Deep at night In Santharian taverns, around campfires, in caverns where weary travellers seek rest, you might hear a bard reciting a poem or two telling us about things nobody can explain, about fears and dangers. They might sing about sinister creatures emerging from the swamps, about the dead roaming the earth again, about spooking ancient castles - then it is time for ghost and horror stories! Listen carefully - you know that in each of these stories there lies a grain of truth, isn't it?



The following poem deals with the White Lady Mountain, said to have existed (or still exist) in the Prominent Mountain range. She bore her name long before there was mention of the apparition, but her connection with the ghost dates from around 1000 b.S., when an anonymous bard from a nearby town wrote the "Lay of the Lady" – wholly ficticious, but it drew travellers to see the frozen waterfalls that he mentions, where the Lady was supposed to have met her violent death, or to trek to the shallow, yet snowy top where she is supposed to dwell on certain nights. Interestingly enough, some of these trekkers even claim to have seen her!

She held his hands, she held his head,
“Sir, please don’t go, please stay with me”
He kissed her hands, her head and said
“Within a year I’m back, you’ll see.”

A teardrop slowly left her eye
And found its way across her cheek
More teardrops fell when she said “I
Will follow when it’s Death you seek.”

“I seek Queprur? You know, my love
That duty binds me to this war.
But please ask Armeros above
That you will see me from afar

When I return from battles won
With bags of gold, my armour sold
To live with you and you will run
To greet me! Now, release your hold.”

He gently took her hands and kissed
Her fingers and her lips. One tear
Did leave his eye: he too would miss
His newly wed, his love, his dear.

Thus as they held their heads so near
And felt their hearts beating as one
Upon her cheek he left his tear
A final kiss; then he was gone.

So all that she had left of him
As he rode o’er the path down south
And went over the mountain’s rim
Was this small tear that passed her mouth

And with the other tears streamed from
Her neck towards her bosom where
From cold or desperation some
Did freeze upon those two flanks fair.

And long after she’d lost the sight
Of him did she remain up there
Till cold and darkness forced her flight
While she bade Armeros to care

For him “Whose braveness, strength and wit
Would surely save his skin,” she said
“But gods might disagree.” and lit
A candle to amend for that.

And as she looked into the flame
The little warmth reached to her breast
To melt the fear away. His name
She spoke when she lay down to rest.

So each night when she went to sleep
She lit a little candle so
That he might live in Arm’ros keep
And fell asleep by candle’s glow

Then one night she woke up and saw
That only starlight filled the room
The flame was gone. A sudden flaw
Of wind had heralded her doom.

The darkness and the cold now clawed
Together at her heart and she
Who put her fate in flames was gnawed
By cold and dark anxiety

And as the light of morning came
Her heart was icy-cold. No fear
Was left, nor did she speak his name,
Nor did she shed a single tear.

She only followed the same road
That he had taken when he went
Away. The noise ahead forebode
The truth that nightly wind had sent.

She never reached the market square
Where widows new and old alike
Were weaping for their fate unfair
She only gazed down from a pike

And saw the cart with bodies filled
She recognized the armour which
She would not sell. His blood was spilled,
Queprur had hungered for his lich.

Within a year he had returned
But she would not run down to him
Instead she turned, ran back and burned
Their house and threw herself therein.

Or maybe she went to the top
Of the White Lady mountain where
Beneath its flanks her life did stop
And did she find her lover there.

And every spring the mountain cries
Fresh tears from frozen waterfalls
Just like a flame, before it lies
And is put out by sudden flaws.

And if you venture past the tears
Of hope and up the mountain side
You might feel that the Lady nears
Or see her if she does not hide…



The tales of the White Ladies (see poem above) inspired the talented bard Gean Firefeet to write a song about them, which goes as follows:

She leaves not a trace, not a shadow you see
But when she comes by she looks always at me
Her fair eyes; like flowers with frostbite they be
So haunted, not sparkling, no trace left of glee.

Fair lady in white, won’t you tell me your name
Or tell me at least if we aren’t the same
Did fate break your heart or did he find a dame
Who suited him more, tell me, who is to blame?

The fairness of her; it is worthy of song
But chilly! You shiver when she comes along
And like all her kind - it’s not here they belong –
She saves on her speech and keeps guard on her tongue

Fair lady in white, oh please tell me your name
Or tell me at least; aren’t we two the same?
Did fate break your heart or did he find a dame
With whom he took off, tell me, who is to blame?

I once met this girl who I admired most
And I had to have her, no matter the cost
But when I did tell her, to me she was lost
Her heart it was covered with layers of frost

A lady in white she was, without a name
An icy-cold heart she had, was I to blame?
You’re dead with no lover and so is my dame
So tell me now, Lady, are you two the same?



