Aeith, King Maker

Sometimes the best way out of trouble is to buy your way out.

Deep under Wyvernskeep lies an immense treasure in a vault marked "Aeith." The treasure is the collected holdings of the Temple of Aeith, and although the reputation of the church is as a center of wealth, the staggering scope of it is mostly not even suspected by the public.

The center of Aeith's worship is in Wyvernskeep, and the temple there is a lavishly decorated spectacle.  From the outside, the temple building appears dainty, but architecturally unadorned. Deceptively thick, plain walls house ornate stained glass windows in a region predominated with buildings holding no glass at all. Finely woven and expensively dyed banners bedeck the exterior, and the overall effect is that of a skinny man wearing expensive clothes and jewelry.

To those who know little of Aeith, he is the god of wealth, and the power wealth grants. His clergy wear robes of ivory and gold. For the young acolytes, this means white and yellow linens, but for the senior clergy it's quite literal. Robes with spun ivory dentine and gold filament embroidery are his vestments, and are never given, but rather sold, to his most faithful.

Inside, the temple is a pageant of ostentation and displays of abundance.  To his worshipers, wealth is proof of Aeith's favor and buying his favor is faith itself.  From the front door, the temple is unadorned. No rugs, no art works, no furniture. Bare stone walls, floors and ceilings. This narthex is a small portion of the temple to be sure, but austere, and intentionally blunt about it.

To those who know him, and respect his teachings, Aeith is called "The King Maker" as often as he is called by his name. His commandments revolve around the responsibility wealth provides, and councils on the most effective and intelligent ways to invest, increase, and part with money. Aeith wants his followers to be as rich as he is, and ultimately his advice is sound. His faithful say that "wealth is security against misfortune, but that wise gifts are security against ill will."  Many of the city's orphanages are run by Aeith's faithful, as are most of the poor houses and soup kitchens.

After the narthex, the semi-circular nave begins.  Entrance to the nave is through a main aisle, which proceeds directly to the chancel in the center of the circle, three steps up, a large cathedra atop. On either side of the aisle sit bowls for offerings at regular thirty foot intervals, granting closer and closer approach to the center. The faithful call them "the gates" and each offering is successively more costly. Passing the gates grants the faithful petitioner greater access to the clergy and to more comfort and accommodation. Offerings are required each visit, and the regular congregation makes note when one of its members begins passing a deeper gate regularly, or no longer does.

If one wishes to enter the priesthood of Aeith, the first step is simple: Give the temple everything you own.  Everything.  Not just money, or land. Every sentimental letter your lover ever gave you, every stitch of clothing you own, shave your hair, we want that too. This is a one time requirement, not a vow of poverty. You see, they say, if you're faithful, if you really serve Aeith, you're going to get it all back and then some. A zone of truth spell and formulated line of questioning is used to determine if truly all has been offered.

At the first gate two plain, wooden bowls stand atop simple wooden spindles.  The bowls are for the temple's faithful to place an offering of a copper coin, and grants access to the pews. The pews are plain, wooden benches, and lack cushions.  No one aids the faithful that worship in this ring, and they sit too far away from the center to ever be heard.

Newly minted acolytes, called "attendees," are tasked with everything you would imagine; cleaning, cooking, mucking the chamber pots, etc. The backbone of any organization, and hungry for coin. Admonished to listen to elder members when they offer financial advice, but seldom able to actually follow through on that advice for lack of funds, these fresh juniors often play a kind of "fantasy merchant guild" game with each other, tracking how much they could have made with this investment, or how much they would have lost on that.

At the second gate, two iron bowls sit upon their wrought iron bases, and are filled with offerings of silver coins. A young member of the clergy will be stationed here, to instruct or remind those entering that the "gates must be appeased" before access is to be granted, but will make no effort to stop anyone determined to enter without permission. The pews here are still simple, but at least have backs. The occasional attendee will walk among the worshipers here, aiding with prayer, or offering a ladle of water from a shared bucket.

Seasoned acolytes are often asked to join local trade guilds as corespondents and scribes, or are offered "on loan" to local noble houses as advisors. Their titles vary, but are usually some form of their position in and out of the temple, such as "Acolyte Scribe" or "Acolyte Advisor." They teach that a well timed gift to the commonfolk or withdrawal from a risky venture can save face and capital in the long run. No other group in the Conclave has a structure of valued and accurate advice like the holy word of Aeith. That the temple is compensated for this advice is a net benefit for all.

The third gate has offering bowls of silver. A gold coin is the expected offering. An adult member of the clergy stands at the ready here, and admonishes anyone with the temerity to ignore the gate offerings, insisting that tradition be kept, lest Aeith's favor be lost to those violating his edicts. The pews here are pleasantly shaped, and cushioned, while the Acolyte Advisors talk with the worshipers, and offer bread and milk.

