by Elion Miradove, Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
If you’ve opened this book expecting a dry academic treatise full of standardized measurements, emotionless diagrams, and polite footnotes… well, I congratulate you on your optimism. You’re in the wrong book, of course—but I do admire the effort.
What you now hold is not a textbook. It is not a manifesto (unless someone tries to ban it, in which case I reserve the right to call it a manifesto retroactively). No—this is something far more dangerous.
It is a collection.
A collection of thoughts, observations, stories, and entirely accurate exaggerations compiled over my time wandering between city gates, forest groves, and the various places the races insist on calling taverns. Within these pages you’ll find meditations on Elven romance, critiques of Human rituals that involve throwing perfectly good treasure on the ground, respectful confusion over the architectural choices of Edana, and just enough commentary on necromancy to ensure that someone, somewhere, is watching me very closely.
You'll also encounter the following:
A complete ranking of staircases in Arandor, based on their poetic potential and likelihood of tripping you in front of someone important.
A deeply serious investigation into whether birds are spies.
Observations on how Dwarves name things (spoiler: everything ends in stone, or sounds like it wants to).
A short guide on how to eavesdrop respectfully.
An essay on why crypt entrances should stop being so mysterious and start using better signage.
A brief poem dedicated to the Elven tendency to quietly judge you from beneath a willow tree.
Notes on fashion diplomacy and the political power of a really good cloak flourish.
Some chapters will contain truth. Others will contain insight. Many will contain herbs I picked for metaphorical flavoring and forgot to remove. But all of them—each and every page—are offered with the same sincerity:
To understand the world, and to laugh just enough to live in it.
The Elves of Arandor live long lives. But we do not, contrary to popular belief, live detached lives. We see. We remember. We observe, even when the rest of the world is content not to notice.
This book is my noticing.
Should you disagree with any part of it—wonderful! That means it worked. You’re thinking. You’re questioning. You’re reacting. Ideally with good posture and a sense of style, but I won’t be picky.
Now then, traveler, reader, scholar, or very patient cousin who received this book as a gift:
Let us begin.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Tireless Chronicler of Curious Civilizations
Almost Crowned “Most Likely to Cause Trouble at Court”
Once Banned from the Tilverton Garden Show for “excessive metaphors”
Slightly Taller When Standing on His Own Opinions
From Grove to Gatehouse: A Poet-Sage’s Field Notes on the Sensible, the Silly, and the Sacred
From Grove to Gatehouse: A Poet-Sage’s Field Notes on the Sensible, the Silly, and the Sacred
Last edited by Rafe on Sat Jun 14, 2025 2:13 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Elion Miradove’s “So You’ve Spotted an Orc” – A Field Guide for the Cautiously Curious
By Elion Miradove, Poet-Sage, Reluctant Diplomat, Once Mistaken for a Decorative Urn
Foreword:
If you are reading this, you are either:
Preparing for contact with an Orcish clan,
Already in contact and regretting your life choices,
Me. Rereading my own work because it’s that good
Fear not, dear reader. The Orcs are not monsters—they are people. Extremely large, heavily armed, and prone to solving disputes with creative decapitation... but people all the same. And like all people, they’re as varied as they are loud.
Burz’kal – The Volcano’s Chosen
Known for: Lava-scarred warriors, ash-gray skin, and the unnerving habit of calling magma "a warm bath."
Mood: Rumbles like thunder. Hits like it too.
Advice: If you must duel one, write your will first—preferably in verse. These warriors aren't cruel, but they don’t believe in half-measures. They're the line where fire meets discipline. Proud, blunt, and burningly devout to Gruumsh. I wouldn’t arm-wrestle one unless the prize is a continent.
Mountain Clans – Gravel for Breakfast, Stones for Supper
Known for: Massive builds, strategic minds, and a passion for terrain that's 87% vertical.
Mood: A cliff that lectures you.
Advice: Speak plainly. Flattery is wasted. These Orcs respect stone—silent, enduring, and unmovable. So if you're chatty like me, you might find their conversational tempo... tectonic.
Swamp Clans – Mud, Mosquitos, and Murder
Known for: Ambush tactics, grim humor, and the unique scent of victory (and mildew).
Mood: Slippery.
Advice: Never assume they're alone. If you see one, odds are three others are currently counting your ribs. They speak little, observe much, and have more patience than you’ll survive. Compliment their traps. Then back away slowly.
Plains Clans – Warg-Riding Nomads with Too Much Wind in Their Hair
Known for: Cavalry mastery, tattooed faces, and a deep spiritual bond with their mounts.
Mood: Majestic... with a touch of galloping chaos.
Advice: If one offers you a ride, say yes—then hold on to your dignity (or whatever’s left of your lunch). They're swift, proud, and talk in poetic riddles when the wind is right. Excellent storytellers. Terrible at staying still.
Jungle Clans – Nature’s Favorite Brawlers
Known for: Painted skin, spiritual depth, and terrifyingly silent movement.
Mood: Mysterious, like a temple whispering "Don’t touch that."
Advice: Don’t mistake their stillness for peace. They’re listening. Always. Talk with purpose and mean it. And if you're lucky enough to be invited to a feast—eat what they give you, even if it blinks.
Desert Clans – Sand, Scarves, and Searing Stares
Known for: Endurance, stubborn pride, and blades that catch the sun like judgment.
Mood: Dry. In every sense.
Advice: Respect the heat, and speak as the sand does: rarely, but with weight. These Orcs will outwalk your legs, outthink your politics, and outlast your expectations. Never ask them where the water is—they’ll show you, just not before you’ve earned it.
Final Notes from the Bard’s Saddlebag
On Gruumsh: Mention him with care. Orcs aren’t casual about their god. He’s a fire in the chest, not a name to toss around for flair.
On Hospitality: If an Orc offers you food, or worse, training—accept. You may not survive, but it’s the polite thing to do.
On Jokes: They do have a sense of humor. It just comes with tusks.
On Fighting: If an Orc offers you a duel and says “friendly,” assume you’ll need a new shirt, and possibly a ribcage.
Conclusion: Orcs are not savages. They’re just not Elves. They do not whisper in glades or compose in tree-shade—they howl, they burn, and they rise. But in their fire, there is wisdom. In their scars, stories. And in their loyalty… something to learn from.
So go forth, dear reader. May your blade stay sheathed, and your limbs remain attached.
Yours in curiosity and occasional caution,
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse,
Friend to Wargs (but not snacks),
Collector of Cautionary Tales
Foreword:
If you are reading this, you are either:
Preparing for contact with an Orcish clan,
Already in contact and regretting your life choices,
Me. Rereading my own work because it’s that good
Fear not, dear reader. The Orcs are not monsters—they are people. Extremely large, heavily armed, and prone to solving disputes with creative decapitation... but people all the same. And like all people, they’re as varied as they are loud.
Burz’kal – The Volcano’s Chosen
Known for: Lava-scarred warriors, ash-gray skin, and the unnerving habit of calling magma "a warm bath."
Mood: Rumbles like thunder. Hits like it too.
Advice: If you must duel one, write your will first—preferably in verse. These warriors aren't cruel, but they don’t believe in half-measures. They're the line where fire meets discipline. Proud, blunt, and burningly devout to Gruumsh. I wouldn’t arm-wrestle one unless the prize is a continent.
Mountain Clans – Gravel for Breakfast, Stones for Supper
Known for: Massive builds, strategic minds, and a passion for terrain that's 87% vertical.
Mood: A cliff that lectures you.
Advice: Speak plainly. Flattery is wasted. These Orcs respect stone—silent, enduring, and unmovable. So if you're chatty like me, you might find their conversational tempo... tectonic.
