#Apparently having dreams about large snakes symbolizes betrayal

[elainewellspoetry]

In all of my nightmares, I have been forgotten about | 3.4.24

[scarlettroubles]

2, 3, 8, 13, 29 and 47 for Eileen? Sorry, I wanna know more about her tho X3

I’ve already answered some of these questions previously but I’ll answer them again since I feel like a lot has changed since then so here we go.

2. What house are they in and why do they belong there?

Eileen was a hatstall for 12 minutes because the sorting hat couldn’t choose whether to put her in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. She had the courage, nerve, and daring attitude of a Gryffindor and the wit, wisdom, and creativity of a Ravenclaw but was ultimately placed in Hufflepuff because out of what all the four houses valued and looked for in a student, Hufflepuff is the house whose values resonated the most in Eileen. Not to say Eileen doesn’t possess the traits of a Hufflepuff because she possesses the traits of being hard-working, loyal, and just but what really put her in Hufflepuff was her want not to be a great person but a good one.

3. What’s their patronus? Why?

Eileen’s patronus is the same as mine on Pottermore which is a Runespoor haha. I think this summary from @hogwartswelcomesyou sums it up:

The runespoor is a creature original to the Harry Potter universe. It is described as an orange serpent with black stripes and three heads. Each head corresponds to a different personality – the left head is the planner (which comes up with the runespoor’s ideas), the middle head is the dreamer (which tends to get lost in its own daydreams and remains the most stationary of the heads), and the right head is the cynic (which critiques the ideas of the other two heads). Apparently it is not uncommon to find a runespoor with only two heads, as sometimes the first and second heads will bite off the third because it’s being too critical, though a two-headed runespoor will not live very long.

Snakes, of course, are a pretty standard symbol to associate with Slytherins, being symbolic of change, fertility, healing, energy, and the duality of good and evil. But more interestingly it has been hypothesized that runespoors in particular are representative of writers – one part of the writer is the logical planner, one part is the imaginative center that dreams up all the magical flights of fancy, and the last part is a never-ending self-critic who never sees their writing as good enough.

Having a Runespoor Patronus means you find comfort in push and pull. You are a multi-faceted and complex person (appropriate to a Slytherin!) and you don’t just listen to one internal voice, you listen to several…and that’s okay! You know that way that you’ll never be fenced in or pigeonholed. That flexibility and versatility is reassuring because you’ll be able to face whatever comes your way. This is what the runespoor appears to tell you – you have the energy and the capability to think your way out. It is a healing presence that says just what you need to hear – whether it be encouragement, idealism, or a good old smack of reality – to keep fighting.

8. Is there anyone at Hogwarts that they can’t stand?

At first it was Merula since in the beginning she made sure her first few years at Hogwarts were absolute hell but they eventually become proper rivals and later on allies. Second was Diego because she wasn’t the biggest fan of him constantly flirting with her even if she knew it was all in good fun and just his way of being friendly. And then there was Beatrice Haywood. Eileen knows that Beatrice is just acting all emo and pessimistic because of unresolved and undealt trauma from being stuck inside a portrait for her entire first year at Hogwarts but Bea constantly talking about how “Hogwart’s is doomed”, telling her to “find the vaults faster” and her saying how much she hates her sister because she’s too coddling when Eileen herself would love to have her big brother Jacob give her the time and day instead of just pushing her away to protect her from a danger she is already deeply entangled with just really gets on her nerves.

13. What are their talents? Mundane or magical.

Eileen’s good at drawing and sings from time to time. She also knows how to play the guitar and ukulele. Her parents tried having her learn the piano but Eileen had a hard time learning to read sheet music and wasn’t all too interested in learning the piano. Magic wise, Eileen has a strong connection towards magical creatures particularly felines and she’s working hard to become a magizoologist.