Senior clergy see to the administration of the temple, its financial ventures, and evaluate both parishioners and candidates for priesthood for their merit, mathematical ability, and faith. Their duties have them return to the temple, as their lay-world knowledge is now deemed sufficient. Official titles are in line with their duties again, most being "Faithful Broker" and "Faithful Accountant," though some others do exist. Being able to cast the Zone of Truth spell is considered another minimum requirement for senior duties, and they will cast it often. Aeith is a lawful deity, and requires that the clergy inform others when this spell is being used, but contends that honest people have nothing to hide.

The fourth gate has offering bowls of marble, the offering bowl and its stand carved from a single block. Gems or other items of at least 10 gp value are required for the petitioner to pass. An armed, but unarmored temple guard stands watch here, and will not allow faithless skinflints to proceed. In this area the pews have been replaced with comfortable chairs and tables. Faithful Brokers attend the congregation here, praying for them, listening to their pleas and promising to take the concerns to their superiors for guidance.

Seven members of the senior clergy are called the "High Advisers." Note the spelling change from the lower ranked "Acolyte Advisors." It's an important distinction to the church, as "advisors" help make financial decisions for people and organizations, but the "advisers" work with kings and dignitaries to drive policy and far reaching agreements between powerful parties. Yes, they're both pronounced the same. These advisers are also aware that the church has far, far more wealth than most know, as they see all of the temples books together, not just the individual reports being made by the lower ranks. They may ask the High Priest for special dispensations if needed. For example, during a disaster requesting in order to feed and clothe the distraught for the common good, or perhaps as a gift to a diplomat, to ensure his good will during negotiations.

The fifth gate has solid gold offering bowls. 100 gp is required here. A fully armed and armored temple guard stands watch here, but will not speak. His or her only command is to stop the faithless from proceeding. Conversation is left to the prior gates. This is the last gate to offer seating or accommodation in the nave, and it is fine indeed.  Plush, well upholstered lounge chairs and sofas are gathered into cozy, intimate groups. small tables around the seating are stacked with fresh fruits, cheeses, and wines, regularly refilled by meek child acolytes, while at least one Adviser is usually present, in order to hold deep and personal conversations with the flock in this ring.

The sixth gate lies at the edge of the nave, and after passing through it, you will cross the thirty feet of space reserved for approaching the chancel. This gate has no bowls, but instead an acolyte of the faith stands at the ready, holding a basket, and quietly asks for an offering of 1,000 gp value. No one congregates in this area. As in the narthex, the floors lie bare, but this time they are made of gem inlaid marble, intricate golden patterns painstakingly crafted into the floor.

Ontas Kirk is the head priest. He is snide, and prone to sarcasm, but does mean well. An excellent orator regardless, Ontas performs the daily sermons of faith. He is adviser to the King of Wyvernskeep, and his business prowess is so astute, even the High Advisers seek his council on occasion. In contradiction to anticipation, he wears simple linen robes, similar to those of the newest acolytes. If you ask, he will tell you that it is an effort to remain humble, which he openly claims difficult. This is partly true. It is also because he understands that he is a figurehead, and does not make final arbitration for the church. He may someday, if he outlives the keyholder.

The seventh gate lies at the bottom of the chancel, but petitioners never pass the gate. Upon offering 10,000 a petitioner is allowed to stand at the bottom of the three steps of the chancel, and speak to the high priest upon his cathedra. The cathedra is a simple high backed chair, finely made, but simple in its design.

Aleksandr is the keyholder of Aeith.  It is a secret position, reveled only to the high priest upon receiving the office, in the journals only he may read. In those journals, the nature of Aeith is revealed, and the nature of the organization he now figureheads is made clear.  Only the keyholder and the high priest know the location of Aeith's vault, and only the Keyholder may ever visit it.

Aeith is a treasure horde of almost incalculable size. He is sapient and is truly deific, but possesses no body beyond that of his accumulated wealth. His temples are a means of gathering as much coin and gem as possible, for Aeith finds that his powers grow as his resources do.

From the movie National Treasure

Lady Margarite Peaceriver

The Lady Margarite Peaceriver is a silk elf noble living in Second Breakfast.  She has recently arrived in town, and having been taken with it's charms, decided to settle in, and experience all the active coastal town has to offer.  Her vast reservoir of wealth has quickly ingratiated her with the aristocracy, as well as confounding them as to her sources. Hadn't she arrived with little more than the silks she was wearing?