Swamp Clans – Mud, Mosquitos, and Murder
Known for: Ambush tactics, grim humor, and the unique scent of victory (and mildew).
Mood: Slippery.
Advice: Never assume they're alone. If you see one, odds are three others are currently counting your ribs. They speak little, observe much, and have more patience than you’ll survive. Compliment their traps. Then back away slowly.
Plains Clans – Warg-Riding Nomads with Too Much Wind in Their Hair
Known for: Cavalry mastery, tattooed faces, and a deep spiritual bond with their mounts.
Mood: Majestic... with a touch of galloping chaos.
Advice: If one offers you a ride, say yes—then hold on to your dignity (or whatever’s left of your lunch). They're swift, proud, and talk in poetic riddles when the wind is right. Excellent storytellers. Terrible at staying still.
Jungle Clans – Nature’s Favorite Brawlers
Known for: Painted skin, spiritual depth, and terrifyingly silent movement.
Mood: Mysterious, like a temple whispering "Don’t touch that."
Advice: Don’t mistake their stillness for peace. They’re listening. Always. Talk with purpose and mean it. And if you're lucky enough to be invited to a feast—eat what they give you, even if it blinks.
Desert Clans – Sand, Scarves, and Searing Stares
Known for: Endurance, stubborn pride, and blades that catch the sun like judgment.
Mood: Dry. In every sense.
Advice: Respect the heat, and speak as the sand does: rarely, but with weight. These Orcs will outwalk your legs, outthink your politics, and outlast your expectations. Never ask them where the water is—they’ll show you, just not before you’ve earned it.
Final Notes from the Bard’s Saddlebag
On Gruumsh: Mention him with care. Orcs aren’t casual about their god. He’s a fire in the chest, not a name to toss around for flair.
On Hospitality: If an Orc offers you food, or worse, training—accept. You may not survive, but it’s the polite thing to do.
On Jokes: They do have a sense of humor. It just comes with tusks.
On Fighting: If an Orc offers you a duel and says “friendly,” assume you’ll need a new shirt, and possibly a ribcage.
Conclusion: Orcs are not savages. They’re just not Elves. They do not whisper in glades or compose in tree-shade—they howl, they burn, and they rise. But in their fire, there is wisdom. In their scars, stories. And in their loyalty… something to learn from.
So go forth, dear reader. May your blade stay sheathed, and your limbs remain attached.
Yours in curiosity and occasional caution,
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse,
Friend to Wargs (but not snacks),
Collector of Cautionary Tales
Re: Elion Miradove's "So You’ve Offended an Orc" - A Guide to Running Swiftly
In the course of your adventures, dear reader, you may find yourself on the wrong end of an orcish glare—a glare that promises more than polite conversation. Perhaps you’ve insulted a tribal tradition. Perhaps you made a joke that was funnier in Elvish. Perhaps you looked too long at someone’s war paint and asked if it was decorative.
Regardless, you now face a dilemma: Apologize, fight, or flee.
This guide assumes you have wisely chosen the third.
As previously noted: if you're reading this mid-sprint, tuck it into your belt and run faster. The rest of you—settle in. Let’s save your limbs before you have to name them in a healing ward.
Chapter I: The Offense
You may not even know what you did wrong. That’s normal. Orcs, like Elves, have layers—except theirs are less poetry and more ancestral memory. The following list is not exhaustive.
You may have:
Sat on a stone that is sacred. (Unusual, but that was a bad day for me!)
Complimented their axe (but not enough).
Suggested a name for a baby. (Do not do this.)
Asked “Is Burz’kal the one with the volcano?”
If you’re lucky, you’ll be told. If you’re less lucky, you’ll be shown.
Chapter II: First Rule of Fleeing – Ditch the Cloak
Cloaks billow. Cloaks catch on brambles. Cloaks are good for poetry and terrible for evading warriors who can throw a boulder. Lose the cloak. Look less dramatic. Live longer.
Optional: Yell “I’m sorry!” as you do. Not required. May help.
Chapter III: Terrain – A Love Story
If you're going to run, run smart. Hills are good. Mud is better. Rivers are best. If you’re a Wood Elf, you should already be gone. If you're a Hill Elf, you’re probably standing your ground. If you're a Human—bless your heart—consider zig-zagging.
Avoid:
Open plains.
Large, flat ceremonial grounds.
Anywhere you previously gave a speech.
Chapter IV: Orcs Do Not Chase Forever
This is important. Orcs value purpose. They will not chase you for hours just to insult your fashion choices. Once you’re deemed harmless or not worth the effort, they will stop. That said, do not assume you’ve been forgiven just because your lungs are on fire.
Watch for:
Ceasing footfalls behind you (good).
A war horn (less good).
Laughter (ambiguous).
Chapter V: The Art of Apologizing
If you survive and feel brave: return. Speak with the Elder. Bring a gift. Make it useful, not shiny. Say nothing about “taming” or “civilizing” anyone. Do not compare their traditions to yours. And never, ever call someone from Burz’kal “a little dramatic.” That was another bad day for me.
Chapter VI: Exit Strategies
When in doubt:
Compliment the strength of their lineage.
Offer food (but do not season it yourself).
Suggest an alliance through interpretive song (you’ll get hit, but it’ll be worth it).
Then leave. Quickly, but not rudely. Walk like you have dignity. Just... very fast dignity.
Postscript: What You’ve Learned
You are small. You are loud. You have no idea what most tribes are actually like. You are not entitled to understand them—but you can choose to respect them.
Also: buy better boots.
Yours in sweaty reverence,
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse,
Honored Guest of at Least One Orc,
Patron Saint of Almost-Trampled Diplomats
Regardless, you now face a dilemma: Apologize, fight, or flee.
This guide assumes you have wisely chosen the third.
As previously noted: if you're reading this mid-sprint, tuck it into your belt and run faster. The rest of you—settle in. Let’s save your limbs before you have to name them in a healing ward.
Chapter I: The Offense
You may not even know what you did wrong. That’s normal. Orcs, like Elves, have layers—except theirs are less poetry and more ancestral memory. The following list is not exhaustive.
You may have:
Sat on a stone that is sacred. (Unusual, but that was a bad day for me!)
Complimented their axe (but not enough).
Suggested a name for a baby. (Do not do this.)
Asked “Is Burz’kal the one with the volcano?”
If you’re lucky, you’ll be told. If you’re less lucky, you’ll be shown.
Chapter II: First Rule of Fleeing – Ditch the Cloak
Cloaks billow. Cloaks catch on brambles. Cloaks are good for poetry and terrible for evading warriors who can throw a boulder. Lose the cloak. Look less dramatic. Live longer.
Optional: Yell “I’m sorry!” as you do. Not required. May help.
Chapter III: Terrain – A Love Story
If you're going to run, run smart. Hills are good. Mud is better. Rivers are best. If you’re a Wood Elf, you should already be gone. If you're a Hill Elf, you’re probably standing your ground. If you're a Human—bless your heart—consider zig-zagging.
Avoid:
Open plains.
Large, flat ceremonial grounds.
Anywhere you previously gave a speech.
Chapter IV: Orcs Do Not Chase Forever
This is important. Orcs value purpose. They will not chase you for hours just to insult your fashion choices. Once you’re deemed harmless or not worth the effort, they will stop. That said, do not assume you’ve been forgiven just because your lungs are on fire.
Watch for:
Ceasing footfalls behind you (good).
A war horn (less good).
Laughter (ambiguous).