29. What’s their wand type? What does it symbolize about them?

Eileen’s first wand is Beech wood wand with a phoenix feather core,11 inches and reasonably supple flexibility. Beech wood wands pair with witches and wizards if young, wise beyond his or her years, and if full-grown, rich in understanding and experience. Beech wands perform very weakly for the narrow-minded and intolerant. Eileen is wise and pretty mature for somebody her age and this is because Eileen was forced to grow up rather quickly. After Jacob went missing, her mother went into a deep grief and her father became a workaholic. He hardly ever came home and would stay weeks upon weeks cooped up in his office at the Ministry. One day, her father brought her into his office and told her that she had to be strong and that she had to be the one to watch over her mother and her little brother Conan. He told her to “Never depend on anyone Eileen, because they’ll only disappoint you in the end.” Before breaking down crying and pulling a 9-year-old Eileen into his chest as he tearfully apologized at not being strong enough for his own wife and children. This event is what causes Eileen to be so independent and apathetic.

Her second wand is Red oak wand, phoenix feather core, 12 1/2 inches, reasonably supple flexibility. According to Ollivander, the true match for a red oak wand is possessed of unusually fast reactions, making it a perfect duelling wand. The ideal master is light of touch, quick-witted and adaptable, often the creator of distinctive, trademark spells, and a good man or woman to have beside one in a fight. Eileen has grown a lot since her first year at Hogwarts and that’s largely due to the dangers she and her friends had to face with the Cursed Vaults and R. Eileen has always had pretty good reflexes but those reflexes greatly improve thanks to her uncle Magnus’s training. Because of the constant danger Eileen is put through she’s awakened what is known in her family as the Ryder Instinct. Years of hunting down dangerous dark wizards and witches and even dragons (they don’t hunt down dragons anymore btw) have caused any descendant of a Ryder to possess the ability to detect when danger is near. This magic is deeply ingrained into a Ryder’s blood and is the reason why fighting comes so naturally to those who are born into the Ryder family and why they are known as ‘The Family of Survivors’ because of the countless times the family was almost completely wiped out in the past and were only saved thanks to this strange power. The red oak’s reputation for being the perfect dueling wand along with Eileen’s Ryder instincts and reflexes make for quite the deadly combo.

47. What was their opinion of Patricia Rakepick?

She didn’t trust her AT ALL. Eileen has been disappointed by adults her entire life so when an adult says they just want to help she always doubts it and expects the worse from them but this time, she desperately wanted to trust Rakepick because she wanted oh so badly for an adult to actually care enough to deal with the vaults. To care enough about her well-being but Eileen’s instincts kept telling her that this woman was dangerous but even then she tried to ignore them because just this once she wanted to hope. But after Rakepick blasts her first wand to bits and she’s forced to watch her torture a bystander in Knockturn Alley she knew she couldn’t be trusted and so when the time came for them to finally face the Buried Vault and the dragon in it, Eileen was prepared for the betrayal she knew would happen but even then the sting of being betrayed and yet another adult disappointing and abandoning her still hurt like hell.

[blarrghe]

@midnightprelude sent me the prompt “Full Moon” for some autumnal vibes like a full-on month ago and this has been floating around in my brain ever since. In my defence, it is still fall and I wrote this during Sukkot so we’re even more on theme. Yes that is why it took me so long and no other reason... Anyway, spent all of yesterday obsessed with this idea and it’s not going away. Incredibly liberal liberties are taken with the nonexistence of Dalish lore and/or holidays. Influenced in part by that one post that said that Thedas’ two moons could orbit in such a way that they’re both full in the sky during Satinalia. ---

“Solas, you coming?” The Inquisitor peered his face into his tent with an expectant smile, rousing his attentions from where they’d settled in the pages of one of Varric’s books. They weren’t much his sort of thing, these tales of simplistic crime-fighting and antagonistic partnership, but sometimes even he needed something easy to read. He tried to find some memory of whatever task he might have already agreed to which could have the Inquisitor tapping at his tent walls at dusk. The days spent cleaning up rifts and wraiths in the aftermath of Orlais’ ill-thought civil war in the Exalted Plains had drained most of his energy. 

