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Dunecat
 
PostPosted: Mon, Sep 07 2015, 19:10 PM 

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Little more than an assembly of notes and observations, it is available at one library only, that of Belenoth.


Folklore of Caraigh,
accumulated from the "Black Library" and other sources,
by A.X.S.
Second Edition


I

1. Inevitable City

"The City was built of dark madness, and it stretched across the land to fill me with dread, for the path I trod would bring me to its portal. The City stones had been quarried from the night and in all their details and dressings they celebrated wickedness. No rain could wash the dust of evil from that place and no wind could drive out it’s corrupt air. Insanity had served as architect, engineer and master to the City’s masons, and had guided all their levels and plumb lines.

I turned my steps toward the far horizon, and still the City was before me. Once more I turned, and again, and yet another turning. With each freshly chosen course I drew nearer to the City gates, and its towers and walls loomed higher. The fateful gateways was the end of every road, and despair gnawed at my heart.

As I paused to seek a new escape, I saw that I was not alone on the inevitable, hideous path. Between myself and the City stood a man, his head bent and his eyes downcast, lost in some deep contemplation. As I watched, he turned towards the City. His strides were firm, but came no closer to the gate, and I watched as he passed me by, and went further from the gates until he vanished in the distant mists.

Thus was it possible to avoid the City and it’s brooding darkness, and I resolved to march, against all reason, to the City. And when I did so, the City grew no closer, but soon was lost to my sight…"

2. The Fortress of Surth

"There, the fetid swamps stretched out below it, was the fortress of whimsies and foibles. It was an unlovely thing, stained by war and victory. Its towers, higher than any palace, wounded the sky. Its gateways were gaping maws that could swallow and vomit forth whole armies. Its walls were darkened stone, veined in unnatural colours and streaked with rotted lime and mortar.

Before the fortress gates stretched a forest of death. From the walls to the near horizon was the dismal wrack of battle: corpses, the rusted swords and armour of the fallen, standards of forgotten armies, all abandoned centuries ago.

The graves of the fallen had become a rich loam, sucked upon by the trees of a dark forest. Pierced by tree roots, the dead had stirred once more, and each branch bore a skull, mildewed and pregnant with loathing, a macabre and cruel cargo. Only the ceaseless, horrendous laugher of the trapped shades disturbed the field. Their fleshless jaws clattered in the still air; the only reply the creaking of a windmill’s sails and the grinding of its stones.

For in the shadow of the castle a windmill turned, its sails moving in the still air, and their unclean breeze stirred the tattered flags of the death. Within, grindstones shuddered and groaned, while between, pinioned and crushed, were the living corpses of the fallen, ground to make a rich mortar of blood and bone, sinew and brains. Thus was the fortress maintained and strengthened, its walls held aloft and marked by the power of mortality.

Thus was the field before it was harvested."

3. Grimoire Daemonicus

"And behold, the Daemon princes comes in the full panoply of war. At his passing, the trees scream their rage to the uncaring sky, and the stones writhe with hatred. He hunts the enemies of his master, for his meat is mortal flesh and wine mortal souls.

He has been attired for battle by his Master. At his left hand moans a Daemon, bound in the shape of a sword. Its songs of blood and hatred echo forth, and fill the sky with a terrifying sound that stirs the dead and slays the living. At his right hand stands a pack of Daemons, huntsmen all, waiting for the moment to release their hounds, thirsting for blood and skulls and the taste of innocent souls.

Behind the Daemon Prince waits the legions of his Master, arrayed in fluted and gold-chased armour, brighter than the sun and darker than midnight. Each holds a shrieking sword, all of which scream in disharmony with his blade. Each joins the pandemonium, a promise worse than death for those who hear it. Above them rise the bloodied icons of their Master. Beneath the feet of the Daemons the earth itself writhes, as if seeking to escape their presence.

Behold the Daemon Prince comes and the time of woe is upon us."

4. The Drifting Castle

"The sky above grew darker than the blackest storm and a cold wind blew. There was no rain but a shower of mortar dust, yellowed leaves and tatters of flags.

