as the tavernmaster (who hadn’t known where Moeblur had gone, and himself never went down into the “flooded several times over, so everything there must be ruined” undercellar) was concerned—but in truth was frozen in stasis.

There he remained for over a thousand years, trapped at age twenty-six while the Realms aged around him.

Moeblur Taetyn was freed in 1337 DR when the spell failed (for reasons unknown—at least to him, the only witness and a man entirely ignorant of matters magical), and found the world much changed. Bewildered, coinless, and hungry, he departed the city (where even a bed to sleep in costs something) and eked out an existence not far from its walls as a hunter and then a hired shepherd (for brigands preying on road-trade were then a problem, and persons willing to tend sheep, a ready food source, all too few).

Favoured by Tymora all his life, Moeblur survived even the slings, arrows and cudgels of brigands, and in time married Araedya Welve, the daughter of his employer. They had a son, Rakrune, who joined his father in hunting and wandering. After Araedya died in a street accident (run down by a panicked cart-team of horses), father and son seldom returned to the city—and the increasing grimmer Moeblur became reckless, challenging even wolves with nothing but a dagger and a snarl. Wounded many times and seemingly seeking death, he lasted only a handful of years before he died in Rakrune’s arms, torn apart by one too many challenged beasts.

So Elminster’s great-nephew is a hardy man who calls himself “Rakrune of Iriaebor.”

Rakrune is a tall, thin, ‘battered-handsome’ (he has the hawk-like Aumar nose, but also a large chin and fierce black eyebrows) adventurer who’s been making a very good living for some years now hunting down and capturing monsters (or harvesting their ‘parts’) for clients in Elturel and Scornubel. Rakrune is strong, quick, cunning, and fearless, but he has no aptitude for magic, knows little history (and cares less), and isn’t all that shrewd in dealings with people. He doesn’t have to be: he’s a ranger who spends almost all of his time in the wilds, dealing with clients through several ‘go-between’ agents.

Merry of disposition and kindly, Rakrune makes friends easily. He’s come to lead a band of young human and half-elven adventurers of both genders who know their chosen territory well, have established several caches and ‘hideholds,’ and are good at living rough off the land, even in winter. He doesn’t know he’s related to Elminster (whom he regards as a seldom-seen friend, after Elminster and some Harpers came unexpectedly to his aid against wolves some years back), and Elminster has no intention of telling him.

So there you have it: Elminster’s great-nephew. A character who could easily star in his own novel or two. (Novels I’ll probably never have time to write, mind you, though of course it’s up to the good folks at Wizards of the Coast if anyone else gets the chance to take up Rakrune’s saga.)

Heartlands Harvest Festivals

Most places in the Heartlands celebrate harvest festivals after the harvest has been “brought in” (and processed for winter storage, so beforehand there may be as much as a tenday of threshing and milling, or pickling, or salting away in barrels, and so on). Prayers are given to Talos for refraining from not utterly wiping out crops with his furies (except in years when weather has wiped out entire crops), prayers are offered to Malar for success in hunting vermin that prey on harvested edibles, and in success in “the forewinter hunts” (wherein a concerted effort is made, in multi-day large-muster expeditions, to go out, ‘beat’ woods and swamps and wilderland caverns to ‘flush out’ wolves, owlbears, and other creatures that will become dangerous prowling predators in the coldest months), and prayers are offered most importantly to Chauntea for her bounty.

These of course culminate in a feast, usually accompanied by much drinking, and in some cases by copulation in the furrows of tilled land to ‘ensure’ fertility of the land in the growing season to come (next year).

Some hamlets and villages celebrate rites similar to ‘the Stag Lass’ celebrations published in one of my New Adventures of Volo DRAGON columns. In most places, however, any debauchery arises informally out of the feast-time drinking (though such informal 'celebrations' may occur every year).

In many communities, a local lord or local temple will roast whole beasts (oxen and large boars and stags are favourites) and prepare and serve a grand feast for the poorest folk (the aged, infirm, beggars, disabled, and ‘maze-minded’ [crazies]) in the community, for all children, and for all servants and apprentices. In other words, ‘the lowly.’ Sometimes presents are given, but (unlike those often given at other festivals of the year) these are never toys or frivolities: they are winter cloaks, boots, knives, gloves, blankets, and other ‘useful in winter’ items.

Harvests are when ‘good years’ of ales and wines and spirits are recalled, and colourful tales retold about brewers, vintners, distillers, and infamous drunkards. In rural areas, good or clever or eccentric farmers are venerated in the same way, and tales of past harvest ‘doings’ are related.

The vermin hunts, however, are usually the most socially exciting events, involving everyone from gangs of lads with rakes forcing rats out of barn lofts into the jaws of waiting and assembled dogs to most of the men of a village taking to the forest in a huge warband to slay owlbears.

Many places sacrifice animals during the prayers, and these beasts are usually eaten by the celebrants, but from place to place, everyone does it slightly differently. If lords preside over the ceremonies, blood is usually collected in a bowl and then sprinkled on the ailing, respected elders, and/or young seekers-of-adventure or hunters of whom great things are expected (or mixed into drinks they imbibe). If priests preside over the rituals, the blood is usually set afire with magic on an altar as part of a prayer to the god (in other words, it becomes an offering).

Again, parts of the animal to be devoured vary from place to place, with priests usually reserving the heart and/or the head of the animal for altar flames (offered to the god), and keeping choice cuts for themselves, then distributing the rest by strict order of social rank tempered by those they desire to show favour to (or keep/recruit the support of), such as local secular rulers or lawkeepers.

If secular folk ‘run’ the feast, body part edibles are usually distributed on the basis of gender (women get those associated with fertility), age (elders get the brain for wisdom, the very young get leg meat to give them growth . . . and so on), and profession (hunters get the eyes, and paws to aid them in tracking). As I said, the results of these various attempts at distribution are widely varied. In some places guests are very well treated; in others they are virtually excluded or ignored. The same goes for dead ancestors.

I’ve never viewed these gestures as community-splitting, roots-of-feuds affairs, but rather as subtle and more lightly taken (“No stag tongue this year? Ah, well, perhaps I’ll be given some next year”). Any community is more drawn together by the harvest home feasts than it is split apart.

And the "wouldn't fit" tags this time around are:

#Talos

#tomb

#Tymora

#Unethe Sparcastle

#vermin hunts

#Vilhon Reach (the)

#vintners

#wolves

Thank you! See you next time for more lore!