Other Dark Elves We Like: The Shadow Elves

Sit down, my children, and I’ll tell you a tale from the days when D&D was Advanced D&D and “plain” D&D had a life and a setting of its own.

The Known World’s shadow elves were pale, but they were essentially drow, especially in early incarnations (such as in The Elves of Alfheim and The Orcs of Thar Gazetteers)—right down to Clyde Caldwell cover art picturing them with gray skin. In The Shadow Elves Gazetteer, we discovered that they were more misunderstood than anything else, and that their main deity, Rafiel, was not the ogre we had assumed. (Most of the shadow elves that surface dwellers encountered were devoted to the bloodthirsty Atzanteotl, which explains the shadow elves’ poor public relations.)

Still it was a fascinating culture—purple-marked shamans, pterodactyl riders, a capital city reverse gravity-ed to a cavern ceiling, and a high temple that was actually—SPOILER ALERT—a nuclear reactor. Bizarre and wonderfully cool.

(The schattenalfen, the shadow elves’ cousins in the Hollow World, were more reliably evil—totally committed to Atzanteotel and basically downright wicked. But we learned little about their culture beyond that, sadly. And in terms of cool sidekicks, stunted, dumb red dragons totally lose to cave pterodactyls. Just sayin’.)

The Dark Seldarine: Corellon Larethian

In the Dark Seldarine pantheon, Corellon Larethian is the undisputed leader of an otherwise fiercely independent and chaotic bunch. He is simultaneously a deity of nature and courtly intrigue, of bloody struggle and magical accomplishment. He is everything elves are and more: beautiful, fearsome, striking, magical, wild, fey, and unpredictable. Where he goes, his court—and even the realm of Arvandor itself—usually travels with him. When travelers awake to find themselves surrounded in lush woodlands with a mighty troupe of elves on stags, fine stallions, and suspiciously savage-looking unicorns passing by, they know Corellon is near.

Dark Corellon often goes by the monikers “The Laughing Prince” and “The Verdant Prince,” and his love of a good jest and a good hunt is indeed well known. (For the mortals who cross his path, the difference between the two entertainments may seem moot, particularly when Corellon is being spurred on by bets from divine thief Erevan Ilesere.) He styles himself as a youthful prince untouched by the troubles and responsibility of rulership. This casual pose helps him maintain order among his fractious brood.

Make no mistake, though. Corellon is the head of the elven pantheon, and his ire is great. Should his followers and sacred woodlands be threatened, his leadership challenged or insulted, or when the urge to sow fear arises, he dons the antler-crowned mantle of the Erlking. As the largely nocturnal Erlking, he is attended by storms, baying hounds, and a wreath of erlkings (naked and wingless—though they can still fly—Chaotic Evil pixies that travel in tittering swarms). Wielding a spear that turns those it kills into greenbound creatures (Lost Empires of Faerûn, or use shambling mounds) he is the personification of the dark and inhospitable wilderness.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral (as the Prince) or Chaotic Evil (as the Erlking)
Cleric Alignment: CE, CG, CN, NE
Domains: Chaos, Elf, Magic, Trickery, War (as well as Darkness, Evil, and Storm as the Erlking)
Favored Weapon: Longsword (as the Prince) or shortspear (as the Erlking)

Other Dark Elves We Like: Dier Drendal

In our efforts to move on beyond drow, we’ve been sure to praise reinventions of the drow archetype, such as Keith Baker’s take on Eberron’s drow. Now let’s look at some other dark elves that we think hit the mark.

The inhabitants of Dier Drendal, from Sword & Sorcery's Scarred Land setting, are not drow per se. But subterranean elves forced to serve an evil, lead golem-bound god on a slowly trundling city beneath the earth?—wow, that rethinks the drow concept in some great ways. (Does anyone know if there was ever a sourcebook? Was it any good?)

While we’re at it, we should note that the Scarred Lands setting did a pretty good job with elves of all kinds, and anyone looking to cast elves in a new light in their campaign should try to dig up these books. Some of Scarn’s elves were the noble forest-dwellers of Tolkien, while the forsaken elves were the chaotic child-stealers of European folklore, and still others were truly decadent and debauched hedonists.