“Coming where?” He closed the book and gave the Inquisitor a long, curious look. He seemed bright and wakeful, which shouldn’t have surprised him - he’d been in the field alongside him enough that the Inquisitor’s seemingly boundless energy wasn’t exactly new - but the smile still never failed to confound him. This grey and harsh world shouldn’t have been able to produce such a lively spirit, but not only had it done so, Taren Lavellan was not even the only one. 

“Is he coming, boss?” Solas heard the Iron Bull call out from some distance behind his tent, eager energy in his voice as well. The Qunari was always arranging some kind of rowdy festivity, usually in celebration of some flimsy cause or another. We killed a dragon - hurrah! We took a Keep - hurrah! We closed all the rifts in the southern section of the map - hurrah! It’s raining - hurrah! Solas pursed his lips. 

“Satinalia?” The Inquisitor answered his question like it was something unforgettable that he should have already been excited for, “the full moons?” 

Ah. The holiday was popular in all parts of Thedas, but no doubt the Inquisitor had it in mind to celebrate according to the Dalish custom. He knew of the tradition in an abstract sense; his dreams had shown him pilgrimages of elves up onto high cliffs, dances and prayers offered up in misguided thanks to “creators” who did not deserve them. He sighed, and his displeasure appeared to disappoint the Inquisitor. Solas felt an unwelcome stab of guilt for once again meeting the Inquisitor’s attempts at relating to him like one of his own with refusal. He was a good Dalish elf, despite the Chantry's best efforts, and he had every right to be proud of that, even if he was wrong about all of it. 

“Your traditions are not my own.” He explained apologetically, and he was surprised to see the Inquisitor’s smile return. Then, Taren was laughing - not with cruelty, but with a sort of exasperated disbelief. 

“So?” 

Solas opened his mouth to speak, but found that he had no further protest ready. 

“You don’t have to believe, Solas, holidays are about more than that.” Taren shook his head like a parent correcting a child - how ironic - and left his tent without properly closing the flap, clearly expecting him to follow. Reluctantly, Solas obliged. 

“Where are you climbing to?” He asked as he stepped out into the cool evening. The camp was set up in a valley sheltered between rocky ridges and grassy hills, and fog settled into the crease of it like a blanket. To the east ran a path toward an ancient Elvhen ruin, and if he stayed to dream he would find battles raging bloody through the night. The land still bore the scars which the Chantry had burned into it; buried ruins and desecrated tombs. And it bore scars from even further back than that, in the shapes of the cliffs themselves. 

“Up there.” The Inquisitor pointed due north, toward a distant high hill of misshapen stone. Atop it rested a great and ancient statue; the figure of a lone wolf that seemed to survey the entire valley below. 

Solas chuckled, following the Inquisitor’s gaze up to the effigy of Fen’Harel. “Very well.” He agreed, noticing that along with The Iron Bull, the Inquisitor had apparently recruited Dorian, Varric, and even Sera for the expedition. They stood by, dividing bottles of wine and blankets into packs to carry between them. “Lead the way.”

The Inquisitor did lead, finding footholds with sharp eyes and scampering ahead to scout out the most secure paths as needed. Solas fell to the rear of their line, watching as the Inquisitor’s other elven companion hopped up the rocky cliffs behind him. 

“I’m surprised you agreed to celebrate something Elvhen, Sera.” He remarked, “has our fearless leader inspired you to reconnect with your people, perhaps?” He knew that he hadn’t, and though he was a little curious as to how the Inquisitor had managed to convince the disrespectful rogue to participate, mostly he just knew that the comment would annoy her in a way that might prove amusing. 

“Shut up, it’s not even elfy.” Sera didn’t miss a beat, snapping back with crass annoyance. “Everyone does Satinalia.” 