No storm was in the sky, but a castle much as might be found in any mortal land. Often had I imagined clouds to be trees and fish and mountains, and now a foible of some nameless and uncaring power had given this fortress the guise of a cloud. It was an island torn from the land, drifting as the mist on a breeze, yet solid and firm. In all that I had seen, this was as strange as any of my visions.

The castle was as empty as any ruin. Like an animal stuffed and mounted under glass, or a fish salted in a barrel, it had been preserved and pickled by the whim of the Dark Gods. Cast aside, and left to wander across the heavens, all was still and desolate in that place. Its towers no longer knew the sounds of men, its halls held no lofty nobles, its gates admitted no tenantry, no sentinel stood guard, no porter waited by the gate. Even the carrion bird, sole visitors to its sad portals, had enjoyed their fill of the dwellers’ hospitality.

The shadow of the castle fell across my eyes, and I could see no more."

II

1. Centennial the Serpent

"Sometimes great-grandmother's stories turned a different shade of dark. She used to say that on stormy nights myths come alive and in the dark, wild imaginations are closer to truth than we would like to think. As children, it frightened us that our worst fears were real--it made us behave when she settled us around the hearth to remind us that what lurks in our minds also lurks outside the walls of the Mill and off the roads. When we got older, we thought she may have meant the Bugh; all the boys waited for their turn to lay the monster low and make daggers from the ivory of the tusk and tooth. I remember laughing in the daytime about how gullible we were as children, but after the sun sets the old fears she instilled in me around her hearth creep back in and I realize the joke has been on me all along. Every time I laugh and pretend I'm not afraid, the darkness laughs back at me and reminds me of the child that is still afraid, and always will be.

For a long time I was afraid to have children, that they would end up stillborn after a fey stole them from me in my womb, or a hag would trade her child for mine and I would be devoured upon the unnatural birth. It made me celibate for years beyond my blossoming, until great-grandmother passed away and I could put those horror stories to rest for a while, and pretend that was all they were. I have a child now of my own, and a husband, and have come a long way since then, but on stormy nights like this, I remember the nights huddled around the hearth with the other children, when myths came alive and I recalled one of the most haunting stories she ever told me.

It was the story of Centennial the Serpent, the Champion of Blackmoor, the forger of the Arms of Black and the Bloodfire, the executioner, and the keeper of the Mares. I don't know why it occurs to me now, after so many years of being absent from me, after so long that Nana I had made the decision to cremate her instead of burying her beside her husband like she wanted, after I thought the story might have started to unravel from it being seldom spoken of.

I shudder to think it, but I am confident... Tonight the myth has come alive."

2. The Mare-Ride

"I was asked to tell you more about what I know about the mares. They have not been a struggle for our generation--it's been decades since the last encounter. The creature itself is not a demon, but is irrevocably evil and malign. We do not believe them to be demon or undead, but to be simply an unclean spirit utilized by the demons, hags or witches to torment and harass the sleeping. They're inactive during the day, and hide near or under the bed-site of the victim until they return to sleep the next night, then the 'ride' begins again.

The mares are small, and invisible to the unaltered eye. The mares are always female, and some scholars suggest they are created by coveys of hags or covens of witches out of the spirits of small animals and beasts of burden. The dens of mares can often be discovered by looking to the trees--gnarled and twisted branches are examples of the midnight mare-ride, when no sleeping victims can be found for them to plague. The term for it when applied to a human victim is 'marelocks,' which are the knots resulting from the mare using their hair as reigns during its ride upon their chest, to cause ill dreams and nightmares.

Other symptoms are an intense fever, and jaundice, and eventually not waking up at all. Some scholars compare their nocturnal tamperings as being similar to the succubus and incubus, though there is no evidence of sexual motivations.

My personal belief is that the mares are evil spirits in the employ of night hags, given the unifying belief that the victim is 'ridden' by the assailant until dawn and suffer horrid nightmares as a result."

So sayeth the exorcist on Coast Road."