In fact, we should take this time for giving props to Sword & Sorcery in general. They were among the first out of the box to really tap the potential of the Open Gaming License. Their Creature Collections combined the stats of 3rd Edition with the well-rounded monster ecologies of 2nd. And the basic concept behind Scarred Lands—which one could easily and too hastily write off as blatant rip-off of Greek mythology (gods vs. titans)—blossomed into a truly interesting setting. Almost every monster had a reason for being, good’s victory was by no means certain, and many often overlooked building blocks of the D&D system (especially druids) got new vitality and breadth. A fine world that, while I never played it in it, I could never get enough reading about.

(Though explain to me again why gnomes in Scarn only appeared as psionic-addled pygmies? Oh right, because no one knows what else to do with them. Say what you like about the silliness of tinker gnomes in Dragonlance, Spelljammer, and the Known World/Mystara, but at least machinery gave them a defined character. Eberron’s elementalists and information-brokering bards was an interesting take…but I guess it didn’t (take, that is), since gnomes didn’t make the leap to 4th Edition as a playable race.)

The Dark Seldarine

Gods shape their adherents, and adherents shape their gods. If you change who a race of people worships, you inevitably change the race.

In most incarnations of D&D, elves are a force for good, and their gods are as well. The elven pantheon, the Seldarine, is an important bulwark against the depredations of the wicked orc and goblin deities, and they make their home of Arvandor on the Chaotic Good plane of Arborea.

Anyone seeking to trade the idyllic creations of Tolkien for the more dangerous sprites of folklore need only start with the Seldarine themselves. In your world, the elven gods might be Neutral, Chaotic Neutral, or even Chaotic Evil. Their children would accordingly be far more wild and fey, even feral, in nature. And the deep woods might become a place even hardy adventurers fear to tread.

So what might a Dark Seldarine pantheon look like? Let’s start at the top in two days, with Corellon Larethian.

In the meantime, clerics and other divine casters can, of course, worship the whole pantheon, rather than just one particularly deity.

The Dark Seldarine Pantheon
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Cleric Alignment: CE, CG, CN,
Domains: Chaos, Elf, Magic, Plant, Trickery
Favored Weapon: Longbow, longsword, or shortspear

Cloud Elves

I must confess that I doubt I’ll ever run an Oriental Adventures or a Rokugan campaign (I don’t even have time for a European one!). But that’s no reason to let an excellent book with some evocative classes go to waste…

The Lyrithen, or cloud elves, are a reclusive clan of elves that live in the cloud forests of the Stoneheart mountain range. They are known for green, white, and silver garb, and some occasionally sport silver hair as well.

Cloud elves are contemplative and solitary by nature. They spend much of their time hunting for mushrooms and mosses in the misty terrain or tending small flocks of goats or vicuñas. Many are accomplished musicians, particularly with simple wind instruments like flutes, double flutes, and panpipes.

Though they are as drawn to magic as most elves, Lyrithen spellcasters tend to be druids or windspeakers. A windspeaker has the same abilities as a shugenja, with air as her favored element. A few individuals occasionally favor water or earth instead; though they are properly termed river- or stonespeakers, they are usually referred to as windspeakers anyway. Although they may learn fire spells, no Lyrithen ever favors the element.

Advanced windspeakers are known for their skill at divination and for the whirlwinds they conjure in self-defense. Truly exceptional individuals also befriend sky wyrms (Dragon’s “Voyage of the Princess Ark”)—great beasts with lion forefronts, feathered wings, and dragon tails from the Elemental Plane of Air.

Rehabbing the Drow: Eliminating the Spider Queen

As we mentioned in our previous installment of “Rehabbing the Drow,” drow identity is very bound up in the worship of Lolth. Remove her and the picture changes dramatically. Perhaps they all become good...or perhaps they simply become a different shade of evil.

Such was the promise when Eberron was released. Finally, we were told, drow who don’t worship the Spider Queen! What a notion! What possibilities! So who do they worship?

…A scorpion god.

*Sigh*

Actually I'm kidding. I like the drow of Eberron and Vulkoor a lot. Ordinarily, yes, I’d savage the concept as unoriginal—we've just switched genders and arthropods. But it’s actually perfect for the Eberron mission—make the familiar different, but close enough to the original so it’s still D&D. Drow are still into bugs, just not spiders; they’re still mostly evil, but not single-mindedly so; they’re still tough, but as fierce barbarians and sorcerers instead of as assassins and wizards.

(Yes, it’s a wee bit problematic to a have a dark-skinned subrace living in savagery south of paler cousins, but it works for the setting, so once again—see the essay tucked away in the Comments section of my first post—we’ll overlook any unintended and unfortunate real-world correlations.)