By day she may entertain visitors in her small home, apologizing for having the blinds drawn, offering by way of reason that the sunlight hurts her eyes. She does keep sufficient, if somewhat dim light available for her guests. Permanently lit magical orbs softly bobbing overhead, drifting in the air currents. Most of these daytime meetings are between her and potential entrepreneurs seeking funding for this trade deal, or for that business opportunity. So far, her instincts have been more right than wrong, and the occasional failure has not stopped her from continuing to be bold in her selections.

By night, Margarite attends the social events of her newly found noblelady friends. Her adept social maneuvering has quickly lead her to have both a clique of loyal friends and the antagonism of those she finds boorish.  She puts falsehood to the common claim that all silk elves are long-winded storytellers, instead offering cutting criticism, quick retorts, and gleeful wit. Many parties are jeweled in the laughter she sparks late into the night.

Margarite doesn't remember what her name used to be, but she thinks this one might be close.  It's good enough for her purposes, which for the moment are, in order: maintain her cover as a silk elf, gain in power and wealth, and feed when necessary.

Her cover as a silk elf is, she believes, a necessity given her condition. She has no name to attach to what has happened to her, no does she remember how it has come to be.  Her skin and all her soft tissue are made of solid silver. Her hair is of pure gold.  But it wasn't so even seven weeks ago.

When this unnamed woman awoke in the fields near Gnoshing, she was wounded, her head bleeding, a dull roar in the back of her skull.  Had she been beaten?  Where were her clothes? Had she been assaulted? She could not recall. Surrounding her were the bodies of several halfling farmers, men and women.  How were they involved and what had sealed their fate?

Stumbling in the darkness of a full moon, and unsure of what direction to travel, it was hours before she came upon a road. Dawn was approaching, but rather than relieve her, it brought her dread.  She did not want to be found on the road naked and alone, but it seemed a better fate than dying of exposure on a cold Frostthaw morning. She picked a direction on the road and began to walk.

The next passerby on the road was a caravan of silk elves heading for home, and seeing her state, rushed to help her.  They quickly realized this woman had no memory of self, and knew nothing of where she was, or where she belonged.  She was wrapped in blankets, herded onto a wagon, and offered food. That was when things went poorly for them.

The smell of the food turned her stomach, and as she retched, she retched liquid silver.  Aghast and unsure of what was happening, one of the elves attempted to steady the woman, one hand on her shoulder, one to hold back her hair.  The gaping wound beneath her hair was apparent, and the elf drew back a wet, silver slick hand.  Her scalp fell from her skull, revealing a gleaming silver dome.  Her wounds, and the empty pit of her stomach pushed her from scared, vulnerable woman into an instinct driven animal. Thirteen died. Merchants, wives, and warriors, none survived to flee. Most were eaten, digested by acids pouring from her wounds.

French Silver Leaf over Gesso Sculpture of a Mother and Child- A. Godard

Regaining her composure after the attack, she gathered some of their clothes, and disguised herself.  She left, traveling in the direction they had come from, which she now knew to be north. Over the next days her skin fell away, always revealing silver bones and flesh beneath.  Eventually her skin grew back, but it was now the same silver. After weeks, her hair grew back in, at first silver, and then later, in gold.

Now, Margarite knows that it is not the appearance of these metals, but the actual metals. At first, and in a gambit, she offered to pay for her home with a solid nugget of gold, which she had collected by cutting her hair and melting it into a single piece. Although she was amazed when the merchant proved the metal pure, she immediately saw the opportunity.

When needed, Margarite cuts her hair, or scrapes her skin, or in one case, lopped off the end of her finger, at the first joint.  Though her hunger nearly overtook her, she recovered and the finger grew back.  She's discovered that she only hungers when wounded, and the life of a minor noble affords her the privilege of being relatively safe from harm.

What Margarite does not remember is that her name was Margo Stillwater, and that she is the wife of Gnoshing's mayor, Ismail Stillwater.  

Ismail was a doting husband, and when Margot fell sick, he arranged for the most expensive doctor he could afford.  He would have been better served by arranging for the BEST doctor.  The charlatan that answered the call was named Snively. Snively promised Ismail the sun and moon, and all of the newest and most expensive treatments possible. 

From the beginning, Snively had little idea of what to do. He made a great show of drawing humors, and comparing them to the colors of flowers and wild animal fin, fur, and feather. He mixed herbal poultices and wrapped them to Margot's head, though the complaint lie in her chest.  With the money he was grafting, Snively purchased a number of tomes of medical and magical remedies, most of suspect authenticity.  He even penned a few himself.

For years Snively secured money and made arrangements in secret, and his reputation grew in Ismail's estimation. He was named town vasir, a position Ismail hadn't previously been aware he needed to have filled. But it says right here in the town's bylaws...

