Legends of Myrken Wood - Sabinus Willoughby
And Other Various Authors
Tubbius (From Minor Deities of Amasynia)
Other names: Tummus, Tobias, Tubbius Maximus, Tubbius Ploavis, The Great God
Popular symbols: Two concentric circles, the inner of the two offset and placed near the bottom of the outer.
Location of followers: Primarily northern Amasynia, around Fisherman's Bay; originally, central Amasynia
Supposed appearance: Not encountered in a human form; all recorded, reputable encounters have involved dreams of a fat, human torso that stretches up into the heavens and a booming, pleasant voice.
The worship of the god named Tubbius is understandably very limited, to say the least; it falls chiefly into the town of Westenford in Northern Amasynia and surrounding lands, although some converts have been found as far south as Xanth Grange.
His origins, scholars have found, are clearly tied to the worship of the largely forgotten Amasynian nature god Ploav from approximately five centuries past. Ploav was largely seen as entirely beneficial to humanity, a model for human cooperation with nature. Worship of him was largely limited to a group of druids in central Amasynia known as the Ploavis; their practices and teachings were focused on reverence of and harmony with nature, seeing the entire cycle of sowing, growing, harvesting, and using as the ultimate representation of man's place in the world: temporary, transient, and meant to guide others and work with others. Humility was the final, central tenet.
The final Ploavian Maximum, or head of the druid community, was a man named Tobias; all records indicate that he was the youngest of their order to take such a position, wise, exceptionally charismatic, and, also, exceptionally plump in a gathering of druids largely given to frailty. All records (chiefly found in the Temple of Tubbius in Amasynia's coast city of Westenford) indicate that in his eighty years with the order (from birth to his passing), he pushed their worship in a radically new direction.
Over time, the emphasis on the essentials of the harvest and on humility were neglected; instead of human placement as being one with nature, Tobias stressed that Ploav's mission, revealed to him through a revelation from Ploav himself, had to be adjusted; the harvest cycle was to be seen, instead, as a metaphor of how fleeting the human condition was; excessive humility was a misguided attempt that was only leading to the religion's failure to spread. Though questionable at first, these concepts became very much the norm in the space of a few short years of pleasurably enjoying their new, grossly accepted excesses in food and drink, which were supposedly intended to bring new converts to the fold.
Whether it was Ploav's intention or not, it worked; through the group's search of more and more food and drink to revel with as part of their ceremonies, the Ploavians helped found orders in various towns in northern Amasynia, including a temple in Westenford. The focus on such bacchanalian delights made the order excessively appealing to the excessively rich, the religion's chief devotees.
On Tobias's death, his followers, who had been revering the name of Ploav in name only, shifted their focus--and the emphasis on deity itself--to the dead Ploavian Maximum. Through slurring of the name across languages, Tobias was commonly accepted instead as "Tubbius," and, as is common with men made or thought gods, wild stories of his chief characteristics (namely, his girth and his warm, outgoing nature and leadership abilities) and his life expanded. The names of temples were adjusted to suit the Great Shift (as it is known among followers), and life continued as was so grossly, exaggeratedly normal.
There have been, finally, sketchy notes of a sacred few (three to date) over the centuries of this religion's existence being selected as chosen representatives of Tubbius. All of them lived to abnormally old ages (all around a hundred), and all of them lived to see such despite being rather large men. Of course, many simply note all of these as being merely coincidental.
Very few, if any, followers of other deities formally accept the existence of Tubbius in any form; in many cases, the Great God's followers are seen solely as corpulent, zealous priests for a way of life shunned by the poor and unaccessible to any but the immensely rich.
Of Wintry Wonders and Wobbly Ones
Worldwide, the wonders of winter, Dear Reader, are many and numerous, various and sundry, and even plentiful! Myrken Wood, though, has a scarcity of such. No unicorns skirt the snowy woods in winter, no abominable snowmen lumber about, and no faeries sprinkle their magical dusts in hidden recesses. In fact, one might say that there's very little magic at all to Myrken Wood in winter.
But there is a little.
Well, there is quite a bit, actually, Dear Reader. It's just concentrated very nicely into two people, both quite real and yet quite fictional at the same time. These are Myrken Wood's own Father and Mother Winter.
Father Winter is the greatest toymaker to ever carry around a knife to whittle with, thread to sew a doll with, or a chisel to poke and pry with. His attitude is eternally jolly and generous, and he's said to be unable to say or do much to ever hurt anyone. There simply isn't a mean bone in his big-boned body. Nowhere amid his roly-poly girth and his poofy, fluffy, enormous moustache and beard can he hide any anger or a bad temper. If there's one habit he really should stop, however, it's that he smokes a pipe almost constantly, though some believe this is how he focuses his magical powers! This is an absurd notion, at best.
Mother Winter is his complement and his partner forever. The two of them are immortal, yes, never to pass away from age or dreadful consequences. The Good Mother is renowned for her cooking, especially (someone has to keep the Father's stomach swollen to its legendary size!), but also for her sewing and her singing. She is said to be the match of her husband in all things; just like the Father, she, too, is not said to harbor any malice against others.