Chapter V: The Art of Apologizing
If you survive and feel brave: return. Speak with the Elder. Bring a gift. Make it useful, not shiny. Say nothing about “taming” or “civilizing” anyone. Do not compare their traditions to yours. And never, ever call someone from Burz’kal “a little dramatic.” That was another bad day for me.
Chapter VI: Exit Strategies
When in doubt:
Compliment the strength of their lineage.
Offer food (but do not season it yourself).
Suggest an alliance through interpretive song (you’ll get hit, but it’ll be worth it).
Then leave. Quickly, but not rudely. Walk like you have dignity. Just... very fast dignity.
Postscript: What You’ve Learned
You are small. You are loud. You have no idea what most tribes are actually like. You are not entitled to understand them—but you can choose to respect them.
Also: buy better boots.
Yours in sweaty reverence,
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse,
Honored Guest of at Least One Orc,
Patron Saint of Almost-Trampled Diplomats
Elion Miradove's "Love, Grace, and Mild Exasperation" - The Guide to Elven Romance
Written, reluctantly but beautifully, by:
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Warg Whisperer (Retired)
Unlicensed Matchmaker of Moderate Success
Wood Elf Romance: Like Courtship, But With Bark in Your Hair
If you've never been tackled into a fern patch mid-confession or gifted a bouquet of stinging nettles "because they reminded me of you," then you've probably never courted a Wood Elf.
Wood Elves are cunning, clever, adaptable, and—let’s be honest—utterly feral with flair. Though time in and around Arandor has lent them polish, it’s a veneer barely thick enough to cover the moss. And thank the Valar for it. Their charm lies in their unpredictability and vibrancy.
The women are vivacious, teasing, and often delight in pulling you just out of your comfort zone. If she likes you, you’ll know because she’ll make a game out of it—probably involving climbing something or trespassing. Love, to her, is best shouted from treetops or whispered during a chase.
The men are spry, charmingly happy-go-lucky, and often seem like they’re on the verge of turning any situation into a dance or prank. If one flirts with you, expect puns, acrobatics, and spontaneous lute music. If one’s serious about you, he’ll still do all that—but also show up with something absurdly meaningful he whittled in the dead of night.
Key Tip: Let go. Laugh. Learn to duck. Wood Elf romance is a whirlwind of leaves, laughter, and loyalty. If you can handle the chaos, you may just find something wild and wonderful waiting for you in the underbrush.
Hill Elf Romance: Steel-Wrapped Sentiment
Now, if you're interested in wooing a Hill Elf, bring a hammer. Not to use, mind you—just to show you respect hard work and don’t mind if your partner can probably knock you into next week.
Hill Elves are resilient, grounded, and in this era, many have become the stalwart guardians of Arandor’s gates. While they still honor their roots as artisans and miners, make no mistake: many are seasoned warriors who’ve traded their chisels for glaives—and still know how to use both.
The women are towers in leather and steel, built with curves that could withstand a siege and patience that could outlast one. They love with the same strength they put into their craft: quietly, with absolute conviction, and often through the medium of practical gifts. If she’s sharpening your blade, reinforcing your boots, or handing you a better version of your own weapon—congratulations, she’s smitten.
The men by contrast, tend to let their actions do the talking—usually loudly, through cracked shields, cleared battlements, or hand-forged rings you had no idea they were working on. They may not compose poetry, but they’ll fortify your home, stand between you and danger, and carry you three miles out of a canyon with a broken ankle before offering a single, gruff: “You alright?”
Key Tip: Actions mean more than words. Prove yourself capable, dependable, and worthy of trust, and they’ll offer you a love as unyielding as bedrock.
High Elf Romance: Courtship as Performance Art
To court a High Elf is to walk a tightrope between admiration and inadequacy, all while being handed a goblet of wine that costs more than your home.
As descendants of Arandor’s first founders, High Elves are at their most radiant within its halls. This is their stage, their seat of power—and they thrive in it. Though not unkind, they are intimidatingly accomplished. Everything they do is with precision, from their spellwork to their cheekbones.
The women are brilliant, poised, and masterfully elusive. If she likes you, she may test your intellect with philosophical riddles, quote obscure poetry at you, or vanish for a week and expect you to deduce why. When she does speak plainly, take notes—it’s probably important.
The men are equally gifted, combining elegance with deadly competence. They rarely pursue openly but will orchestrate opportunities for you to be near them and then act surprised you showed up. If one invites you to a private lecture, ceremonial duel, or moonlit stroll among marble spires, that’s him flirting. Yes, really.
Key Tip: Don’t fake sophistication—they’ll smell it like sour wine. Be earnest, well-spoken, and curious. Prove you can keep up, and you may just win a heart sharpened like a blade.
Final Thoughts from a Poet Who Has Tried (and 'Occasionally' Succeeded)
Elven romance is not fast. It is not simple. And it is certainly not without peril. We love slowly, with great care and greater consequence. We’re born with eternity in our blood, and every bond we make carries the weight of centuries.
But oh, when it takes root—when it blooms—it is a thing of wonder.
And if you fail?
Well, you’ll have a poem written about you. Possibly sung at your expense. Possibly by me.
With wit, warmth, and absolutely no guarantees of success,
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Chronicler of Curious Courtships,
Unrepentant Eavesdropper of Love Letters,
Still Unclear on What High Elves Mean by “Subtle”
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Warg Whisperer (Retired)
Unlicensed Matchmaker of Moderate Success
Wood Elf Romance: Like Courtship, But With Bark in Your Hair
If you've never been tackled into a fern patch mid-confession or gifted a bouquet of stinging nettles "because they reminded me of you," then you've probably never courted a Wood Elf.
Wood Elves are cunning, clever, adaptable, and—let’s be honest—utterly feral with flair. Though time in and around Arandor has lent them polish, it’s a veneer barely thick enough to cover the moss. And thank the Valar for it. Their charm lies in their unpredictability and vibrancy.
The women are vivacious, teasing, and often delight in pulling you just out of your comfort zone. If she likes you, you’ll know because she’ll make a game out of it—probably involving climbing something or trespassing. Love, to her, is best shouted from treetops or whispered during a chase.
The men are spry, charmingly happy-go-lucky, and often seem like they’re on the verge of turning any situation into a dance or prank. If one flirts with you, expect puns, acrobatics, and spontaneous lute music. If one’s serious about you, he’ll still do all that—but also show up with something absurdly meaningful he whittled in the dead of night.
Key Tip: Let go. Laugh. Learn to duck. Wood Elf romance is a whirlwind of leaves, laughter, and loyalty. If you can handle the chaos, you may just find something wild and wonderful waiting for you in the underbrush.
Hill Elf Romance: Steel-Wrapped Sentiment
Now, if you're interested in wooing a Hill Elf, bring a hammer. Not to use, mind you—just to show you respect hard work and don’t mind if your partner can probably knock you into next week.
Hill Elves are resilient, grounded, and in this era, many have become the stalwart guardians of Arandor’s gates. While they still honor their roots as artisans and miners, make no mistake: many are seasoned warriors who’ve traded their chisels for glaives—and still know how to use both.
The women are towers in leather and steel, built with curves that could withstand a siege and patience that could outlast one. They love with the same strength they put into their craft: quietly, with absolute conviction, and often through the medium of practical gifts. If she’s sharpening your blade, reinforcing your boots, or handing you a better version of your own weapon—congratulations, she’s smitten.
The men by contrast, tend to let their actions do the talking—usually loudly, through cracked shields, cleared battlements, or hand-forged rings you had no idea they were working on. They may not compose poetry, but they’ll fortify your home, stand between you and danger, and carry you three miles out of a canyon with a broken ankle before offering a single, gruff: “You alright?”