“But the pilgrimage to a high cliff at moonrise, that is most certainly elfy.” He replied, pressing her on cooly. 

“Hey, we all do it in our own way. No harm in trying something new.” Varric, always trying to keep the peace. Or maybe he was simply reassuring himself, the trek upwards did have him panting already. 

“Right,” Sera cut in, “and my way is: you drink until the moons blur into one.” She thumped the pack on her back with a grin. 

Solas sighed, and continued walking. 

The statue of Fen’Harel seemed so much larger up close. The Inquisitor settled himself down at the great wolf’s feet, leaning his back against one large toe of the Dread Wolf’s left paw, and began removing blankets and other supplies from his own pack. He unstrapped a bundle of thin branches from where they’d been fastened to the underside of his pack and with Dorian’s help began assembling a small fire. Solas laid his own supplies down nearby, and walked a few paces out to the very edge of the cliff, turning his face toward the shining full moons. 

Once a year, both of Thedas’ moons rise in the sky together, two full round circles of light, filling the sky and diminishing the light of any star that dares shine alongside them. Every culture across the world has devised some way to honour them, and always the holiday is associated with tricks and devilry, but also raucous behaviour and celebration. He had seen in dreams the festivals of ancient Tevinter, where the god of chaos was worshipped with the rising moons, and the celebrations in Antiva that set the whole city alight in lanterns while masked revellers danced wild in the streets. Dalish elves take to high cliffs, singing loud and howling songs up toward the heavens, and dancing round their fires. 

Dark had fallen as they climbed, night spreading over the valley on cool winds through the dry grasses. Moonlight shone through the fog brought in by the wide river that snaked through the planes, so that the ground below appeared even further away than it was; as if they’d climbed all the way to the heavens, leaving the valley under clouds. Above, the two bright moons had filled the sky, hanging before the eyes of the great wolf like distant jewels. They looked, every year, like they might in their paths across the sky collide and bring down ruin and destruction upon all things, but they never did. 

Suddenly, a loud howl broke the peace of the quiet night, and Inquisitor Taren Lavellan was standing next to him, one foot up on an outcropping of rock, his face high and his neck arched back, hands cupped around his mouth to amplify the sound. Solas nearly jumped, and the Inquisitor finished his howl by dropping his hands away from his mouth and grinning, turning to watch Solas’ stunned face with laughter creasing at the corners of his eyes. 

“You know, I always sort of liked Fen’Harel.” Solas looked into the Inquisitor’s eyes searchingly and swallowed with dry uncertainty, surely the Inquisitor was not testing him. “Not to emulate, of course, but I mean as a story.” 

“You like the story of your people’s betrayal?” 

The Inquisitor mostly ignored his question, opting to explain his clan’s customs in observance of the holiday as an answer instead. 

“The songs we sing for the moons, do you know them?” 

Solas shook his head. He had seen the dances and the singing in dreams, made out the names of the tyrants that this world’s elves honoured without sense, and turned his face away. He had studied enough of the Dalish lore to understand how they had fallen into such folly, but to watch them cry out in joy and worship for all that he had fought against, year after year, was too much to bear. 

“On Satinalia, we sing for Fen’Harel.” Taren continued, and Solas turned his attention from the lights in the sky back to the Inquisitor’s smiling face in shock, “it’s the only holiday that honours him.” 

“Honours him for what?” He couldn’t help but to be curious. Fen’Harel was an outcast figure in Dalish lore, a trickster and a fiend, depicted as being entirely without honour. 

Taren shrugged, “for all his mistakes, he was still one of the Creators.” He explained, “we sing a lament - literally speaking, it asks him back.” 

“It...what?” 

Taren sighed. “Well it’s symbolic, really. We don’t really pray for Fen’Harel to return, it's for those who leave, whether they are taken or led astray. A hope that they find the People again.” 

“That doesn’t explain what there is to like about Fen’Harel.” Solas replied, shaking his head over the explanation. “Is it not a Keeper’s job to protect the clan from the influence of the Dread Wolf?” 