Despite Snively's "ministrations" Margot's condition predictably worsened and Snively convinced Ismail that Margot needed to be moved to Second Breakfast, in order to have his "associates" tend to her care. In reality, Snively had Margot moved to his dungeon under the town hall.

One of the books Snively bought was, against the odds, real.  The dark practices, alchemical reagents, and magical potions within its covers had had their effect upon Margot's body, and Snively's mind.  He had begun seeking a cure for mortality, and was convinced that liquid mercury was the key.  His handling of the material had made him lose his grip on reality, and there were days he sent requests to the Raven's Guild to investigate his own doings, and to kill the undead he was trying to raise.

On Margot's end, things went differently.  She kept her mind sharp, remembering riddles and puzzles, chanting prayers to all the deities she could, chanting her mantra to herself "Margot means pearl, Stillwaters are calm, I will endure."  When her body could take no more, and the potions and illness killed her, her mind also broke. The injures were many, over many years, and compounded by quackery, but modified by real magic.

The now nameless being broke free of her cage, and began to feast upon the halflings of the town, only to be attacked and nearly killed by members of the Raven's Guild. They were investigating, in fact, at the behest of Snively, vasir of Gnoshing, having killed him for his crimes only minutes prior.

Skinny Ermire

One of the busiest locations in Sarai are the docks. Most of the traffic in town is headed to or from the docks. Sarai is the Easternmost city among the Free Cities, sitting on the shore of the Perrin Sea. Although it is possible to travel around the sea on land routes, it's longer, costlier, and potentially more dangerous.  Well, differently dangerous, at least.

To the north are the plains and scrublands currently being raided by the Storm Elves, and to the south are the unstable borders of the lands collectively known as The 1001 fires and the lands the Silk Elves claim as their Temples of Silk.  But directly to the east are the vast expanses of the stone wastes, and beyond them are nations of gold and exotic goods, ready and hungry for trade. All it takes is someone willing to cross the Sea and then the stone wastes, and many are those willing to take the chance for gold and riches.

And that's where Skinny Ermire comes in.

Shamelessly stolen from a google images search for "Fantasy Dockyards"

Skinny Ermire is an extra rotund, extra brown, middle aged halfling you can almost always find at the docks owned and controlled by the Temerkind Trading Guild. Those docks are located near the center of the docks reserved for citizen shipyards. He'll be sitting on a stack of crates, watching the dockhands load and unload cargo, offering instruction in his booming baritone if asked, and occasionally shouting warnings regarding personal safety or fragility of the cargo's contents. Skinny hasn't been a working hand on a sailing vessel for many years, but he still knows most of everything there is to know about a ship, and he still looks and talks the part. He likes to say, "waste not, want not."  As a matter of perverse self indulgence he calls everyone "baby."  Skinny Ermire is, ostensibly, the dock boss, and he's friendly if you have legitimate business.

Some of his dock lieutenants know that he's not just a member of the guild, but a high level leader, too.  As such, he's in a position to negotiate trade taxes and tariffs with the Tower of Sarai for his fleet, and influence their decisions regarding other fleets and foreign nations. A few of his men are also aware that he's a high ranking member of the Sarai thieves' guild, with all the utility and profit that can grant.  They're almost right.  Skinny is the head of the Sarai thieves' guild, and by extension, the thieves' guild of all six of the free cities.

In it's position of authority regarding trade, Skinny has made a fortune off of smuggling, caravan theft, kidnapping, slaving, limited piracy, and murder.  His wealth has positioned him to exercise control over the other thieves' guilds in the cities, and those who couldn't be bought were killed, or kidnapped and sold to the highest bidder. Occasionally worse.

Skinny deals with his allies in a fair, sometimes even generous manner. He happily bribes the local urchins, and brings them into the folds of the thieves' guild. He'll equally happily bribe a hardworking sailor from a rival trading company onto one his ships. He wants loyalty and knows how to get it. No fool, though, he's seen through those that try to usurp him and looking for handouts when they have something to offer instead.

Skinny Ermire's success didn't happen overnight, and it didn't happen without planning or ruthlessness.  Most halflings show their age in their eleventies, and many make it to one hundred fifty. Despite his apparent middle-agedness, Skinny is actually closer to two hundred years old.  Because he wants to be. Being a man who's seen firsthand proof of gods and monsters on the waters and on his travels, dying is something he wants to avoid at all costs, having led the life of black blood and bile he has.

When Skinny was only a mere hundred and twenty, his deeds weighing upon his head, and as he felt his vitality flee, he met a Yuan-ti warlock.  Skinny Ermire's ship, The Regal Gorgon, had made port at an island not shown on the maps, hundreds of miles from where any land at all should be. The city's name was unpronounceable without a forked tongue, but the denizens were still willing to trade for what they had.  And, oh, what they had.