Key Tip: Actions mean more than words. Prove yourself capable, dependable, and worthy of trust, and they’ll offer you a love as unyielding as bedrock.
High Elf Romance: Courtship as Performance Art
To court a High Elf is to walk a tightrope between admiration and inadequacy, all while being handed a goblet of wine that costs more than your home.
As descendants of Arandor’s first founders, High Elves are at their most radiant within its halls. This is their stage, their seat of power—and they thrive in it. Though not unkind, they are intimidatingly accomplished. Everything they do is with precision, from their spellwork to their cheekbones.
The women are brilliant, poised, and masterfully elusive. If she likes you, she may test your intellect with philosophical riddles, quote obscure poetry at you, or vanish for a week and expect you to deduce why. When she does speak plainly, take notes—it’s probably important.
The men are equally gifted, combining elegance with deadly competence. They rarely pursue openly but will orchestrate opportunities for you to be near them and then act surprised you showed up. If one invites you to a private lecture, ceremonial duel, or moonlit stroll among marble spires, that’s him flirting. Yes, really.
Key Tip: Don’t fake sophistication—they’ll smell it like sour wine. Be earnest, well-spoken, and curious. Prove you can keep up, and you may just win a heart sharpened like a blade.
Final Thoughts from a Poet Who Has Tried (and 'Occasionally' Succeeded)
Elven romance is not fast. It is not simple. And it is certainly not without peril. We love slowly, with great care and greater consequence. We’re born with eternity in our blood, and every bond we make carries the weight of centuries.
But oh, when it takes root—when it blooms—it is a thing of wonder.
And if you fail?
Well, you’ll have a poem written about you. Possibly sung at your expense. Possibly by me.
With wit, warmth, and absolutely no guarantees of success,
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Chronicler of Curious Courtships,
Unrepentant Eavesdropper of Love Letters,
Still Unclear on What High Elves Mean by “Subtle”
Elion Miradove’s "Are those Humans throwing Swords Into the Dirt?" - The Guide to the Grand Scatter
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Disbeliever in Ground-Based Negotiation,
Master of Not Picking First,
Once Asked if “Scatter” Was a Metaphor (It Wasn’t)
A Ritual of Restraint? Or Madness in Stages?
Ah yes, The Grand Scatter—a Human tradition of order disguised as chaos, or perhaps chaos masquerading as order. The process is simple:
After a battle, the victorious party takes all their gathered loot—swords, trinkets, coins, rings, assorted socks—and throws it all upon the ground in a heap.
Then, as though performing some ancient rite passed down from the gods of patience and passive-aggression, they take turns picking up items.
This continues until all the loot has been claimed and everyone either walks away satisfied—or simmering silently over the fact that someone else got new boots.
The Elven Perspective
Now, to an Elf, this raises… questions. So many questions.
Why the dirt?
Why the turn-taking?
Why pretend it’s not a competition when everyone is clearly ranking items in their heads?
We are told, solemnly, that this is a fair and honorable method of distribution. And yes, it is diplomatic—each Human waits their turn, like civil beings.
But it is also baffling.
These people often belong to the same faction, same warband, even the same family—yet they willingly engage in what can only be described as a polite form of territorial foraging. Over loot they ostensibly already own.
Strategic Insights from the Sidelines
As a frequent observer (and rare participant, once—never again), I’ve noted the following:
First Pick Is Political: The person who goes first is often chosen based on perceived merit, deed, or who is most likely to complain.
Order Matters: The second picker often tries to feign indifference while locking eyes on something shiny.
Last Picker: Often walks away with “an old spoon” and “a damaged scroll” and mutters about it for the next hour.
The Heap Itself: Items are not separated. Rings lie with fishhooks. Greatswords sit atop socks. This is somehow considered “neutral ground.”
High Elves:
Typically stand nearby with arms folded, murmuring things like,
"Fascinating. A ceremony that glorifies equitable distribution via clutter."
They sometimes suggest ledgers. They are never listened to.
Hill Elves:
Patiently watch. Comment on the structural integrity of the pile. May offer to sort things. Always ignored.
One Hill Elf once brought a table. The Humans threw the loot on the ground next to it.
Wood Elves:
Think it’s charming. Sometimes bring snacks.
One Wood Elf claimed that the ritual is actually “a metaphor for how nature distributes bounty randomly.”
No one was sure if he was joking.
Elion’s Attempt at a Cultural Analogy
Imagine this:
A grand feast is prepared. Rather than serving the food, the hosts dump the roast, bread, wine, and cutlery in the center of the hall, and then—with a flourish—invite everyone to step forward, one at a time, to pick a morsel. In silence.
That’s the Grand Scatter.
Except with more daggers.
Elion’s Honest Thoughts
It’s not cruel.
It’s not selfish.
It’s not even disorganized.
It is, in truth, quite fair.
Which makes it all the more maddening.
To Elves, value is often determined by purpose. A sword goes to the one who will wield it best. A ring to the mage whose mana will feed it. But to Humans?
“Let’s throw it in a pile and pick prettiest to ugliest.”
A ritual of balance… born from the very heart of unreason.
Closing Remarks
Carry on, you peculiar practitioners of the Grand Scatter.
May your next pick not be a fishhook wrapped in socks.
May your grace continue to lie in your willingness to pretend this isn’t strange.
And should you ever decide to fling your wealth again—I’ll be watching.
With ink in hand.
And judgment in reserve.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Observer of Oddities,
Chronicler of the Mildly Inexplicable,
Would Prefer We Just Talk About It Over Wine
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Disbeliever in Ground-Based Negotiation,
Master of Not Picking First,
Once Asked if “Scatter” Was a Metaphor (It Wasn’t)
A Ritual of Restraint? Or Madness in Stages?
Ah yes, The Grand Scatter—a Human tradition of order disguised as chaos, or perhaps chaos masquerading as order. The process is simple:
After a battle, the victorious party takes all their gathered loot—swords, trinkets, coins, rings, assorted socks—and throws it all upon the ground in a heap.
Then, as though performing some ancient rite passed down from the gods of patience and passive-aggression, they take turns picking up items.
This continues until all the loot has been claimed and everyone either walks away satisfied—or simmering silently over the fact that someone else got new boots.
The Elven Perspective
Now, to an Elf, this raises… questions. So many questions.
Why the dirt?
Why the turn-taking?
Why pretend it’s not a competition when everyone is clearly ranking items in their heads?
We are told, solemnly, that this is a fair and honorable method of distribution. And yes, it is diplomatic—each Human waits their turn, like civil beings.
But it is also baffling.
These people often belong to the same faction, same warband, even the same family—yet they willingly engage in what can only be described as a polite form of territorial foraging. Over loot they ostensibly already own.
Strategic Insights from the Sidelines
As a frequent observer (and rare participant, once—never again), I’ve noted the following:
First Pick Is Political: The person who goes first is often chosen based on perceived merit, deed, or who is most likely to complain.
Order Matters: The second picker often tries to feign indifference while locking eyes on something shiny.
Last Picker: Often walks away with “an old spoon” and “a damaged scroll” and mutters about it for the next hour.
The Heap Itself: Items are not separated. Rings lie with fishhooks. Greatswords sit atop socks. This is somehow considered “neutral ground.”
High Elves:
Typically stand nearby with arms folded, murmuring things like,
"Fascinating. A ceremony that glorifies equitable distribution via clutter."
They sometimes suggest ledgers. They are never listened to.
Hill Elves:
Patiently watch. Comment on the structural integrity of the pile. May offer to sort things. Always ignored.
One Hill Elf once brought a table. The Humans threw the loot on the ground next to it.
Wood Elves:
Think it’s charming. Sometimes bring snacks.