The Inquisitor shrugged. “Fen'Harel ma ghilana.” He said, pointing the expression at Solas with a touch of sadness, and Solas chuckled despite himself. 

“The Dread Wolf leads me astray?” 

“It’s what we say when someone has been misled,” Taren began to explain, and Solas cut him off, still smirking. 

“I know.” 

“The story of Fen’Harel, it’s not something to protect people from like a warrior, waiting to be attacked by savage wolves in the night. That’s not what Fen’Harel is.” 

“Oh, then what is Fen’Harel?” He asked, unable to help himself. 

Taren avoided the concept of a straight answer once more, instead answering Solas’ question with one of his own.

“Do you know much about how a wolf pack functions?” He didn’t wait for the answer, “the idea that there’s a head wolf, a leader stronger than the others who determines the direction of the rest of the pack - that’s wrong. A wolf pack is like a Dalish clan.” He explained, “a wolf pack is a family. It works together. The old teach the young, the strong protect the weak, and the pack moves according to patterns as old as the land itself.” Solas nodded along, he knew well that wolves were misunderstood creatures. The Inquisitor continued. “Sometimes, a wolf will go off alone, either because of scarcity or fighting within the pack. But a lone wolf is vulnerable; it’s no way to live. They have to find other packs to survive, or perhaps find what it was they were seeking and return…” Solas listened patiently, watching Taren’s eyes drift toward the shining moons in thought as he spoke. The Inquisitor was a lone wolf in his own right, having left his clan well before the events of the conclave in his own quest for knowledge - Solas had been surprised and impressed to learn that history from him. “So the story of Fen’Harel, it isn’t just about lies and deceit. It’s a reminder of what’s important.” He finished. 

“And what’s that?” 

“Honesty, community.” Taren shrugged, “we protect the clan from Fen’Harel by upholding those things. There will always be evil in the world - that’s what it means, for the Dread Wolf to be incapable of leaving his tricks behind. Every culture has a figure to explain the inevitability of darkness. But there’s a reason he’s represented as a wolf, and not some other creature.” Taren went on, “a lone wolf, vulnerable because he forgets the purpose of his pack.” 

“You think that Fen’Harel is vulnerable?” He felt almost completely stripped away, standing awash in the bright moonlight. 

“We think he is lost.” Taren answered, seeming not to read the full extent of the stunned expression on Solas’ face, “just like any of the People who are left to fend in the world alone.” 

“An interesting interpretation.” Solas furrowed his brow and covered his raw nerves with the facts of what he had seen elsewhere in the world, “though I don’t know that it holds true in every clan.” 

Another shrug. “Of course it doesn’t. But the message is there, and every Dalish storyteller finds it. That’s why we tell the stories. Fen’Harel may be a hopeless figure, but he is hopeless because he is the lone wolf, not the other way around.” He turned to Solas, reaching out an arm to grip his shoulder warmly. “Your mistake is thinking we take to every story so literally, Solas.” 

Solas shook his head, ready to argue back against the Inquisitor’s odd reasoning. He had seen Dalish clans scar their faces like slaves to gods they didn’t understand, and been disrespected and shunned for daring to speak against traditions they followed blindly, when he’d tried. If anything, the Inquisitor - fearsome figure that he was - was closer to him than to the true Dalish he claimed to love. “I’ve certainly never met any Dalish elves who could view the tale of Fen’Harel so favourably.” He said cooly, and the comment left a slight frown over the Inquisitor’s face as it registered.

“And how many clans have you visited, exactly?” Taren pointed the argument back to him, but he didn’t answer. He had seen more clans rise and fall as he slept than Taren could have visited in his travels, no matter how extensive they may have been. 

“So you, First of Clan Lavellan, did not spend your life training to defeat Fen’Harel when he comes to rip the world apart?” He asked, trying to sound lighthearted, but even if the jab was clever, he found no joy in the teasing. 

