Ah alright. I'm actually in Toronto right now for summer vacation, so my internet is limited (I have to type like a madman so my dad doesn't yell at me for wasting money ) so I'll update that offline then post the edited version next time I'm on.
Concerning the phrase: Queprur took from her the elf’s freedom after death. As I said, I couldn't find anything in the entries about a perception of afterlife (other than the idea of 'hell' for the Netherworlds, but even that is pretty vague). I'm just assuming that there is some kind of afterlife, or an idea among cultures of what happens after you die (reincarnation, etc.). Of course, if this concept is still very undeveloped, I could always just leave mention of it out.
I was reading through some of the god entries, hoping to find something convincing, and decided that maybe the most obvious god was the right one. I read around on Queprur and came up with this. The only problem I'm having is finding more on the afterlife from the perspective of both the elves and humans. I could only find a little in the Queprur and Netherworld entries.
A banshee is the result of such an intense emotion of malice or lost hope at the time of death that it is said to be a perversion of the Dream itself. Humans believe that such is the act of Queprur, acting upon her bitterness of her loss of Armeros to Jayriall. It is said she takes from the elven women, the epitome of beauty among the mortal races, their freedom after death and instead cursing them to relive the defining moment of their existance repetitively. The legend of the first banshee is known as the myth of I’airn, a mistress of two human men who resolved their battle for her love by a battle to the death. Queprur took from her the elf’s freedom after death, cursing her to continue shattering the minds and hearts of the men who come before her.
The elves, on the other hand, believe that Queprur is only maintaining a balance between the cleansing of death to return to the All Mother’s creation and the keeping of these women on our own plane of existance. While the banshee is to live a tortured existance in her state, it is said that should their deeds be repaid, the spirit will finally find rest. One legend tells of a brave warrior who confronted a woeful banshee, roaming the forests where she had lost her child in life, and by laying down an offering of a live fawn released the spirit from her prison. Despite this, no elf takes the subject of a banshee lightly and unfortunate or mysterious events surrounding a death of an elven woman only lead to unrest among the tribe.
I'm rather torn on the naming issue myself. I understand the argument for finding a new name, but I am seeing it fine to change it (I'm thinking something like Wailing Mistresses).
As for the category, yes you're right. It's more of an apparation than an undead (where most think of lurching zombies that want to eat your brains ) Will change that right away.
In respects for choosing a god, I was also thinking Armeros or maybe even Etherus. Armeros because of his judgement, deciding on the elven woman's deed and that she must stay behind on this plane. Etherus because he is the god of temptation, like the hypnotic song of some "banshees", just in this case it's not (always) sexual.
The banshee is actually original to a celtic lore (I want to say Irish, but that should be double checked) about haunting women with a deadly wail. Somehow this was adopted into fantasy lore and evolved into the widely accepted banshee found today. As for the name, I would like to keep banshee at least as a common term for the ghost since it's a more or less recognizable term. As for another name... any suggestions?
Meep! Sorry for being absent for so long. I’ve been back a few weeks now, just taking my sweet time getting back to the dev board ^^;;. Hopefully this edit for the myths section should be the last
Wailwoman Bestiary – Apparitions
Overview The wailwoman, sometimes known as a wailing mistress or banshee, is a fearful and legendary figure. Being an entity that embodies such sorrow in it’s creation, when looked upon (however long, or short, that time may be) a sensation of pity and fear cannot help but be felt by the witness. A dead elven maiden is the source of a wailwoman, having died with a crime or sorrow to her name so terrible in her life that the gods themselves cursed them to an endless unrest. With a bone chilling, mind shattering cry, the wailwoman is a powerful and fearful opposition.
Appearance The appearance of the wailwoman varies from ghost to ghost, dependent on the soul that it originates from. They are wraith-like figures, with no corporeal form to call their own, and things such as walls or other obstacles do not limit them as they would a real body. Coloration outside the milky white to gray is rare for a wailwoman, though the mythical but most feared wailwoman of a shadow elf is rumored to have the appearance of an inky, cloud-like substance. A few adventurers lucky enough to return alive and sane from an encounter with a wailwoman have described them as menacingly beautiful apparitions, seeming to shimmer in and out of reality. Some have been recorded to move incredibly fast, to the point of reappearing at will in different places, and it is widely acknowledged that the undead women are not bound to the ground.