Plus, not every drow in Eberron is a scorpion-worshipper. The Umbragen dabble in the powers of Shadow (Dragon #330), and the Sulatar play with fire magic (Secrets of Xendrik). And having them regularly fighting giants make for outstanding imagery. All in all, the drow of Eberron are a nice tweak on the familiar…especially in a setting where most of the “regular” elves range from a touch too jingoistic to downright creepy.

(Props also to Keith Baker for giving giants their own continent and historical context—it revitalizes them like nothing else has since a few articles in Dragon #141 and the power boost they got in 2nd Edition. Well done!)

Plague Dwarves

The plague dwarves carry loss of the Everdelve in their very bones. The Ironbond, Steelguard, and Kazzar clans were among the last to forsake their ancient holdings, and whole family lines were lost to mind flayer experimentation. As the Brain Nations fell in turn to fiends from the Lower Planes, the descendants of these abused lines escaped. Haggard, thin, and tottery, with pale skin and patchy, jet-black beards, these dwarves are sallow remnants of a fallen age. Cursed with a mysterious wasting disease, they are feared and rejected by all who come in contact with them.

The Healed are plague dwarves who have overcome their families’ dark affliction. They are as stout and bold as other dwarves, but they love the depths of the earth less. Most refuse to handle a hammer or pick, instead preferring axes or even short swords. They keep their hair cropped close to the skull and some even shave their beards. When asked why, they answer only, “To remember.” When pressed further, their hands go to the hilts of their weapons.

Mirror Elf Cities

To most visitors, the Plane of Mirrors reveals itself as little more than a mysterious set of hallways—each hallway linking a series of mirrors that have some relation to each other in a grouping known as a constellation (Manual of the Planes). The mirror elves have forcibly constructed cities in the largest of these constellations, turning the Mirror Plane’s hallways into gigantic, otherwordly apartment complexes (for lack of a better term).

Currently there are three major mirror elf cities. The centuries of experience that forged the Murrowfey into one people also divided them into castes based on the professional affiliation of their leaders. Each of the three most important castes—roughly translated from the Elven as the Illusionists, the Loremasters, and the Assassins—controls their own city, notably shaping the character.

Still, travel among the three cities occurs frequently, and several minor castes exist as well. Lightfarmers, for instance, for instance, are vital to every mirror elf city. The Plane of Mirrors is barren, so they capture the light of the real world in greenhouses, growing the crops upon which the Murrowfey rely.

Other castes of interest to adventurers include the Artisans, who are known for their stained glass golems (Monster Manual II) and the Mirrorward, who protect Murrowfey cities from the plane’s native inhabitants, the nerra (Fiend Folio).

Mirror Elves

In humanity’s infancy, its rapid population explosion was watched by the elves with a mixture of fascination, resignation, and alarm. When mankind reached the borders of their domains, elven civilizations great and small were divided on how to respond. Some opened their doors. Many nocked arrow to bowstring. Other fled: to the sea, to the sky, to north and south, underground, or deeper into the forests.

In those times there was a group of several far-flung settlements that were linked—geographically through a series of portals, and academically through a respected order of illusionists and loremasters. Acting upon the order's advice, the elves in these cities and villages chose to hide. First they cloaked themselves and their dwellings in illusions. Still the humans came, eventually bearing down on the elven cities until that they could not be diverted or misdirected away. The elves turned to invisibility and magical architecture, living in and among the humans in secret. With heartbreak, they watched as their groves were cut down for housing and their sacred springs were turned into watering holes and cesspits.

Finally they sought simply to escape. But disastrous forays into the Plane of Shadow and the Ethereal Plane nearly wiped them out. Broken and embittered, they returned to their homelands, now smothered by full-fledged human cities.

In the end, the elves turned to the only place left to them. They disappeared into the mirrors of their occupiers.

In the Plane of Mirrors, the disparate clans merged into one people. Together they bear the name a dwarven antiquarian, the first to conclusively document their existence, gave them: Murrowfey—mirror elves.

Other elves hate orcs, goblins, and all manner of monstrous humanoids. But to the Murrowfey, these are nuisances easily foiled. Murrowfey save their ire for cities and those who live in them: dwarves, gnomes, halflings, and especially humans. Civilization, in the urban, trash-strewn, hive-like manner practiced by man, is an anathema to mirror elves, who remember their carefully constructed groves and living crystal towers of old. They watch through the windows of their despoilers’ own mirrors and quake with rage at the devastation of their homes.