“No.” Taren shook his head. “Though maybe I should have, if Darkspawn Magisters are real.” He chuckled dryly, “some stories about monsters are true, and some are just symbolism. Some are both. If the Creators were really betrayed by Fen’Harel, then he was a powerful god indeed, and we’ve seen all too well what a lone power bent on destruction can do.” He returned his gaze to the moon. “But the stories depict him as a wolf, and wolves don’t succeed alone.” 

“You’ve thought a lot about this.”

It wasn’t the first time that he’d heard the Inquisitor give unexpected and thoughtful consideration to his own traditions. So much was wrong with what the Dalish passed down through the generations as their history, and yet rather than rejecting it, the Inquisitor continuously surprised him with interpretations that seemed to set it right. 

“I was thinking of writing a book.” Taren admitted sheepishly, and Solas realised that he was looking to him now for approval. 

A book. The studious Inquisitor wished to leave his mark by sharing his loving study of Dalish lore with the world. Interpretations of the scraps left to him in a broken world. Wrong interpretations, Solas reminded himself, though it was becoming harder and harder to convince himself that they were. His heart sank with the secret realisation that he would never get to read them. He nodded approvingly, unable to help himself from returning Taren’s look with a small smile. “Of course you were.” 

Taren returned his attention to the moons and howled once more, the grin spreading back over his face as he did. Behind him, the small fire crackled and his companions laughed. Bull and Sera raised their voices to join his cry, sending wild and yelping howls off into the night. In the distance, a howl was returned, and Solas couldn’t tell if the sound came from real wolves, or the small Dalish clan they had met wandering the valley. 

“You act like a lone wolf, Solas. You spend all this time wandering, seeing all of our history in dreams, and you think you know, but how can you? And… what's the point? Who is it for?" The Inquisitor turned to him with something careful in his gaze, and concern tipped his words. 

Solas frowned. How like him, this impossible Dalish accident, to be concerned about his being alone. "Well, I suppose my knowledge has been useful to you, if knowledge must have a purpose." He contended, and the impossible Dalish accident shook his head.

"And before the Inquisition? After?"

Inquisitor Lavellan, who knew better than most what it meant to be lonely. If only he knew that the lone wolf he saw had no pack to return to in this world. If only he knew what the cost of that return would be. 

“I have never been Dalish. There is no clan to which I wish to return.” He said correctingly, and Taren shook his head at him again. 

 “You could have a place, lethallin.” Taren gave his shoulder another warm squeeze, and Solas’ heart grew heavy with the name that meant friend. 

“In your pack of wolves?” He smirked a little, hiding the spreading guilt with his indignation.

“In my family.” Said the Inquisitor, turning his back on him with one last firm and friendly pat to his arm before he returned to the fire.

If only he knew to whom it was he offered his friendship; what ruin Fen’Harel would bring to his world to escape the loneliness of his own mistakes. 

That night, as the Dread Wolf slept, he had uneasy dreams filled with the sounds of distant howling. 

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 6: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A pine cone that resembles a bearded man’s face

A plaid kilt with a tag in the back that states the owner is “The Greatest Adventurer Who Ever Lived.”

A promissory note to Ms Lorthe Toureme, entitling her to “…three of the finest racing steeds of Vervagen Steeds & Tannery.”

A purple silk scarf, bearing the insignia of House Ortesia.

A quill pen which, no matter what color ink is used, writes in green

A red velvet drawstring pouch containing a dozen very small silver tokens, each with a happy face painted on them.

A roc feather fan

A rolled up parchment containing a handful of black hair, but no writing.

A rusted fork that gently warms any food picked up with it.

A scroll of complex formulae and charcoal sketches, depicting some manner of winged flying machine.

---Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

---Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A pine cone that resembles a bearded man’s face

A plaid kilt with a tag in the back that states the owner is “The Greatest Adventurer Who Ever Lived.”