Special Abilities The most noted and terrifying aspect of the wailwoman is her wail. The ear-splitting song or cry from the undead elf maidens can cause the mind to shatter into a horrifying insanity or, if lucky, death. Some apparitions have been noted to entrance their victims with a softer song or call, sometimes masking their voice as another, to captivate the witness. It is said that this is just a less effective form of the insanity-inducing cry, for those that have fallen victim to a wailwoman’s seduction are never quite the same should they survive the encounter.
The touch of the cursed ghost is bone chillingly cold to the point of causing a kind of burn to the flesh. If the spirit is to pass through a body, it can freeze the body solid, whether by fear or shock. This is the most notable ability of the famed shadow wailwoman, the ghost of a shadow elf, who are rumored to be able to instill such a crippling fear by simply blowing on the neck of a victim that they are frozen in a state of terrified shock until imminent death.
Territory A wailwoman is said to be the spirit of an elven maiden, cursed by the gods themselves whether through great sorrow or great crime. It is the scene of this fate-sealing event that the spirit is condemned, destined to haunt the area with the intent to relive the moment over and over. Very few wailwoman locations are recorded, though many areas have their own stories and rumors, whether fueled by truth, ale or the intent of scaring children.
Behavior Condemned to relive their defining moment over and over, the behavior of the wailwoman revolves around the crime or loss that she took part in during her past life. The most common stories involve unfortunate men being drawn into the wailwoman’s lair. In some cases, as the ghost seeks revenge for the death of the elf’s lover, and in others, to recommit a murder long forgotten. The stories vary from wailwoman to wailwoman and sometimes even from telling to telling.
Myth
A wailwoman is the result of such an intense emotion of malice or lost hope at the time of death that it is said to be a perversion of the Dream itself. Humans believe that such is the act of Queprur, acting upon her bitterness of her loss of Armeros to Jayriall. It is said she takes from the elven women, the epitome of beauty among the mortal races, their freedom after death and instead cursing them to relive the defining moment of their existence repetitively. The legend of the first wailwoman is known as the myth of I’airn, a mistress of two human men who resolved their battle for her love by a battle to the death. Queprur took from her the elf’s right to pass into the afterworld, cursing her to continue shattering the minds and hearts of the men who come before her.
The elves, on the other hand, believe that Queprur is only maintaining a balance between the cleansing of death to return to the All Mother’s creation and the keeping of these women on our own plane of existence. While the wailwoman is to live a tortured existence in her state, it is said that should their deeds be repaid, the spirit will finally find rest. One myth tells of a brave warrior who confronted a woeful wailwoman, roaming the forests where she had lost her child in life, and by laying down an offering of a live fawn released the spirit from her prison. Despite this, no elf takes the subject of a wailwoman lightly and unfortunate events surrounding a death of an elven woman only lead to unrest among the tribe.
Also, don't forget that customs and traditions don't always have to be isolated to an entire tribe. Often traditions form within communities or even just within families. As Talia said, I would say that only particularily unique customs need to be addressed immediately.
All I can say that if you hold another Santhmoot in Canada, it had better be a road trip or something and somebody had better come see me in Alberta.
We also have an abundant amount of tourist attractions. Such as...er...the biggest mall in the world. And the oil sands. Oooo, oil sands. What else do we have? Oh!
My Elfwood account should be published....soonish. But there are doing some remodeling or some such things and it's all..."You smell and we're remodeling so you can't get published. Nyah!"