Sometimes they work in secret to subtly influence lords and politicians through illusions and carefully worded compulsion spells. But when they can bear it no longer, they burst back through the mirrors with slaughter as their only aim. When a king does in a locked and warded room with no sign of entry, you can be sure the Murrowfey are to blame.

Were travel to and from the Plane of Mirrors easy, mirror elves might be humankind’s greatest scourge. But most mirror elves lack the magic to do so—and those who do are busy contending with the Mirror Plane’s other inhabitants—so such assassination attempts must be carefully parceled out.

And Murrowfey are not immune to the dangers of their adopted home. As experienced planar travelers know, the Plane of Mirrors responds to interlopers by spawning duplicates who attempt to kill them. Mirror elves who are not careful returning home from a mission can find themselves assaulted by their mirror twins when they can least afford it.

Thus, they plan their journeys into man’s world very carefully. So for the most part murrowfey watch…and wait…and seethe.

The Murrowfey’s expatriation to the Demiplane of Mirrors came at a high cost. Mirror elves no longer have the typical elven affinity for the natural world. They may not become druids or learn druidic magic of any kind, nor cast spells in the Plant domain. As avowed hunters of men, many mirror elves become rangers, but they cast spells as sorcerers rather than as divine casters, and they may not cast any ranger spell that is also on the aforementioned forbidden lists. They may, however, substitute spells of equal level from the assassin class list.

Interzone & The Yuan-Ti

Yesterday I hinted at Burroughs/Cronenberg's version of Tangiers as a perfect backdrop for a yuan-ti-based campaign. So what might a D&D version of Interzone look like?...

Everything about the city of Antaeziers confounds. This coastal city is a vital port of call along the Southern trade route, yet it is controlled by no one nation. Inexplicable gaps in treaties among the interested colonizing powers left it an independent city. While it is theoretically partitioned into four territories under the control of consulates, in reality the city looks after itself.

Navigating the city is difficult. Its streets and causeways are a warren of stairs, ramps, balconies, balustrades, and arches. A thoroughfare might dead-end for no reason, while an alley might open into an elaborately tiled courtyard. Minarets in the distance seem to grow and recede independently of the viewer’s location. Bells chime at random, irrespective of the hour.

Even the very geography and climate of Antaeziers seems to work against the visitor. Hilly terrain and jungle scrub surround and encroach upon the city. The heat and humidity inspire lethargy. And underground vents in the surrounding volcanic soul, popularly said to be gateways to the Land of the Dead, release strange plumes into the air at regular intervals. These gases settle over the city in a fog that tinges the sky in sepia and seems to stretch dawn and dusk impossibly long. They also have a numbing effect on the spirit (-1 Wis for 1d6 hours, DC 10 Fortitude negates, checked every 12 hours; three checks failed consecutively leave the recipient dazed). Occasionally, these gases trigger mass hallucinations as well.

Visitors to the city may be forgiving for not noticing the difference, because the city itself seems like one giant fever dream. Nomads, beggars, and merchant princes all mingle over hookahs. Wizards’ spellbooks also serve as familiars, morphing into bad-tempered awakened beetles and clockwork abacuses without warning. Specially bred troglodytes extrude straw-like crests of ambrosia-filled flesh for addicts to suckle from. And pushcarts filled with hot coals serve giant centipedes, which are wrapped and smoked for pleasure or roasted and eaten as a delicacy. (Such carts offer poor families a risky mainstay, as those who hunt the vermin in the city’s underworld are often consumed in return.)

Perhaps the yuan-ti created this phantasmagoric city. Perhaps they did not. But they have certainly profited from it. Tainted ones manage the supply chains for the most sought-after and illicit drugs and other pleasures. A brothel madam’s robes hide the snake limbs of a half-breed. Well after midnight, in dark chapels filled with incense and pillows the size of camels, abominations lead their cultists in unholy rites. And no one leaves Antaeziers if the yuan-ti do not wish it so.

At least, not alive.

The Essential Yuan-Ti Reader

As subterranean creatures with access to powerful magic and poison, drow make excellent behind-the-scenes schemers and manipulators. As combatants, drow are easy for you to scale to match PCs’ abilities—just add class levels. Their hidden cities make for exotic destinations, and their worship of the loathsome Spider Queen encourages heroic intervention by adventurers.