A promissory note to Ms Lorthe Toureme, entitling her to “…three of the finest racing steeds of Vervagen Steeds & Tannery.”

A purple silk scarf, bearing the insignia of House Ortesia.

A quill pen which, no matter what color ink is used, writes in green

A red velvet drawstring pouch containing a dozen very small silver tokens, each with a happy face painted on them.

A roc feather fan

A rolled up parchment containing a handful of black hair, but no writing.

A rusted fork that gently warms any food picked up with it.

A scroll of complex formulae and charcoal sketches, depicting some manner of winged flying machine.

A scroll titled: “The Rules and Regulations for Properly Attacking, Subduing, and Dispatching a Dragon of Any Solid Colour by Lord Pepping IV. Knowledgeable PC’s will remember that Lord Pepping was killed and eaten by a green dragon.

A seal stamp made of dark green stone that is always cool to the touch. The seal is a leafless tree.  

A sealed letter containing the deed to The Hunting Harlot in Port Judewater.

A set of a dozen silver nails.

A set of very accurate weights and scales.

A severed humanoid foot. It doesn’t bleed but moves as if it’s being tickled if touched.

A shard of glass. When looking through it, everything seen in ruins as if a great disaster has been brought about.

A sharpened feather

A sheet of tin rolled up into a scroll bound with platinum cord. The scroll must be unwound to be read, and reveals a chronological star chart, annotated in an alien language. If translated, the chart suggests a once in 433 year planetary alignment.  

A shrunken frozen head of an arctic tribesman. No matter the temperature it does not defrost.

A shrunken head of an unknown humanoid. It looks happy.

A silver hair pin.

A single bloodstained tarot card: The Seven of Swords (signifying betrayal and deception).  

A single, crystalline eye from a giant glass spider

A small bag containing the complete skeleton of a snake

A small black stone statuette of a grinning devil.

A small black stone, when placed in snow it gathers enough snow to it to form a fist-sized snowball.

A small cane box with the words “Eat Me” imprinted on small nickel plate set into the top. Inside is a small iced cake.  

A small coin pouch filled with ashes. Those who touch the ashes think of having children, or if they already have children, feel a dread that their children are soon fated to die.

A small drawstring pouch containing an exquisite, palm sized, crystal clear snowflake that does not melt.  

A small hand scythe. A strange force burns the hand of whoever holds it that has never harvested wheat by their own hand.

A small iron statuette of a dwarf, wielding an axe. It’s hard face is set with a murderous expression of cold fury.

A small lead model of a dragon in flight.

A small metal pot containing some extremely strong-smelling fermented fish of an unidentifiable type.

A small metallic rod that glows faintly and makes a whizzing noise when held aloft.

A small piece of green stone that foams in water and can be used as soap.

A small rock that was once part of an earth elemental

A small statue of an mind flayer made of bone, that unnerves intelligent creatures that look it in the eyes.

A small taxidermied imp, smoking a pipe.

A small velvet bag with a tiny padlocked draw chain. If opened, the bag contains the varnished skull of a human baby.  

A small wooden case holding a collection of pressed butterflies.

A small wooden statuette of an unfamiliar halfling-like creature.

A small, clear crystal shaped like a heart

A small, white marble carving of a small spider eating a larger one.

A smooth cylinder made from sandstone

A smooth grey river stone that briefly glows bright white every third day.

A square foot of black silk.

A stained scroll case containing an old chart revealing directions to the Lost Ruin of Sulgaard.

A stalagmite tip the size of a fist, that sometimes whispers it’s aspirations to be a stalactite hanging high above all to those who hold it.

A steel flask with a safety latch attached. A sloshing liquid can be heard inside. The flask contains a black, putrid smelling brine.

A steel flask with a safety latch attached. A sloshing liquid can be heard inside. The flask contains a delicious fey honey.

A steel hip flask filled with a fiery whisky.

A steel plated human skull.