Well...I quote the site loosely. "Never mistake knowledge for wisdom. One helps you make a living; the other helps you make a life"
The whole thing began in a cottage on a shore A woman cried and her husband swore With all gold spent on a boat that sunk They both went mad, and they both got drunk
Night turned to day, thus forgotten was the past So little they knew about their dream fulfilled at last As time struggled on, they followed with haste Their hopes grew bigger, and so did her waist
Then one night none but few got to sleep For something had woken the Goddess of the deep And so a child, as ugly as can be Was born in a fishy little cottage near the sea
As years passed on by, he grew up on that shore And old men oft taught him the fisherman's lore But this little child did not mind what he learned So the teachers grew weary and non less concerned
Before he could rebel they made up a plan To make this young rascal a cunning young man For no one had ever stood up to their tribe In this case they needed to grant him a bribe
They promised him fortune and a lady so fair That people she talked to would crumble in despair This Lady was trapped in the depths of the sea And fishing was meant as a way to set her free
But young as he was, around eighteen or so He didn't mind ladies that deep down below Instead he'd go strolling about upon land For tired he grew of the fish and the sand
And further away he would go every day The villagers saw this but could nothing say In the end he would only return for the fish For he would not last if he gave up that dish
His dad who so often awaited his son Discovered one day that his son was undone The young man had not come to eat for a week And everyone knew that this drained their physique
Thus life carried on in the village on shore But two of the town folk were happy no more The son had by chance gotten lost in the heat And caught himself walking on weary old feet
Away from the water, across a strange land He walked and he withered, unable to stand While waiting for nothing the desert grew cold He lied there and watched all the stars oh so old
How long he had been there he knew not himself But rescued he was by a traveling elf This strange looking fellow belonged in the sand And didn't mind lending a strong helping hand
He gave him some fruit that he'd searched for and found And took him some place not too widely renowned The town was Azhorhria, and there he found peace Until lack of the fish meat struck hard, like disease
His hearing grew duller, his strength went away His body was shaking and colors turned gray His stomach went ill but he wanted to eat He'd rather bear with it than admitting defeat
Then one day the elf left, and without knowing why They gave him a goat and then told him goodbye The truth was that they could not care for his health For Azhorhrian people were men of small wealth
So into the desert he walked once again But this time awaiting the rare desert rain The rain clouds would grant him chance to survive Until his old town folk could watch him arrive
So anxious he was, to see his old home But desserts are tricky, and way off he'd roam This young man's adventure was guided by fate And home coming parties were ever to wait
The goat gave him milk, and meat when it died But lonely it left him. "So lonely!" he cried Depression was clearing its way in his mind He realized life is a mess to unwind
Though lonely he made it out, all safe and sound And came to a place where no sand could be found Instead there was plains and large barrens ahead The land looked all stagnant and filled him with dread
The only thing present was darkness and fear The air was as thick as the night sky was clear Ahead lay a tower alone in the dark The entrance a withered, powerful arc
His only one chance would be in that dark place Salvation or doom lay in front of his face So towards it he went, away from the world The wind started blowing, and in he was hurled
The room was not big, with old books all around It seemed like a lifetime of work on the ground The walls, full of candles was blazing with light But all of the candles were yet to ignite
Amidst all the books, a figure stood tall An eminent wizard superior to all His posture majestic, like high kings of old His eyes held a secret too large to unfold
"Behold!" said the wizard and gazed at the boy "I am your savior, named Vincent Maloy! I drew from the sand dunes my likeness in youth In order to teach you a powerful truth"
"You are chosen to see what no other have seen For people of old found it wicked and obscene Those people were fools, and still are today I fought them so bravely but they sent me away"
"In here I've been living while centuries passed Back then they could win but now all are surpassed I've studied magic to destroy and oppose And taught my self spells that no other man knows"
"In Ximax, that horrible place in Xaramon they linger in fear of the dark and unknown But here, little child, you will learn my ideal I know, little friend, what your body conceal"
"To young ones like you the Jakécha brings life And should one neglect that you head toward strife But I, the grand master Vincent Maloy Have found us a way to turn pain into joy"
"Up here I keep knowledge to heal and obscure And down under ground many caves to explore So stay here, my child, don't walk out that door Just stay here, my friend, and you'll live ever more"
Of course he was scared, but still taken by awe Like hungry old beggars, both broken and brave Since ever so lonely, he stayed in the den From this day and on, he'd never fear again
The training would differ from simple to hard With focus on skills, not on earning regard To master a part of all elements lore Was the truth that the wizard had spoke of before
Thus year after year he matured inside but knowledge of and power replaced love and pride He practiced on wanderers far from their homes with spells that no wizard should keep in their tomes
When the moon rose above the oft walked in the night To gather what's needed to mass produce blight For the brewing and making of potions and gas Was also important in Vincent’s one class
But time ticked away, too fast they would say The apprentice grew old and he suffered decay "Away you must go!" master Vincent exclaimed "To subdue every man till the whole world is tamed"
Through land, over water and fiery skies He walked very far, in his havoc disguise Some people who saw him would sleep ever more While others were tricked into plotting for war
He focused on making observers forget To make them grow weary, insane or upset This way he could travel to towns all around Without being chased like the villains renowned
But life took its toll, and ambition grew small The drugs that he used made things hard to recall He settled in Horth at the age of fifty-eight His body was aged, and no longer stood straight
He started to drink as a cure against dreaming Of children in fights and their families screaming When sober he knew how to make it come true But weakened by time he had a changed point of view
At night he would stroll in the streets as he pondered Most people stayed out of his way while he wandered But he often got laughed at as he'd stagger and stumble And mostly by children - they called him "Old Crumble"
Show Posts
) so I'll update that offline then post the edited version next time I'm on. 
) Will change that right away.