If you’re looking to move on beyond drow (and hopefully you are—it is the title of the blog, after all), the campaign villain you choose should ideally reach the high bar already set by the drow. Flipping through the Monster Manual, one race immediately leaps out: the yuan-ti.

Simple to level, consisting of several subspecies, and coldly reptilian in nature, yuan-ti are easily a match for drow in both ability and sheer malice. Their affinity for poisons, disguises, and enchantments make them hard to pin down, and their ability to recruit and even transform humanity to their cause makes them truly despicable and insidious. The drow will enslave and murder you. But you’ll serve the yuan-ti without even realizing you’re doing so…until the day they enslave and murder you. You might even wind up as one of them. Or you might wind up as lunch.

It’s no accident that two of the best (or at least most readable and thought-provoking) supplements for 3rd Edition put yuan-ti front and center. In Ghostwalk, yuan-ti are heartless, otherworldly monsters, spilling forth from the Demiplane of Coil to assault the City of the Dead (and nearly driving that setting’s elves to extinction for good measure). In Serpent Kingdoms, yuan-ti are the ultimate plotters, secret agents, and saboteurs, bringing down or subverting human civilization from the inside. Both of these books—along with an article about yuan-ti sociology, “Venom and Coil” by Robin Laws, in Dragon #305—are required reading for DMs wanting to run yuan-ti in any D&D edition. (Races of Faerûn also gets a nod for pureblood and tainted one stats, but Serpent Kingdoms is the vastly more essential work.)

DMs wanting to dig deeper should check out the Settites from Vampire: The Masquerade. These vampiric and herpetological troublemakers are great analogs for the yuan-ti, and the various supplements describe any number of inspiring ways that snake cultists and snake monsters could embed themselves in a city, enmesh themselves in its politics, tempt, seduce, and intoxicate its citizens, and help bring it to ruin (or make it flourish) as fits their nefarious ends.

The yuan-ti also give DMs a reason to explore outside D&D’s traditional European backdrop. If characters take the battle to the yuan-ti, they can easily find themselves in locales more reminiscent of the Mediterranean, North Africa, India, or Brazil. Inspiration might come from 2nd Edition AD&D’s Al-Qadim campaign setting, Will Eisner’s The Spirit comics, or One Thousand and One Nights (often known as The Arabian Nights).

For a truly trippy backdrop to a yuan-ti campaign, rent David Cronenberg’s Naked Lunch. Forget about its tenuous connection to Williams Burroughs’s novel—or plot entirely—and just let the sense of it (and the truly creepy creatures) inspire you…

Silkworm Drow (Moth Elves)

Yesterday we discussed revamping drow in your campaign by making them all good. Here's what one such tribe might look like...

While “silkworm drow” is a useful term for differentiating these elves from their wicked cousins, they themselves would not recognize the term. Hailing from a land that has never known Lolth’s touch, these elves never fell from grace or earned Corellon’s curse. They therefore never turned to evil, nor bear the mantle of “drow.” Instead, they refer to themselves as The People of the Evening Wing’s Embrace. The rare outsiders who have contact with them refer to them simply as “moth elves.”

The reason for this name is clear. The lives of silkworm drow are centered almost exclusively around their silkworms (and the silkmoths these caterpillars eventually become). Silkworm drow live atop mountain ranges and hillsides with heavy woods, ample precipitation, and numerous caves—the ideal habitats of their moth charges. Just as normal drow take inspiration from spiders, silkworm drow incorporate wings, fan-shaped antennae, and geometric patterns (representing woven threads) into their art, architecture, and craft goods. Wormsilk produces moth elf clothing, bedding, and fabric of all kinds. Tough wormsilk rope and hammocks are bartered with other forest races, while delicate wormsilk gowns (sold through many layers of intermediaries) are in demand at royal courts the world over.

The origin of the moth elves themselves is lost in time. Though essentially good-hearted, they are reserved in the extreme, rarely associating even with the most reclusive wood elves. Their nocturnal habits and dark skins (ranging from dusky gray to jet black) speak to long separation from others of their race, as does they archaic dialect of Elven they employ. They also exhibit enhanced magical abilities (as per the drow)—though whether these abilities were once possessed by all elves or developed over time specifically by the silkworm drow is a mystery.

Even their creation myths set them apart from other elves, hinting at a marriage between the moon and a moth figure. Or the two might be one and the same, as silkworm drow swears (“By the Moon Mother” and “By the Moth Mother”) seem to suggest.