A stone arrowhead. When laid under a person’s head as they sleep it causes pleasant dreams.

A stone carving of a furred humanoid creature.

A suggestive mermaid figurine carved from drift wood.

A surprisingly light, obsidian coin of unknown origin.

A tarnished gold anklet chain with three tarnished charms: a windmill, a boot and a torch. A fourth, gleaming and untarnished charm, is also attached: a sailing ship.  

A thick cotton pouch containing a powerful lodestone (Magnet). If the lodestone is within two feet of a compass, it produces false readings.  

A thin, square foot of iron with a hole in the centre and unknown text engraved on both sides.

A tin plated halfling skull.

A tiny opal jar filled with extremely fine, bright blue dust.

A tiny statuette of an emaciated, skeletal man that occasionally winks.

A tooth from a water drake that always has condensation on it

A toy wooden top that cannot be made to spin, but always remains balanced, upside down.

A trio of cloth arm bands. One labelled “Happy”, one labelled “Sad”, and one labelled “Orange”.

A two inch disk of ebony. One side of the disk is inscribed with three intertwined serpents. Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize the ebony tri-serpent is a symbol of the Six Eyes, a network of informants that sell their services to the highest bidder.  

A two-foot length of catgut rope with knots tied every four inches.

A two-foot tube of rolled paper.

A varnished case containing a string of garlic, two wooden stakes and a silver cross.  

A very small paper box which contains a tiny twig that disappears in a puff of smoke when taken out of the box, only to reappear in the box 24 hours later.

A war medal given to those who fought in the Goblin Wars over a hundred years ago.

A waterproof satchel containing a sea blue masquerade mask, with a slim wooden handle.

A wax seal matrix bearing the insignia of The Ebon Claw, a long dead thief.

A well detailed tentacle made of copper.

A well made violin that makes no sound when played.

A white burial shroud that gives an unsettling feeling to any creatures near it

A white veil with a silvered chain. The silvered chain is incredibly strong, and could be used as a garrotte.  

A wine case containing a bottle labelled Rowfred’s Finest Red, depicting a cheery bald fellow raising his glass with a sly wink.

A wooden model of a horse which has another, smaller wooden horse inside it.

A wooden witch doctor’s mask, trimmed with bright feathers and two horns made of the teeth of a large cat. The mask has three painted eyes and a beak instead of a mouth.  

A wyvern’s stinger

An ancient and ornate bronze oil lamp. It’s badly tarnished and in need of a thorough cleaning. From time to time, the lamp seems to creak of its own accord.

An antique crystal perfume dispenser with a hose and squeeze pump. The crystal reservoir is overlaid by a pewter octopus with human eyes. A green liquid can be seen inside.  

An apparently empty glass jar with a white wood lid. Any attempt to twist the lid loose is immediately met with a loud hissing noise, as if the jar is under extreme pressure.

An artistic painting of two hamsters locked in mortal combat.

An ebony canister sealed with wax. The canister is filled with ash, in the middle of which are a pair of pulsating purple pods connected together by slick, black tendrils.  

An elven rattle made from a tortoise shell

An envelope, wax sealed with the mark of Lady Farris, the infamous Tax Collector of Weatherbrund.  

An intricate eyeglass shaped in the likeness of a yellow cat’s eye.  

An intricately carved wooden rose.

An intricately miniature version of a strange town contained in a snowglobe, every now and again lights flicker in the tiny houses.

An IOU confirming that a certain farmer in a distant land owes you three suckling pigs.

An iron horseshoe which makes a slight humming sound at all times.

An iron plated dwarf skull.

An iron rose of spectacular craftsmanship.

An iron slave collar with cruel spikes affixed to the inside.

An ivory stamp used for wax sealing letters bearing the heraldic marks of an ancient and forgotten ruler.

Half of a palm-sized geode that pulses dimly with purple light.

Half of a templar’s amulet depicting the sorcerer king Hamanu