Their sole purpose in life is to reward the good boys and girls at the end of each year--'round what most Elves call Sylimburn, folks in other provinces call by other titles, including the marginally popular Frost Tide. Anyway, the good Father and Mother only help, only reward; no punishments are ever inflicted on the naughty children, though it's said that the Father keeps a most expansive list of those naughty and nice.
Their appearances are simple! Take the roundest, funniest, jolliest old man you've ever met--your grandfather, perhaps--and even he cannot compare with the butterball that is the good Father Winter. Eternally aged but never old and decrepit, he is very easy to pick out from a crowd, should one ever have the chance to meet him. As for the Mother? She herself is much more elusive than her husband, but she's said to nearly be his match in looks, being a pleasingly plump lady herself with a head of well-kept snowy hair. Both are said to be weak of vision, with a pair of eyeglasses atop their pudgy little noses. In addition, Father Winter, in particular, is said to have a fondness for absurd colors of clothing, said to wear all manner of outfits that simply don't look very nice on him.
Rumors have it that their magic powers--even their very lives!--are tied to the season of winter itself, and snow, and ice, and cold. Rumors have it that these two lovable entities--whether from their own doing or that of some higher force--are almost two different people the rest of the year, outside of winter. Some say that they have seen these two marvelous people in the middle of summer. In the middle of summer, Father Winter is said to look mostly the same, but he is said to be even rounder of belly, though slower of foot and harder of breath. His wife, though, the Good Mother herself, is said to be a much different lady, said to look possibly thirty years younger with ravishing, long red hair, though she (like her husband) is still rather plump.
Have they any children? This is what most folks wonder. In short, we don't know if these two beings, with all the children in the world under their lovable care, have any of their own. It's quite possible that their magic--which supposedly does everything from keeping Father Winter from getting too thin or too fat to letting them summon cakes and cookies and pastries at will--keeps them able to have children despite their apparent ages, though none of the legends mention any babies. One would have to wonder and chuckle at the thought, though; if the Father is any indication, then at least some of the babies they would have would certainly be quite trying on the Mother when she could have them!
The Archon Blade
There are many legends and tales of mystical weapons abound in the world. Some have little more ability than simply lighting up when a certain race is near; others have been key in widespread and massive destruction of entire cities. There is one in particular that has a most interesting history: the Archon Blade. Named for the celestial beings (of angels or demons, it has never been clear) that purportedly created it. The weapon is rumored to have a number of curious attributes, but weapon details are not nearly as interesting as history.
The earliest evidence of the Archon Blade dates back to some five hundred years prior to the epoch of Anno Regalis, in a place called Dorthon. Dorthon was about a hundred leagues south of modern-day Xanth Grange; the city ceased to exist not long after the emergence of the Blade. Dorthon was at war with a neighboring Barbarian nation which culminated in a tremendous battle on Dorthon's edge where it was rumored that the Barbarian Captain wielded an ethereal blade that ignored enemy weapons and armor, affected only by flesh. While there is no hard evidence for these rumors, no surviving journals or records other than the old folklore, bodies were recently dug up and discovered where Dorthon was located that were severed in curious locations where armor should have protected them; these findings were made more curious by the fact that many of these bodies were still wearing their armor, untouched where the Blade had clearly marked their flesh.
After the battle, Dorthon collapsed literally, economically and politically. The Barbarian nation that earned its victory followed suit shortly after, and no mention of the Archon Blade is made for a few hundred years - until about three hundred years prior to Anno Regalis.
The sword reappears in a small village in Heath, just southwest of Threminor. Mentions of the sword passing through the village were found in a preserved journal of one of the villagers; not much detail is given, but the find has led to many rumors saying that perhaps the Archon Blade had something to do with some of Threminor's invasions. No account has been found in Threminor mentioning the sword, however.
Next the sword appears in Amasynia, in one of the many caves in Devil Ridge. The cave was evidentially used as a housing for a large body of some sort as evidenced from the many domestic remains found. Several drawings were discovered depicting armies lead by a captain wielding a special blade, as well as more greatly deteriorated - and cut up - bodies encased in armor unscathed by weapons (the caves in the Ridge don't preserve nearly as well as the dry grounds to the south).
Then the Archon Blade disappears again, this time until A.R. 167 where it was used in the far north, in Bolgardia. The sword was used by one of Bolgardia's top generals, Jonathon D'Rael, for a number of campaigns. Records of the Archon Blade at the time fit the rumors (though many scholars argue that the myths and rumors spawned from the official documentation, and the sword may have not existed prior to its use in Bolgardia) - an ethereal blade that passed through solid objects like a ghost, but cut flesh just as fatally as any traditional blade. What's more, is that the Blade would at certain times disappear entirely, leaving only the hilt behind. This happened once during a battle in A.R. 169, causing General D'Rael to be critically wounded and to dispose of the blade. It was reported by a scout afterwards that a group of bandits had recovered the blade and was moving south.
Nothing since has been heard of the Archon Blade. Some say that the Blade simply ceased to exist, leaving only the hilt behind which could be anywhere; others say it was destroyed, while some still insist that the sword is out there, somewhere to be found. These are all, of course, rumors; there isn't much to go on to even start looking for the sword - except for the rumors that the Blade, like everything else dark and mysterious, is waiting on Shadow Moon Isle where all adventurers' paths end.