One thing is certain: silkworm drow are capable fighters. Though they prefer to sit at their looms, the woods are full of threats. Ettercaps, goblins, and bugbears are common enemies, and aranea are dealt with with extreme caution. Moth elves also often find their skies assaulted by chimeras. A platoon of silkworm drow lancers urging their giant moths into dogfights with such aerial predators is a sight to behold.

Rehabbing the Drow: It's All Good

If you want drow in your cosmology but are searching for a way to freshen them up, one option is to simply make them all good (or at least neutral). It’s amazing what that this one simple change can mean for their entire entry in the Monster Manual.

First of all, good drow naturally would not worship Lolth. They might worship the Seldarine, Eilistraee, deities from other pantheons, or entirely new patrons. Out from under a thumb of a bloodthirsty, chaotic deity, their society would be able to develop in ways vastly different from the Darwinian cities of Erelhei-Cinlu or Menzoberranzen.

Without Lolth, the drow affinity for spiders likely also disappears. If they retain that fondness, exploring why could be a fun challenge. Perhaps drow are renowned weavers, and years of harvesting spidersilk have built a bond between them and their eight-legged pets. Perhaps they live on cliffsides and canyons where spiders are the only reliable steeds. Or perhaps they have a strong druidic culture and prestige classes that focus on nature’s often forgotten or reviled children.

Meanwhile, drow skin color and light-blindness have been considered marks of their cursed status. If there never were any curse, is there a natural, environmental, or magical reason for these traits? Is it an adaptation to their cave habitats? And from whence do their magic resistance and spell-like abilities come? Or perhaps no explanation for black-skinned elves is necessary. Drow might even be the only(!) elves in your world.

Finally, we discussed previously, any change to drow as a race inevitably raises another question: what are the implications for driders?

It’s okay, of course, to simply get rid of them—if drow are good and not in thrall to the Spider Queen, driders are unnecessary. Alternately, drider status may be a curse (or a reward from Lolth or a similar entity) for the rare drow who do turn to evil. Disney’s The Little Mermaid actually provides this model—one only needs to look at Ursula’s octopus lower half to know that she’s the film’s villain. A good drow who falls from grace or accepts an evil power’s boon might become a drider in the process.

Tomorrow we’ll put these notions to work and create a good drow subrace—the silkworm drow.

Noble Elves

In most campaigns, elves leave the trappings of aristocracy to humans, their kingdoms having long since fallen, dwindled, or relocated far away. While a select few families (typically cosmopolitan high elves) may participate in politics, most simply quietly go about their business.

In a campaign where elves take a more active interest in ruling, many clans would inevitably rise to the top of the social order. Those of a domineering bent would have centuries to shape the political and social landscapes to their liking. PCs could take the role of would-be Robin Hoods and Swamp Foxes against hard-hearted elven lords and landholders.

Arvitesh is a southerly, practically subtropical domain whose treetop manor houses are legendary. Over the years, the elven culture there has evolved into an aristocracy of noble families whose balls, fashions, and occasional duels are a constant game of oneupmanship. Corsets, hoopskirts, scarves, fans, and sashes are common sights here, as are rapiers and chessboards.

This frivolity is supported by the backbreaking labor of human, dwarven, and halfling serfs. Both in the canopy lanes and on the ground below, indentured servants and bondmen toil in the orchards, fields, parlors, and workshops to please their demanding masters. (Gnomes, at least those with mechanical or bardic faculties, are spared due to the nobles’ demand for clockwork toys and musical divertissements; they are considered skilled artisans.)

The rarely acknowledged shame of Arvitesh is the aristocrats’ rapacity for human bedmates. Half-elves are born at well above average frequency in the servants’ quarters, and in more than a few plush beds as well. In the latter case, the offspring are almost always given away as foundlings. Arviteshans never refer to half-elves as such (or as half-human). Instead they use only “kith-le’vesh,” an elven dog breeder term that roughly translates as “the Bastards.”

Canker Gnomes

“Canker gnomes” is the derisive name given to gnome clans who scavenge in the slums and on the outskirts of human cities. Most citizens regard canker gnomes as nuisances, thieves, and worse—and many of them are. Still, they are valued for taking on vital jobs that others often won’t: collecting garbage, maintaining sewers, carting away corpses, and the like. In the process, canker gnome enclaves become clearinghouses for what the city throws away, with members of the clan serving as particularly resourceful fences, pawnbrokers, and information brokers. Local wags whisper that this is the unspoken reason why municipal rulers tolerate the noxious demihumans—they’re good people to know…and they know too much to move against.