3. The Madrigal

"Gather around my children, tonight's story is about The Madrigal. She, like the Bugh, is an immortal creature which has lived within the earth for as long as time. She learned to sing from the Sirens and Harpies, and sustains herself by drinking the sound from the world. Everything is mute where The Madrigal wanders and lairs; the water makes no sound as it rushes, the hatchlings in the trees starve when their mothers and fathers cannot find them again or hear their cries, and the flowers unfurl in utter silence for the bees and animals that move without a sound, and then close up when the monster comes near. She moves by the land and in the trees, starving the deep woods of all natural signs of something being wrong. So children, if you find yourself lost in the trees and nothing makes a sound, and the daytime flowers turn their heads away in fear, turn back the way you came--close your ears to anyone calling you towards a light between the trees and bushes, or trying to call you home. Whether it sounds like mother, father, or hunting hound that ran ahead, pay it no heed, or we will never see you again." ~ Elizabeth Laney

4. The Man Who Knocks, or The Neighbour

"When I was a child, my mother warned me about The Man Who Knocks, just like her mother before her, and her mother before her still. It was many years ago when The Man came to live on Caraigh, from where we do not know. Before the Fallen Village met its fate, it was large and served many and housed many, who in their comfort within the walls, never locked their doors, and also because under the corrupted Jarl Cabain Blackmoor, could not afford such an expense. Mothers, fathers, and all children over five years slaved to serve the Jarl in his Keep and holdings, oft-times through the nights, and the young, ill, infirm and elderly were left to themselves lest their caretakers be punished dearly for breaking the law to tend to them; something which no one would be willing to do.

"Left with no choice, the parents told their children, who oft, no matter how young, were left to care for the elderly and infirm, and block the door with the big cooking pot until the morning or someone knocked to come in. Very rarely did anyone come in or out of Aigheshed and no one did ever slip through the iron grip of the Jarl and his men to do so, so there was little risk of strangers; it was assumed that no one who would come knocking would be someone the children did not know since birth. It was the way of things, and with no slats to peer out of, the cooking pot was always moved to show hospitality and let whoever in from the rain and cold and share bread and the fire, as any good man or woman ought.

"The practice was accepted and continued for months in the village until one night, a boy child of just four years, left alone with his sick infant sister and infirm nana while his parents labored through the night, heard a single knock at their door.

'Who is it?' the boy called through the door into the black night.

'Just a neighbor, my boy. Will you let me in? The night is dark, and the dark is full of terrors.'

'Is it dark and cold, neighbor? I will light a torch to guide you into my threshold.'

'It is dark and cold, though my eyes are accustomed and my flesh is always cold. Is your sister sick and your nana old?'

'She is and she is, neighbor.'

'Let me in, my boy, I could use a bite of bread and a sip of wine.'

"The boy, not knowing any else to do or having any worry of the visitor in the dark or his neighbors opened the door and he and his family were assailed upon, and not found until dawn when the mother and father returned from their long labors for the Jarl. The boy had made to write his last words before becoming lost and never found; it was a man with no face, and a face cast in shadow--an axe wielder and sleek in black with the night.

"The cook pot had been moved aside, and the wine flagon set out filled with the blood of victims; the bodies had been claimed, by the man who only knocked once.

"And so children, today, you never invite in a man, woman, or child neighbor until seeing their face, and never invite in an unknown guest, especially a man who only knocks once." ~ Josephine Gilam

5. The Origin of Witches

"Witches are born from the unlawful, unnatural and twisted carnal relations between evil creatures and good men, and good women forced into submission to such a fate of holding a cursed child. Healthy children in and out of the womb can become tainted in their blood just by exposure to a practicing witch, and then it is with them for all their lives, and all the lives within their bloodline even as it thins out over the generations. Unlawful and evil knowledge teaches the corruption, and seeps into the bloodline and bones, damning the family and bloodline for eternity for one man or woman's mistake or misfortune. The fey creatures, the hags, the succubi and incubi, all devils and all demons, and the worst of all men and mer [sic] that make pacts with these are to blame. The children that result are the plague carriers and the corruptors of the healthy legacy, and propagate the heinous bloodlines and lead all to ruin. Teaching our children to murder, and commit travesties and heresies against the gods and their fellow man; to disturb the sleeping and conjure terrors of the dark and night, and seek them upon the innocent and undeserving. The good men which are running short, and whose blood becomes dirtier by the day."