One Wood Elf claimed that the ritual is actually “a metaphor for how nature distributes bounty randomly.”
No one was sure if he was joking.
Elion’s Attempt at a Cultural Analogy
Imagine this:
A grand feast is prepared. Rather than serving the food, the hosts dump the roast, bread, wine, and cutlery in the center of the hall, and then—with a flourish—invite everyone to step forward, one at a time, to pick a morsel. In silence.
That’s the Grand Scatter.
Except with more daggers.
Elion’s Honest Thoughts
It’s not cruel.
It’s not selfish.
It’s not even disorganized.
It is, in truth, quite fair.
Which makes it all the more maddening.
To Elves, value is often determined by purpose. A sword goes to the one who will wield it best. A ring to the mage whose mana will feed it. But to Humans?
“Let’s throw it in a pile and pick prettiest to ugliest.”
A ritual of balance… born from the very heart of unreason.
Closing Remarks
Carry on, you peculiar practitioners of the Grand Scatter.
May your next pick not be a fishhook wrapped in socks.
May your grace continue to lie in your willingness to pretend this isn’t strange.
And should you ever decide to fling your wealth again—I’ll be watching.
With ink in hand.
And judgment in reserve.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Observer of Oddities,
Chronicler of the Mildly Inexplicable,
Would Prefer We Just Talk About It Over Wine
Elion Miradove’s Guide to Necromancy: A Most Inadvisable Primer
For the curious, the cautious, and the catastrophically confident
Necromancy. Even the word carries a sort of chilly hush, as if uttering it might summon a skeletal footman or a very disappointed ancestor.
But let us be fair. The art of communing with the dead, manipulating remnants of spirit or body, or reanimating that which should probably remain horizontal, is not strictly forbidden. In Arandor, at least, it is not illegal—provided you possess explicit permission from the Magistrate or the Queen herself. Practicing necromancy without such sanction is, and I quote from the Edicts of Harmony, a grave offense. Yes, truly. A jest built into the law. The Elders are funnier than they look.
Now, to the heart of the matter:
On Elves and the Art They’d Prefer You Didn’t
Among Elves, necromancy is generally considered distasteful, unsavory, and the sort of thing that eventually leads to conversations involving cloaks that smell like mildew. Still, some Elves do pursue it—often for well-meaning reasons. To understand the cycle of life. To commune with ancient ancestors. Or, more concerningly, to win arguments with people who are inconveniently deceased.
We understand there may be value in the study of death—but it must be handled with restraint, reverence, and ideally, not in public.
Tilverton: Bog-Born Liberties
In the boggy freeport of Tilverton, necromancy is more common—if not exactly embraced, then at least tolerated like a slightly weird uncle who insists his mushrooms are “perfectly safe.” Practitioners there often argue that necromancy isn’t soul manipulation at all, but merely a sort of divine recycling of spiritual residue and lingering mana.
Do they have any proof of this? If they do,I am no expert, and this is a mostly inadvisable guide! But they surely will cite a great many anecdotes, diagrams drawn in chalk, and more than one half-dismantled skeleton labeled “proof.”
To their credit, no one in Tilverton seems to be bursting into clouds of ash from dabbling, so… progress?
Mercadia: No, Surely Not, Absolutely Not... Probably
In Edana, the Human capital of Mercadia, no one practices necromancy. Of course not. That would be scandalous. Appalling. Uncivilized.
Which is precisely why I suspect everyone is practicing necromancy. Just very quietly. With good drapes.
After all, if Tilverton can raise a cadaver in a bog, surely the high halls of Edana can conjure a ghost or two behind velvet curtains. And as we all know, nothing says “we’re absolutely not hiding something” like dramatic public denials.
Karagard: The Dwarven Situation
Now, I have never once seen a dwarf perform necromancy. In fact, I suspect if you even uttered the phrase “animated corpse” in one of their strongholds, you'd be handed a pickaxe and sent into the mines until you “work out that heresy.”
To a Dwarf, death is part of the forge—final, proud, and deeply sacred. Digging up Grandma to ask where she put her mithril hairpin would probably get you struck from the family stone. And possibly with a stone.
Still, if one were to attempt it, I imagine Dwarven necromancy would be… tidy. Rigorously labeled. Full of contracts. The skeletons would probably unionize.
Burz’kal Orcs: Bones and Bludgeons
I’ve yet to meet an Orc from Burz’kal who practices necromancy. This may be because they are philosophically opposed to it, or it may be because any would-be necromancer was turned into a crater at the first mention of bone puppetry.
Orcish society places immense value on strength, honor, and the natural course of life. Death is a warrior’s due—glorious, final, and deeply personal. Reanimating one’s ancestors would likely be considered the worst kind of insult. I suspect any aspiring necromancer would find themselves violently re-deceased. Twice.
Still, I do not deny the possibility that one exists. Somewhere. Deep underground. Hiding. Covered in bruises. Pretending to be a “bone shaman.”
So, Should You Try It?
No.
But if you must, for scholarly purposes (or because your aunt left you a skull with instructions), do so with care. Seek sanction. Respect boundaries. Do not raise anyone who died owing someone money.
And never forget: while death may be reversible in theory, poor fashion choices are eternal. If you’re going to reanimate something, at least dress it well.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Licensed Skeptic of Necromantic Practices
Keeper of the “Probably Not a Lich” Watchlist
Once Mistaken for a Zombie and Given Tea
Author of “Ghoul With It: The Cultural Complexities of Death and Daring”
Necromancy. Even the word carries a sort of chilly hush, as if uttering it might summon a skeletal footman or a very disappointed ancestor.
But let us be fair. The art of communing with the dead, manipulating remnants of spirit or body, or reanimating that which should probably remain horizontal, is not strictly forbidden. In Arandor, at least, it is not illegal—provided you possess explicit permission from the Magistrate or the Queen herself. Practicing necromancy without such sanction is, and I quote from the Edicts of Harmony, a grave offense. Yes, truly. A jest built into the law. The Elders are funnier than they look.
Now, to the heart of the matter:
On Elves and the Art They’d Prefer You Didn’t
Among Elves, necromancy is generally considered distasteful, unsavory, and the sort of thing that eventually leads to conversations involving cloaks that smell like mildew. Still, some Elves do pursue it—often for well-meaning reasons. To understand the cycle of life. To commune with ancient ancestors. Or, more concerningly, to win arguments with people who are inconveniently deceased.
We understand there may be value in the study of death—but it must be handled with restraint, reverence, and ideally, not in public.
Tilverton: Bog-Born Liberties
In the boggy freeport of Tilverton, necromancy is more common—if not exactly embraced, then at least tolerated like a slightly weird uncle who insists his mushrooms are “perfectly safe.” Practitioners there often argue that necromancy isn’t soul manipulation at all, but merely a sort of divine recycling of spiritual residue and lingering mana.
Do they have any proof of this? If they do,I am no expert, and this is a mostly inadvisable guide! But they surely will cite a great many anecdotes, diagrams drawn in chalk, and more than one half-dismantled skeleton labeled “proof.”
To their credit, no one in Tilverton seems to be bursting into clouds of ash from dabbling, so… progress?
Mercadia: No, Surely Not, Absolutely Not... Probably
In Edana, the Human capital of Mercadia, no one practices necromancy. Of course not. That would be scandalous. Appalling. Uncivilized.
Which is precisely why I suspect everyone is practicing necromancy. Just very quietly. With good drapes.
After all, if Tilverton can raise a cadaver in a bog, surely the high halls of Edana can conjure a ghost or two behind velvet curtains. And as we all know, nothing says “we’re absolutely not hiding something” like dramatic public denials.