Skinny met a merchant who offered him the thing he wanted more than forgiveness, more than redemption. He offered a way to avoid death, and live as dastardly as he wished, forever.  He just needed to do one little thing.

And so now, twice a year, Skinny Ermire eats a living, sapient soul over the course of three days. The more of their body he can eat before they die, the more of his youth he recovers. Over the last seventy-plus years he's gotten quite good at cutting out just enough.  Not too much, lest they die, and not too little, lest he could have gotten more. Though not strictly a requirement of the ritual, Skinny likes it when they're conscious. Likes it when they're forced to watch.

Skinny practices often, to make sure he's ready for when the night comes, and he's grown corpulent from it.  He wants to make sure he can fit it all in his gullet when it counts. So much was wasted in the early years because he didn't have the room. So much blood was also wasted in the early years, spilled on the floors and splashing the walls, but it's part of the body and it counts, so now Skinny makes sure to collect it, and mixes it with his rum. It's become a favorite drink of his, and even when there's no eldritch benefit, he carries a bottle of his special brew, coyly sharing it with the unaware.

Skinny has developed a list of skills he'd never thought would carry him this far, but when you run the criminality of the free cities they're very handy. Grinding bones to powder, removing unnecessary organs, amputating limbs and cauterizing them, performing life saving medicine when needed, mixing cocktails of drugs that numb just the right amount of pain, cooking nearly inedible parts into palatable things, and when nearing the deadline, swallowing whole chunks of flesh, torn straight from the victim, with little time to waste.  Waste not, want not.

Waste not, want not.

Waste not, want not, Babies.

Silk Elves

This version of the silk elves were originally inspired by this post over at thoughtcrimes, though mine've drifted considerably from the basic premise of "different drow"

 Storm Elves exemplify the phrases "Life is nasty, brutish, and short" and "Death is but a door, time is but a window. I'll be back!", but their cousins underground, the Silk Elves, take a much different approach to things.  There was a war, thousands of years ago, between the Storm Elves and the Silk Elves, and only by fleeing underground were the Silk Elves able to save themselves from complete annihilation. Changes overcame the elves in the darkness of their new home, in both personality and in body.

Silk Elves are never seen without their silken robes, or other wrappings. They expose no skin, and wear shaded goggles.  Millennia of life underground changed these elves into something better suited for the darkness, and for both their skin and eyes, the sun is a source of discomfort. While their bodies are ill adapted to surface life, their social charm lends them an air of respect to surface dwellers that they have leveraged to their benefit everywhere they are found.

This fan art of Gogo from the final fantasy series is a nice example of some potential silk elf fashion 
LINK to the Artist, Evanatt on DeviantArt

Silk Elves have no permanent settlements on the surface, instead maintaining mercantile caravans and traveling circuses. Some are as large as the Free Cities have ever seen, some as small as a single elf and her traveling bindle.

To the southeast, across the Perrin Sea lie the stone wastes, and deep under that lie the Temples of Silk. Only the Silk Elves themselves know the extent of the natural and carved caverns they inhabit, but the surface is intermittently marked by towering spires, noting official access points to their homes below.  Outsiders are almost never allowed into the spires, but when they are, it is usually for diplomatic reasons or for sensitive messages that cannot be trusted to paper, nor to the ears of mere servants. No one is ever permitted into the Temples, however. They are holy to the Elves and only they may descend the labradorite stairwells into the darkness below.

A silk elf merchant will regale you with tales of his travels if prompted, or if the mood strikes, but few regard them as true.  Most silks will quietly swear upon the truth of their tales, and may well double down with an even more outlandish story, if just to make the one you doubted seem more plausible. A common thread throughout their stories are the magical and wondrous things that the land itself seems capable of. Stone pillars or waters rising to aid in the escape of those in need, or of giant trees and cliff faces that fall at opportune times to strike the wicked.

"We were stranded, I tell you.  The caravan had been crossing the Blackblood swamp for two weeks, and I was certain it was the doing of some malicious force. The travel master said we were just lost, but I knew that evil must be afoot! Night was falling, and my bones told me it would be the last time.  Then I heard them, scratching and scrabbling towards us under cover from the prickle bushes and through the still waters.  Men, but made of sticks and thorns, ran for us, dragging down all they laid their misshapen hands on, our screams cut short by strangling vines.  I and a few of the others ran to the horses, and fled. We ran those horses all night, foaming and frothing at the mouth as hundreds, nay, thousands of terrible plant-men followed us and threatened to overtake us! Only as the light crept over the horizon, did we see that the trees themselves were making effort to hold them back, and clear our path..."