6. The Windmill, or "Why We Have A Watermill"

"Nearly one-hundred years ago, or perhaps longer--I do not remember as well as I did--when many of us were young and yet suffering under the Jarldom of Blackmoor, there existed a great windmill that creaked night and day, and day and night. It was before the fall of Aigheshed, and the creation of the Mill that we all labored there, in this Windmill to make our daily bread, and the foundation of the Black Keep which would come to be.

My grandfather did labor there, and he said one day the men of the Jarl came in returning from their hunt and brought back many carcasses of small game like rabbits and squirrels, stripped of their fur and unclean and said, 'Put these in the pit with the mortar, as your Jarl commands it.' and so he did make the mortar out of gravel and sinew, and they came out red and brown like blood, as the Jarl commanded.

It was the same the next tenday and the two next after, until there were no more small game and creatures to feed to the grindstone. And so the fourth tenday, did the men of the Jarl bring forth medium game, such as boars and forest cats, and said, 'Put these in the pits with the mortar and the bricks, as your Jarl commands it' and so he did make the mortar out of the gravel and sinew, and the foundation bricks out of blood and clay, which came out brown and red like blood.

It was this way until it included the large game, until the large game was no longer in reach, as they were cunning and fled or hid, to save their lives and offspring. It was in this time that we no longer we let to hunt, and lived off the Soup of Stones, the fish of the river as we no longer had fishermen to fish, the meek vegetables of the field as we no longer had farmers to farm, and the flat bread, as we had no yeast to make it rise. All had begun to work in this Windmill to make this Black Keep of Cabain Blackmoor.

When we had exhausted the game of the wilds, we had expected to continue to make bricks as we had made the bricks for our own home, but we did not. No longer did we receive the game of the fields which we could recognize as rabbits, boar, bear or deer, but sacks of flesh which came less often; 'as availability would permit' said the men of the Jarl, for them to bring back this flesh from the outlying islands, but it came without salt or preservation, and was always fresh.

This continued for many months, and while none would ask questions, we began to know what this was--as we baked these bricks and spread this mortar, and the fortress of Blackmoor became complete, the rounder teeth of men were found, and small personal trinkets or rings of marriage; though the Jarl Men would try to hide it: 'they are the ground teeth of a bear, and the victims of clumsiness of the workers.' Words we had no choice but to believe, out of fear and caring more for our lives than these victims who were already gone. We churned them, and diced them, and built them into walls; such a grave sin did we commit, and ever after, may we repent and serve of Eldath and her forgiving waters, to wash away the blood, and provide for us with this holy watermill."

7. The Foster Daughters or "The Unwanted"

"The Unwanted are the hag children, whose mothers are hags and the fathers are men, who are slain, after a childe - always a female - is sired.

The hag mothers cannot raise the children on their own, so they do one of two things: they steal the newborns and replace them with their own, or they assume the form of a normal woman, who is young and beautiful, and they will give away their hag infant, and as hag infant looks like any one of us, many mothers will take in the child so she does not starve and go without, or perhaps they have lost their own child, and believe this one is a gift from the gods to mend her heart and end her grief.

These are the Foster Daughters, and are left with unknowing families and mothers until they are no longer infants or toddlers. When they become children, the hag mother will come back for them in the night, and begin to transform them back into hags and steal them away into the coven, or form conveys with their favorite two daughters.

...Meanwhile, born daughters are eaten to nourish any other vile children hags have in their cursed wombs."

8. Larvae of Wand-bearer's Host

"The larvae are transferred through the bites and scratches of the demons, and they are the larvae made by the Night Hags, of the souls of her victims who become fevered and ill for too long. These larvae are destined to become demons of the Abyss, and a human host makes the growth quicker. Thereafter, the larvae mature and demons would burst from the neck, or the abdomen, or wherever the larvae were implanted.

Sudden and severe fever which lasts more than a day, sudden severe weakness following an encounter with any demonic beast, especially one where flesh was broken, or even a soul becoming a larva, are likely signs of infestation. Urgently must victim proceed to the asylum, and prepare mind and body for ritual exorcism..." ~ Father Darian

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