Karagard: The Dwarven Situation
Now, I have never once seen a dwarf perform necromancy. In fact, I suspect if you even uttered the phrase “animated corpse” in one of their strongholds, you'd be handed a pickaxe and sent into the mines until you “work out that heresy.”
To a Dwarf, death is part of the forge—final, proud, and deeply sacred. Digging up Grandma to ask where she put her mithril hairpin would probably get you struck from the family stone. And possibly with a stone.
Still, if one were to attempt it, I imagine Dwarven necromancy would be… tidy. Rigorously labeled. Full of contracts. The skeletons would probably unionize.
Burz’kal Orcs: Bones and Bludgeons
I’ve yet to meet an Orc from Burz’kal who practices necromancy. This may be because they are philosophically opposed to it, or it may be because any would-be necromancer was turned into a crater at the first mention of bone puppetry.
Orcish society places immense value on strength, honor, and the natural course of life. Death is a warrior’s due—glorious, final, and deeply personal. Reanimating one’s ancestors would likely be considered the worst kind of insult. I suspect any aspiring necromancer would find themselves violently re-deceased. Twice.
Still, I do not deny the possibility that one exists. Somewhere. Deep underground. Hiding. Covered in bruises. Pretending to be a “bone shaman.”
So, Should You Try It?
No.
But if you must, for scholarly purposes (or because your aunt left you a skull with instructions), do so with care. Seek sanction. Respect boundaries. Do not raise anyone who died owing someone money.
And never forget: while death may be reversible in theory, poor fashion choices are eternal. If you’re going to reanimate something, at least dress it well.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Licensed Skeptic of Necromantic Practices
Keeper of the “Probably Not a Lich” Watchlist
Once Mistaken for a Zombie and Given Tea
Author of “Ghoul With It: The Cultural Complexities of Death and Daring”
Last edited by Rafe on Sat Jun 14, 2025 2:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Leaf, Stone, and Grace: A Guide to Arandor’s Architectural Wonders
As Recorded (and Lightly Embellished) by Elion Miradove, Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Who Has Definitely Never Tripped on a Mossy Pathway While Waxing Poetic
Introduction: Where Elves Live, and Live Well
Ah, Arandor. Jewel of the green-blooded folk. A place where the wind sings through the trees and the buildings politely hum along. If you came here looking for marble palaces or towering citadels, I regret to inform you: you’ve overshot the Human capital by about three moral compromises.
No, in Arandor, we build with the land—not atop it. Our homes are invitations, not intrusions. Every path whispers of careful choices and every corner has at least a 40% chance of containing a foxglove.
Let us walk together—figuratively, of course—through the leaf-laced, stone-bound splendor that is Arandor.
Section I: The Homes
You’ll notice right away: no two houses are quite the same.
Some nestle into hills like secrets. Others lean modestly beside brooks, their gardens tangled with intention. Roofs? Thatched, tiled, moss-kissed. Doors? Arched, adorned, and slightly creaky in a way that makes you feel welcome. You’re not in a settlement—you’re in a symphony.
And the materials? Stone, wood, and pride. Every beam hand-carved, every stone laid like a remembered name. The green roofs? Meant to blend with the trees. The flower beds? Meant to be trees, in a few seasons.
And yes, our homes do smell faintly of lavender and cinnamon. That’s just standard construction practice here.
Section II: The Waterways
Rivers, streams, little bubbling brooks—it’s all part of the plan. You see, Elves don’t redirect water. We negotiate with it. Gently. Persuasively. Possibly with a little poetry.
These trickling blue threads wind through Arandor like veins of spirit. You’ll see bridges that don’t just cross—they compliment. Walkways that curve with the bank, never against it. Some say the streams sing. Others say the streams simply enjoy listening to me sing. We don’t argue with either opinion.
Section III: The Heart of Arandor – The Grove-Fount
Every Elven settlement has a soul, and Arandor’s is quite literally a tree in the middle of a pond surrounded by a lattice of flowering vines. It’s where prayers are offered, oaths are sworn, and several failed romantic poems have been quietly buried under moonlight.
The lantern-lit waters reflect starlight and leaf alike. You may feel compelled to kneel. You may feel compelled to weep. Or—if you’re me—you may feel compelled to loudly declare this is where you’d like your eventual statue.
Either way, show reverence. This is where the Elven presence lingers strongest. The sacred tree is not guarded by warriors. It is guarded by meaning.
Section IV: The Secret Language of Pathways
If you’re new to Arandor, you may find yourself wondering:
“Why does this path curve through a patch of ferns to reach a door I can see directly ahead?”
Because that’s the point.
Elven pathways are not about efficiency. They are about experience. Every detour is a gentle suggestion to slow down. Smell the moss. Watch a butterfly. Trip over a root and reflect on the impermanence of perfection.
The stepping stones are arranged to resemble constellations. That’s not an accident. That’s style.
Section V: A Few Practical Notes
Yes, that building is a library. Yes, it looks like a garden with a roof. That’s the point. The books breathe better that way.
No, you may not pick the wisteria unless it bows to you first.
If you hear singing with no discernible source… follow it. Or don’t. Your story ends differently either way.
Closing: Respect the Roots
Arandor does not rise above nature. It rests within it.
If you visit, walk gently. Speak softly. And if you’re lucky enough to stay awhile, you may just find that your heart begins to grow vines of its own.
Or at least learn to walk barefoot without complaining.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Once Mistook a Wisteria Trellis for a Gate and Got Stuck for 15 Minutes
Knows the Echoes of Arandor’s Walkways Better Than His Own Sense of Direction
Recommends the Bench by the Waterfall for Quiet Epiphanies and Flawless Hair Light
Who Has Definitely Never Tripped on a Mossy Pathway While Waxing Poetic
Introduction: Where Elves Live, and Live Well
Ah, Arandor. Jewel of the green-blooded folk. A place where the wind sings through the trees and the buildings politely hum along. If you came here looking for marble palaces or towering citadels, I regret to inform you: you’ve overshot the Human capital by about three moral compromises.
No, in Arandor, we build with the land—not atop it. Our homes are invitations, not intrusions. Every path whispers of careful choices and every corner has at least a 40% chance of containing a foxglove.
Let us walk together—figuratively, of course—through the leaf-laced, stone-bound splendor that is Arandor.
Section I: The Homes
You’ll notice right away: no two houses are quite the same.
Some nestle into hills like secrets. Others lean modestly beside brooks, their gardens tangled with intention. Roofs? Thatched, tiled, moss-kissed. Doors? Arched, adorned, and slightly creaky in a way that makes you feel welcome. You’re not in a settlement—you’re in a symphony.
And the materials? Stone, wood, and pride. Every beam hand-carved, every stone laid like a remembered name. The green roofs? Meant to blend with the trees. The flower beds? Meant to be trees, in a few seasons.
And yes, our homes do smell faintly of lavender and cinnamon. That’s just standard construction practice here.
Section II: The Waterways
Rivers, streams, little bubbling brooks—it’s all part of the plan. You see, Elves don’t redirect water. We negotiate with it. Gently. Persuasively. Possibly with a little poetry.
These trickling blue threads wind through Arandor like veins of spirit. You’ll see bridges that don’t just cross—they compliment. Walkways that curve with the bank, never against it. Some say the streams sing. Others say the streams simply enjoy listening to me sing. We don’t argue with either opinion.
Section III: The Heart of Arandor – The Grove-Fount
Every Elven settlement has a soul, and Arandor’s is quite literally a tree in the middle of a pond surrounded by a lattice of flowering vines. It’s where prayers are offered, oaths are sworn, and several failed romantic poems have been quietly buried under moonlight.