Truthfully, most silk elves will come to the aid of those struggling to correct a blight upon the land, or will be inspired to resist those who poison and despoil nature.  Silk Elves have little interest in the Gods of the Free Cities, nor in bringing their faith to others. A notable exception is Insukimi, the White Spider who they are enamored with. Relics and unheard tales of hers can go far in negotiating with a Silk.

Most communities find the Silk Elves unoffensive and peculiar, a chance to trade for goods both local and exotic, and to entertain children with their unbelievable stories. A few suspect them of deeper mysteries and scandal, however.  Never seeing the face of the man you're talking to can mean that you're never sure if he's the same man next time, or that any two different elves weren't in fact the same person, if never seen together. Dark magics may be at work.

Never seeing the skin or eyes of a Silk Elf means that, perhaps they could shed those costumes, and walk undetected and disguised, magically or mundanely. Who can tell what their actual goals are, or what dark powers they bring from places sun loving men would fear to venture.  They seem to know too many secrets, and pry too closely into business that isn't their own.  They'll laugh if confronted with claims of secret sleuthing, saying "I apologize, I spend too much time on the road and my manners have waned!"  or if someone hazards a theory about their other motives they may simply offer a humble "I am but a merchant (or cook, or circus performer), and I travel from distant lands."

In relation to the Free Cities Conclave:

The Silk Elf caravans enter the conclave northbound, coming up the coast from the south, having made way around the southern shore of the Perrin Sea, or when returning by ship into Wyvern's Keep from the west. As a result a preponderance of Silks are located in, entering, or leaving Sarai at any given time. Whether for the interim while their caravan prepares to head out, or head back, setting up sellers' tents in the bazaar district and attracting customers with the joyful brazenness of their colorful silk tents, or arriving or departing by ship, or telling tall tales to leery teens, the Silk Elves are a common sight on the streets and in the shops of Sarai.

Many caravans continue land-bound for the western ports of Wyvern's Keep, headed to lands further west yet, past the Sea of Ink. Some head north from Sarai, whether by ship or land, to Second Breakfast, or sometimes Redwell.  Seldom do these caravans venture any further north, however, as they typically won't dare to clash with the Storm Elves, their ancient defeat still ringing fresh in elven memory.

Mechanically:

As PHB Elf Race,

PHB Dark Elf subrace.

All NPC Silk Elves encountered with class levels will be one of:

    Barbarian (Dervish)

    Druid (Land: Underdark)

    Rogue (Assassin)

    Warlock (Great Old One Pact, Any Boon)

Storm Elves

Of the two predominant elven subraces, the one most likely to be encountered on the surface world are the Storm Elves. Grey of skin, hair and eyes, the storm elf is commonly outfitted with the clothing and equipment of a nomadic, horse-back tribal life.  Do not let their rugged outdoorsmanship beguile you into thinking that their ways are simple, or that they are uneducated brutes. A storm elf prides himself on his ability to handle a pony, saber and javelin, poem, falcon, eldritch manuscript, or complex negotiation equally.

To the far north and east lie the traditional homelands of the Storm Elves, ruled by a great Khan. Each Khan is selected by council upon the death of the previous khan, and only in death does his claim to rule end.
The current Khan has held his position for nearly 800 years, and shows no signs of relaxing his iron-fisted control.

Khan Dalantai was selected by the Council of Storms through a unanimous vote, as they must all be, after 50 years of debate and infighting to secure the position. No storm elf clan-leader would ever follow a khan that their council member has rejected, nor ask his people to. When no one candidate is universally accepted the clans will often fall into squabbling and raiding each other, though deaths seldom occur, as few wish to risk outright inter-clan warfare.

The life of a storm elf is somewhat analogous to the real world Mongols of the 12th century, living in mobile bivouac encampments, hunting for food or raiding known settlements. Storm Elves have a tense relationship with the hobgoblin nation to the south, often erupting into brief or extended warfare. One notable difference is that the Mongol nation wasn't nearly as well known for it use of necromancy.

Nations of the west tremble in fear of the Khanate of Storms, and well so. A party of one hundred elves, and their four hundred or so ponies can quickly become an army of thousands, depending on the age and skill of the spellcasters riding.

In one recent and notable event, an elder hunting party of seventy three rode west into dwarven lands largely undetected due to their small size, and the dwarves predilection for underground living. Upon arriving at the gates of the Dweomer-Hall of dwarf-clan Brickarm they demanded a sum of gold and slaves so large that the gate guards merely laughed and turned them away.