This poem is of unknown origin, it was found in the latter part of the 1500’s in a small box hidden under a loose floor board in the Library of the Grey, located within Nyermersys. It is said that the poem was written about the Eophyrhim dark elves around the time of the Sarvonian Wars, it is also supposed to be a possibility that the poem refers to Queprur, the Goddess of Death herself. Other than that it is a mystery to the meaning of these words. The parchment was quite damaged when found but luckily just about readable.

Ears of the dagger point;
Eyes of the fire burn,
Lips of the ruby blood;
The wretched elf comes.

Cold of the frozen soul;
A mind of the sinister kind,
Hands of a killer be;
The wretched elf comes.

Skin brighter than white;
Hair darker than night,
Teeth yellow as rotten flesh;
The wretched elf comes.

Pain in the heart;
Loss of the mind,
Freezing of the lungs;
The wretched elf comes.

Body gone cold;
Soul gone to dust,
Death is to me;
As the wretched elf comes.


This poem, written by the Marmarran compendiumsit Decipher Ziron,
details his experience when he was studying the Venlaken Enclave.
He commonly boasts that a lesser man would have perished or gone insane.
The poem also refers to various famous south Nybelmarian Locations,
such as the peninsula of Shar and to various Citystates of Zhun...

Past the jungles of the west,
Birds of red and yellow,
Over seas of scattered leaves,
Rivers calm and mellow,

Further than the states of Zhun,
Over Kimbar’s song,
Past the lively Hootar harbours,
'cross beaches gold and long,

Over Marmarra's dark ancient city,
echoing from jet black stone,
leaving behind troubling witches,
their chilling screams and moans,

Into the enclave of pain and death,
it is a land of twisted power,
its armies marching in collosal terror,
A haunting presence every hour,

Venlaken is the place I speak about,
A land that lives fatality,
Shrouded in clouds of black magic,
A perverse and dark reality,

Go! Back to the shores of homely Zhun,
To the soothing Kimbar tunes,
Return to the calm and golden beaches,
the magnificance of desert dunes,

Hide back into your thick rainforests,
Stay in your lively palace,
For Venlaken, it is not beautiful,
There is only pain and malice,

Go back to your familiar havens,
Your tranquil, safer lands,
For in Venlaken you must fulfill,
The Daedhirian souls' demands,

Do not return to Venlaken's wastes,
The land of nightmares true,
Stay where the mystic terrors of the lost,
Will never again find you...


A poem/song often told to small children by the superstitous.
Though this piece is often heard most often in human Santharian villages,
it is believed to have originated from stories of the Forbidden Zone
in Northern Sarvonia and dark places like the Water Marshes.

Do not whisper to the wind,
For wind winds far and deep,
Deep down into the shadow land
Where evil creatures sleep.
The echo of thy uttered word
Can wake them, make them creep!

Do not whisper to the wind,
For seething monsters hear;
The winds will carry monologues
To meet their careful ears,
And they will rise up from their tombs
To plague the world with fear.

Do not whisper to the wind
For demons know, they say,
Where rests thy sleepy, pretty head
When darkness swallows day,
And in the night they’ll come on thee
And steal thy soul away!

Do not whisper to the wind,
For evil’s waiting there
With anxious claws and open ears
Just listening to the air.
And waiting for a foolish child
To whisper unaware.

Do not whisper to the wind,
For beasts come leather skinned
With eyes aglow in sickly hue
And figures tall and thinned.
Thou may not, shall not, cannot
Ever whisper to the wind!



When tales they tell by firelight,
Of things the children to affright,
Then Mewlip’s name is whispered soft,
For sodden Mewlip haunts the night,
A ghastly, gormly sight.

In stagnant marshes dank and deep
The Mewlips dwell, the Mewlips creep.
Where grey-grim mosses hang aloft,
Where dripping willows ever weep,
And corbies murder sleep.

The tall reeds make a dismal wall,
Their roof a murky waterfall,
A shadow for a blanket there,
And mist a ready-whitened pall,
Hovering over all.

Their soft blanched hands are quick to hold,
Beware, ye travellers too bold!
They wrap you in their clinging hair,
And then the scaly limbs enfold,
Down in the bog and cold.

No eye has seen a Mewlip face,
Only the sodden weeds which trace
Strange fungal features dimly guessed,
A maw that seeks and gapes apace,
Dining without a grace.

Seek not the Mewlip marshes fey!
Walk not that slime-beshadowed way,
Naught but the mould'ring head-bones jest,
Baring their teeth to the wincing day,
Clacking their jaws with 'nay!

Poems written by various team members