The lantern-lit waters reflect starlight and leaf alike. You may feel compelled to kneel. You may feel compelled to weep. Or—if you’re me—you may feel compelled to loudly declare this is where you’d like your eventual statue.
Either way, show reverence. This is where the Elven presence lingers strongest. The sacred tree is not guarded by warriors. It is guarded by meaning.
Section IV: The Secret Language of Pathways
If you’re new to Arandor, you may find yourself wondering:
“Why does this path curve through a patch of ferns to reach a door I can see directly ahead?”
Because that’s the point.
Elven pathways are not about efficiency. They are about experience. Every detour is a gentle suggestion to slow down. Smell the moss. Watch a butterfly. Trip over a root and reflect on the impermanence of perfection.
The stepping stones are arranged to resemble constellations. That’s not an accident. That’s style.
Section V: A Few Practical Notes
Yes, that building is a library. Yes, it looks like a garden with a roof. That’s the point. The books breathe better that way.
No, you may not pick the wisteria unless it bows to you first.
If you hear singing with no discernible source… follow it. Or don’t. Your story ends differently either way.
Closing: Respect the Roots
Arandor does not rise above nature. It rests within it.
If you visit, walk gently. Speak softly. And if you’re lucky enough to stay awhile, you may just find that your heart begins to grow vines of its own.
Or at least learn to walk barefoot without complaining.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Once Mistook a Wisteria Trellis for a Gate and Got Stuck for 15 Minutes
Knows the Echoes of Arandor’s Walkways Better Than His Own Sense of Direction
Recommends the Bench by the Waterfall for Quiet Epiphanies and Flawless Hair Light
Last edited by Rafe on Sat Jun 14, 2025 1:55 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Butch, or: The Merchant Who Probably Knows Too Much
There are merchants, and then there is Butch.
You’ll know him when you see him. Or, more likely, you won’t—until you’ve already bought a scabbard for a weapon you don’t own, a vial labeled only “Do Not Open Indoors,” and a map to somewhere that used to be somewhere, before tectonic intervention.
To the untrained eye, Butch appears to be a weathered man of middling years and muddled origin. To the trained eye, he appears exactly the same—only you start noticing things like the subtle way he never answers a question directly, or how he seems to know everyone’s name despite you being absolutely certain you've never introduced yourself. Twice.
He trudges across the continent like he’s trying to outpace a prophecy.
Theories abound, of course. Some say he once worked for The Consortium before he got too clever—or not clever enough. Others claim he’s a sea-witch’s son, cursed to wander until he sells a trinket to the right person at the right time (which, I admit, does sound like someone from Tilverton made it up). A few even whisper he’s not a man at all, but a forgotten god of commerce, doomed to hawk oddities to peasants for eternity as penance for inventing upcharges.
What is certain is this:
He always has what you didn’t know you needed.
He never seems short on coin.
And he remembers things you said offhand four towns ago and uses that knowledge to sell you socks (they're extremely comforable).
His accent is from everywhere and nowhere. His clothes are practical, battered, and vaguely alarming in their patchwork of styles. One gets the impression that each stitch holds a secret, and at least two were sewn by someone who is technically wanted for smuggling.
Even the Elves—who are famously difficult to impress unless you’ve just translated a lost epic or single-handedly reforested a mountain—regard him with wary fascination. We do not dislike Butch. But we do tend to stand just a little to the side of him. Not out of fear, but... let's call it tactical respect.
If you encounter him, ask him nothing. He’ll answer anyway, in the form of a proverb you won’t understand until two weeks later, when it suddenly makes perfect sense at a deeply inconvenient time.
If you buy something, pay fair. If he gives you something for free, be afraid. If he ever smiles with both teeth and sincerity, I recommend immediate flight—he’s either about to vanish into mist or invite you to something called a “reverse auction,” and no one wants that.
Whatever he is, Butch is not ordinary. He is the quiet heartbeat of mystery that still thuds beneath this continent. A relic of a world that refuses to be predictable.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Suspiciously Good at Guessing What Butch Is Selling Next
Once Traded Three Sonnets and a Muffin for a Compass That Points to Regret
Still Owes Butch a Favor (But Doesn’t Remember Agreeing To It)
You’ll know him when you see him. Or, more likely, you won’t—until you’ve already bought a scabbard for a weapon you don’t own, a vial labeled only “Do Not Open Indoors,” and a map to somewhere that used to be somewhere, before tectonic intervention.
To the untrained eye, Butch appears to be a weathered man of middling years and muddled origin. To the trained eye, he appears exactly the same—only you start noticing things like the subtle way he never answers a question directly, or how he seems to know everyone’s name despite you being absolutely certain you've never introduced yourself. Twice.
He trudges across the continent like he’s trying to outpace a prophecy.
Theories abound, of course. Some say he once worked for The Consortium before he got too clever—or not clever enough. Others claim he’s a sea-witch’s son, cursed to wander until he sells a trinket to the right person at the right time (which, I admit, does sound like someone from Tilverton made it up). A few even whisper he’s not a man at all, but a forgotten god of commerce, doomed to hawk oddities to peasants for eternity as penance for inventing upcharges.
What is certain is this:
He always has what you didn’t know you needed.
He never seems short on coin.
And he remembers things you said offhand four towns ago and uses that knowledge to sell you socks (they're extremely comforable).
His accent is from everywhere and nowhere. His clothes are practical, battered, and vaguely alarming in their patchwork of styles. One gets the impression that each stitch holds a secret, and at least two were sewn by someone who is technically wanted for smuggling.
Even the Elves—who are famously difficult to impress unless you’ve just translated a lost epic or single-handedly reforested a mountain—regard him with wary fascination. We do not dislike Butch. But we do tend to stand just a little to the side of him. Not out of fear, but... let's call it tactical respect.
If you encounter him, ask him nothing. He’ll answer anyway, in the form of a proverb you won’t understand until two weeks later, when it suddenly makes perfect sense at a deeply inconvenient time.
If you buy something, pay fair. If he gives you something for free, be afraid. If he ever smiles with both teeth and sincerity, I recommend immediate flight—he’s either about to vanish into mist or invite you to something called a “reverse auction,” and no one wants that.
Whatever he is, Butch is not ordinary. He is the quiet heartbeat of mystery that still thuds beneath this continent. A relic of a world that refuses to be predictable.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Suspiciously Good at Guessing What Butch Is Selling Next
Once Traded Three Sonnets and a Muffin for a Compass That Points to Regret
Still Owes Butch a Favor (But Doesn’t Remember Agreeing To It)
On the Noble Struggle of Tailoring for Hill Elves
(Or: Why Every Hill Elf Has Three Outfits and All of Them Have Been Mended Twice)
Let us pause, dear reader, and spare a moment of respectful silence for the most underappreciated artisans in the known world: those brave souls who attempt to tailor clothing for Hill Elves.
Now, before the menders, seamsters, and quartermasters rise in protest, let me clarify—I adore Hill Elves. I trust them with my life. I have literally trusted one with my life while fleeing a collapsing ruin once filled with traps and bitter irony. But if you ask me to take their measurements?
You will need chalk. And string. A deep understanding of philosophy.
The Hill Elf physique is a masterpiece of contradiction. Broad-shouldered, iron-backed, and somehow still flexible enough to drop into a low crouch under a collapsing tunnel—while carrying someone else. They are equal parts boulder and ballet. This makes things… complicated.
Your average High Elf gown, designed with angles, flowing lines, and ceremonial gravitas? Split at the seams.
Wood Elf leathers, agile and cunningly layered? They chafe. And then they complain—the garments, not the Hill Elves.