The elves, expecting such treatment, retreated ten miles from the gate and began their casting and rituals. Waylaying all who traveled to or from the dwaven hall, drawing the long dead from the earth everywhere within riding distance, and opening teleportation gates to prepared circles thousands of miles east with the preserved dead awaiting transit, their numbers grew swiftly. Within one week, dwarven scouts sent to investigate disappearances reported stumbling across an amassing army of skeletons, zombies, wights, ghouls, ghasts, banshees, specters, and wraiths numbering in the tens of hundreds.  The dwarven clan leaders sealed the gates, and called all dwarven men and women to arms. By the time war plans were drawn four days later, the ranks of the undead army had swelled to over ten thousand, all within one day's overland travel to the Dweomer-Hall's gate. When the army broke upon the dwarven gates nearly all those within were killed or taken as slaves. Only nine were spared. One for each direction on the map, and one to dig as deep as he could, till he died, or found another race to tell his woe.

In relation to the Free Cities Conclave:

The Dragonspine Mountains north of the conclave are a strong, but not perfect, defense against the typical tactics of the Khanate, and so the Free Cities Conclave have been largely ignored for the lower hanging fruit of the city states and loose confederations to the north and west. Large, open fields and plains, and gently sloping scrublands abound to the north and have allowed the Khanate to strike those places more easily, but as the distances become greater, and the terrain becomes steeper and forested, the Conclave becomes a more and more attractive target.

As a matter of preparation for an eventual strike, the Khan has sent ambassadors and delegates to the easternmost cities of the Conclave; Redwell, Second Breakfast, and Sarai.  In those places storm elves are seen as an oddity, and are only as common as the Silk Elves hailing from the south. Willowton, and the college which oversees it know the threat which the Khan represents, and have rejected official parlay, while Ironvale Forge has banned all storm elf visitors and strongly discourages all storm elf presence in Ironvale City above. Wyvern's Keep has not received an official delegation yet, mostly due to the distances involved in overland travel (and through Ironvale territory) and the elves reluctance to travel by ship unless strictly necessary.

Mechanically:

Elven race per 5e PHB

Storm Elf subrace:

    +1 Int

    Proficiency with Scimitar, Javelin, Short Bow

    Proficiency with Animal Handling

    Bonus Cantrip: selected from the wizard list, casting stat is Intelligence

    Bonus Gear: One Storm Pony and saddle

All NPC Storm Elves encountered with class levels will be one of:

    Bard (Valor)

    Fighter (Eldritch Knight)

    Ranger (Beast Master: Falconer, or Horizon Walker)

    Wizard (Necromancy)

Typical names for Storm Elves:

Deities in the Free Cities Conclave

Gods are built, not born.

When a creature, or locations, or item becomes venerated it gains supernatural powers. This isn't the only way to wield magical power, but it is the only path to godhood.

A venerated object (or being) will start it's journey as something that its followers attribute supernatural or divine powers to. With enough belief, the effects become real, and tangible, and this will start a snowball effect, as the powers it now actually holds will inspire more faith and devotion.

I like this post by noisms over at Monsters and Manuals describing the general idea. Also this post expanding on his specific example.

Each deity will get it's own entry in time, but for now, here's a list of all of the major deities and their aspects in the Free Cities Conclave and nearby areas.

The "Invoked by" portion notes when a common person or non-worshipper might mention the deity, and is mostly included as an additional example of the feeling the God arouses in the people of the Free Cities.

Aeith, King Maker
Aspects: Power, Intelligence
Symbols: Trophies, Crowns, Obvious Wealth
Colors: Ivory and Gold
Worshipers: The Ambitious, Nobles
Invoked by: Those who need.
     "I've spent my last coin, Aeith. Please provide."
Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Corvin, Skyborn
Aspects: Creation, Lies
Symbols: Ravens and Crows, Garnets and Rubies
Colors: Black and Maroon
Worshipers: Tricksters, Sly Old Men
Invoked by: Those who've just been fooled
    "Oh, Corvin, these are lead coins."
Alignment: True Neutral

Dierdain, Shield Maiden
Aspects: Justice, Tradition
Symbols: Spear and Shield, Emeralds, Old Walls
Colors: Brass and Teal
Worshipers: Paladins, Rangers
Invoked by: Those preparing to defend against attack.
     "Dierdan preserve us, how many goblins are there?"
Alignment: Lawful Good

Elandor, The Unicorn
Aspects: Restoration, New Growth (Personal as well as Natural)
Symbols: Oaks and Willows, Roads
Colors: White and Forest Green
Worshipers: Midwives, Travelers
Invoked by: The ill and the imprisoned.
     "Elandor, give me the strength to feed my babies."
Alignment: Neutral Good