Hill Elves require something stronger. Something reinforced. Something that says, “Yes, I can carry a warhammer, a cooking pot, and three wounded scouts up a hill in the rain and still have room for second breakfast.”
And yet—! Despite their considerable frames and battlefield gravitas, they can be oddly vain. They want the tunic to move just right at the shoulders. They want sleeves that roll up easily without binding at the elbow. They want—heaven help me—“a bit more room in the haunches, but not so much that I look like a Dwarf.”
Dwarves, I should note, do not appreciate this comparison.
One must reinforce the knees, the chest, the back, the stitching under the arms. Pockets are a requirement, but never where you think they’d go. Also, there is always one small pouch sewn discreetly into the inside hem, and if you ask what it’s for, they will look you dead in the eye and say, “Herbs.”
It is best not to press further.
So let this chapter serve as both an observation and a heartfelt apology to every tailor who has sighed over a Hill Elf’s measurements and thought: “Surely this is for two people?”
No. It’s for one.
A glorious, hammer-swinging, forge-bent, mountain-walking one.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Unsuccessfully Measured Three Hill Elves and a Goat Before Realizing the Goat Was Easier
Once Sewed a Hill Elf’s Tunic with Reinforced Thread and Was Told “Not Bad—for a Poet”
Still Doesn’t Know What’s In the Pouch
Let us pause, dear reader, and spare a moment of respectful silence for the most underappreciated artisans in the known world: those brave souls who attempt to tailor clothing for Hill Elves.
Now, before the menders, seamsters, and quartermasters rise in protest, let me clarify—I adore Hill Elves. I trust them with my life. I have literally trusted one with my life while fleeing a collapsing ruin once filled with traps and bitter irony. But if you ask me to take their measurements?
You will need chalk. And string. A deep understanding of philosophy.
The Hill Elf physique is a masterpiece of contradiction. Broad-shouldered, iron-backed, and somehow still flexible enough to drop into a low crouch under a collapsing tunnel—while carrying someone else. They are equal parts boulder and ballet. This makes things… complicated.
Your average High Elf gown, designed with angles, flowing lines, and ceremonial gravitas? Split at the seams.
Wood Elf leathers, agile and cunningly layered? They chafe. And then they complain—the garments, not the Hill Elves.
Hill Elves require something stronger. Something reinforced. Something that says, “Yes, I can carry a warhammer, a cooking pot, and three wounded scouts up a hill in the rain and still have room for second breakfast.”
And yet—! Despite their considerable frames and battlefield gravitas, they can be oddly vain. They want the tunic to move just right at the shoulders. They want sleeves that roll up easily without binding at the elbow. They want—heaven help me—“a bit more room in the haunches, but not so much that I look like a Dwarf.”
Dwarves, I should note, do not appreciate this comparison.
One must reinforce the knees, the chest, the back, the stitching under the arms. Pockets are a requirement, but never where you think they’d go. Also, there is always one small pouch sewn discreetly into the inside hem, and if you ask what it’s for, they will look you dead in the eye and say, “Herbs.”
It is best not to press further.
So let this chapter serve as both an observation and a heartfelt apology to every tailor who has sighed over a Hill Elf’s measurements and thought: “Surely this is for two people?”
No. It’s for one.
A glorious, hammer-swinging, forge-bent, mountain-walking one.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Unsuccessfully Measured Three Hill Elves and a Goat Before Realizing the Goat Was Easier
Once Sewed a Hill Elf’s Tunic with Reinforced Thread and Was Told “Not Bad—for a Poet”
Still Doesn’t Know What’s In the Pouch
Last edited by Rafe on Sat Jun 14, 2025 2:30 pm, edited 1 time in total.
On Her Majesty, the Elder Queen Ninvere Lanreci
There are some among the younger generations—Elves who have not yet known their First Reflection—who whisper that the Elder Queen is too serene, too measured, too… distant. And I, of course, being a notorious whisperer myself, must disagree as publicly and poetically as possible.
For how else should a Queen behave? Loudly? With flourish? Wielding authority like a club or a trumpet? Hardly.
Ninvere Lanreci does not rule with pageantry. She does not parade her past, though if she did, it would outshine any mortal tapestry. She does not raise her voice, for it is not necessary. The weight of her words, like her presence, is enough to silence a hall.
But make no mistake—hers is not the silence of absence. It is the quiet of strategy. Of calculation. Of a mind honed on battlefields and council chambers alike. The kind of quiet that makes a roaring storm reconsider its volume.
I once stood in her presence, and I swear to all that is harmonious and musical, my lute went out of tune.
This is the Queen who endured the Age of Chaos—not merely as sovereign but as soldier. Who held her ground at Jyn Pal when other legends fell. Who bled, not only for her kin but for the idea that Elves, fractured though we were, could one day sing together again in harmony.
She wears her crown lightly, but not because it lacks weight. She wears it because she has borne heavier things.
I have watched her navigate courtly intrigue, inter-clan disputes, the questionably-sourced wine brought to diplomatic functions, and yes, even me. With equal grace.
It is said the Valar granted her not just longevity, but perspective. I have never asked her if that’s true. It would be rude. Besides, she would likely say something like, “Perspective is granted to all who learn to listen before they speak,” and then stare directly at me until I quietly shuffled into the nearest ficus.
Arandor is a mosaic—Hill Elves, Wood Elves, High Elves, and those who have walked beyond the pale and returned again. But Ninvere is the binding gold between the shards. We are not perfect. But under her gaze, we strive to be worthy.
If I ever do pen a song worthy of her, it will have no refrain. Only verses. For her story is not done. And may it echo, steady and unbroken, long after we who scribble poetry beneath balcony railings are dust upon the wind.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Ambassador of the Obvious
Chronicler of the Inconveniently True
Devout Believer in the Power of Good Stationery
For how else should a Queen behave? Loudly? With flourish? Wielding authority like a club or a trumpet? Hardly.
Ninvere Lanreci does not rule with pageantry. She does not parade her past, though if she did, it would outshine any mortal tapestry. She does not raise her voice, for it is not necessary. The weight of her words, like her presence, is enough to silence a hall.
But make no mistake—hers is not the silence of absence. It is the quiet of strategy. Of calculation. Of a mind honed on battlefields and council chambers alike. The kind of quiet that makes a roaring storm reconsider its volume.
I once stood in her presence, and I swear to all that is harmonious and musical, my lute went out of tune.
This is the Queen who endured the Age of Chaos—not merely as sovereign but as soldier. Who held her ground at Jyn Pal when other legends fell. Who bled, not only for her kin but for the idea that Elves, fractured though we were, could one day sing together again in harmony.
She wears her crown lightly, but not because it lacks weight. She wears it because she has borne heavier things.
I have watched her navigate courtly intrigue, inter-clan disputes, the questionably-sourced wine brought to diplomatic functions, and yes, even me. With equal grace.
It is said the Valar granted her not just longevity, but perspective. I have never asked her if that’s true. It would be rude. Besides, she would likely say something like, “Perspective is granted to all who learn to listen before they speak,” and then stare directly at me until I quietly shuffled into the nearest ficus.
Arandor is a mosaic—Hill Elves, Wood Elves, High Elves, and those who have walked beyond the pale and returned again. But Ninvere is the binding gold between the shards. We are not perfect. But under her gaze, we strive to be worthy.
If I ever do pen a song worthy of her, it will have no refrain. Only verses. For her story is not done. And may it echo, steady and unbroken, long after we who scribble poetry beneath balcony railings are dust upon the wind.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Ambassador of the Obvious
Chronicler of the Inconveniently True
Devout Believer in the Power of Good Stationery