Glael, Worm Father
Aspects: Caves, Origins, Ancient Things
Symbols: Mushrooms, Miasma and Vapors, Toads
Colors: Black and Olive Green
Worshipers: Apothecaries, Assassins
Invoked by: Those surprised by rot.
     "Oh, Glael, the wheat's all spoiled!"
Alignment: Neutral Evil

Hargrave, Specter of Hate
Aspects: Unfinished Deeds
Symbols: Broken Swords, Open Graves
Colors: Cyan and Crimson
Worshipers: Incorporeal Undead
Invoked by: Those afraid of ghosts.
     "Not tonight, Hargrave, please not tonight."
Alignment: Lawful Evil

Insukimi, The White Spider
Aspects: Whispers, Divination
Symbols: Silks, Pearls, Wax Seals
Colors: White, Mother of Pearl
Worshipers: Investigators and Spies, Diplomats
Invoked by: Those who are looking for secrets.
     "Where did she leave the journal? Insukimi, where?"
Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Jala, Mother Bear
Aspects: Frenzy, Wards
Symbols: Lightning, Warpaint
Colors: Yellow and Red
Worshipers: Berserkers, New Parents
Invoked by: Those unjustly wronged.
     "MAY JALA EAT YOU!"
Alignment: Chaotic Good

Lernaea, The Chalice
Aspects: Hedonism, Generosity
Symbols: Hydras, Wine and Grapes
Colors: Purple and Gold
Worshipers: Revelers, The Snide
Invoked by: Those who are giving or receiving gifts.
    "Here, this one is from Lernaea."
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Mora, Mistmother
Aspects: Hidden Things, Capriciousness
Symbols: The Sea, Fog and Rain, Sudden Winds
Colors: Pale Blue and Aquamarine
Worshipers: Hunters, Smugglers, Sailors
Invoked by: Those trying to hide.
     "Mora mask me."
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Nahul, The Burning Hate
Aspects: Destruction, Mercilessness
Symbols: The Sun, Ashes, Fire
Colors: Coral and Charcoal
Worshipers: Sapient Undead (Death God for Undead)
Invoked by: Those who wish to frighten the undead.
     "Nahul, drive them away! I hear them coming!"
Alignment: Chaotic Evil

Olgranaz, Man of the Mountain
Aspects: Cycles, Young Things
Symbols: Wolves, Staffs
Colors: Earth Brown, Sepia, and Green
Worshipers: The Besieged, Underdogs
Invoked by: Those lost in the woods
     "Oh for Olgranaz, where the hell am I?"
Alignment: Neutral Good

Perun, King of the Sky
Aspects: Passion, Art
Symbols: Mountain Tops, Tools
Colors: Multicolored Blues
Worshipers: Artists, Young Lovers
Invoked by: Those seeking a muse.
     "May she be wooed by this poem, Perun."
Alignment: Chaotic Good

Svantivet, Anvil of Fate
Aspects: Victory in War and Trade
Symbols: Horses, Anvils
Colors: Tan and Lavender
Worshipers: Merchants, Professional Soldiers
Invoked by: Those who have been scammed before.
     "Svantivet will empty your pockets if this isn't real dwarven steel, shopkeeper."
Alignment: Lawful Evil

Tasha, Death Jester
Aspects: Cruelty, Finality
Symbols: Will'o'wisps, Glittering Gold
Colors: Orange and Rose
Worshipers: Sadists, The Malicious
Invoked by: The Doomed
     "Damn you, Tasha.  So this is it, we're going to die."
Alignment: Chaotic Evil

Veles, Queen of the Earth
Aspects: Restful Death, Peaceful Endings
Symbols: Valleys and Rivers, Books
Colors: Multicolored Browns
Worshipers: Mortuary Priests, Old Lovers
Invoked by: Those who knew the deceased
     "Thank Veles, she went in her sleep."
Alignment: Lawful Good

The Wild Hunt, Death and Tempest
Aspects: Fear, Inevitability
Symbols: Thunder, Baying of Hounds
Colors: Dark Red and Copper
Worshipers: Avengers, The Wronged
Invoked by: When a storm is coming
     "May the hunt stray from this storm."
Alignment: Neutral Evil

Xvargna, Wellspring of Magic
Aspects: Night, Mystery
Symbols: Silver, The Moon
Colors: Silver, Pale Yellow
Worshipers, Witches, Poets
Invoked by: The perplexed
     "Xvargna? What is that?"
Alignment: True Neutral

Testing Blogger as a viable home

I'll be testing both Blogger and Google Sites as viable homes for the Raven's Guild, as the old Google sites is no longer supporting the functions I want.

I'm not certain whether this site functions better as a blog, or as a wiki page for me, so we'll see what becomes of it.