The rumormongers are somewhat off the mark, however. The truth is in the name “canker”—many canker gnomes are actually cancer mages (Book of Vile Darkness). Their ability to cure disease—and more importantly, their ability to spread plague in their thirst for vengeance—is the real reason human rulers don’t summarily evict them.

Most canker gnomes roam the city in pairs, often directing simple carts or barrows with solid wheels taller than the gnomes themselves. Terriers, dire rats, and giant beetles occasionally serve as animal companions or mounts. Canker gnomes exhibit little of the usual gnomish fondness for contraptions and machinery. Instead they devote their ingenuity and alchemy to thwarting any otyughs, gibbering mothers, and shambling mounds their work may bring them into contact with.

Canker gnomes and wererats share similar territory. They also positively loathe one another, doing whatever is necessary to drive the other out of the middens and trash heaps they share. A canker gnome who contracts lycanthropy can expect the death sentence from his clan.

Rehabbing the Drow: The Dalamar Paradigm

The plan here at On Beyond Drow is to present new subraces, tribes, and so forth on a Monday/Wednesday/Friday schedule. As the mood strikes me, I’ll also drop in commentary on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and/or over the weekend.

Having spent a vast tract of real estate in the Comments section of my first post dissing the drow—not for themselves, mind you, but for their unfortunate and inevitable overexposure—it is only fair that I suggest some ways to rebuild and refresh them.

One way is to focus on the literal curse of their heritage. In the Dragonlance setting, there were no drow. There were, however, dark elves such as Dalamar, cast out by their people for grave crimes.

Dalamar’s shame was a social and psychological one, but imagine if such an exile came with a physical transformation as well. Exiled elves in your campaign might have a grievous curse laid on them, their skin darkening and hair bleaching, so that their infamy would be visible for all to see. Their eyes would become weak, forcing them to hide from the live-giving sun. However, these elves would likely not have the typical drow’s affinity for spiders or innate magical powers of the drow (unless some evil power intervened to mock and reward them for their fall).

Because their existence would be the result of a curse rather than race, these drow might vary wildly different in temperament. Some might embrace the dark, consorting with demons and monsters (such liaisons may have been what earned them their exile in the first place). Others might quest for atonement. A drow paladin would make a particularly compelling PC in such a setting, and an entire campaign arc might revolve around his attempts to wash away the sin from his ebony skin.

This scenario also demands that the genesis of driders be reconsidered. In this cosmology, driders might not exist, or they might be a example of a further degradation—the ultimate price for drow who fail to redeem themselves.

Hag Elves

So apparently my definition of "tomorrow" really doesn't square with the dictionary's. Only three entries in and I'm already behind. Sigh.

Possessing lifespans that can easily span 500 years or more, some elves can't help but pity the younger races as poor cousins. But the Shevereth don't even recognize other humanoids as sentient beings, regarding them the way a human might view a chimpanzee. Thus, they don't consider the possession of other humanoids as slavery…nor the consumption of them as cannibalism.

It is for these dark appetites that the Shevereth (male and female alike) are known as hag elves. To the Shevereth, other humanoids serve primarily as a source of slaves, meat and goods. Humans are especially prized for the clothing their supple leather provides. No hag elf is ever without his childskin bag of knives and flaying implements.

Thankfully, Shevereth are usually rare and solitary creatures, making their homes in secluded grottoes and swamps. (These dwellings—and the furnishings within—are noteworthy for exhibiting exemplary elven standards of craftsmanship strangely tainted with the stains and smells of habitual butchery.) But some more ambitious individuals ride elegantly styled carriages from town to town, purchasing or abducting children as they go. And rumors persist of canyon cities where hag elves gather in vile communities debauched even by drow standards.

The hag elves' relationship with actual hags varies widely. In some Shevereth communities hags are considered upstanding citizens and role models, and it is not unknown for hag/elf pairings to produce strikingly thin and voracious hagspawn (The Unapproachable East). But in most cases jealous rivalry and outright violence is the norm, as it is with most relationships involving the Shevereth.

Exigence—Why Now?—And a Note on 4th Edition

I’ve been kicking the germ of On Beyond Drow around for a while. So what has finally spurred me to put some ideas down? Well, Paizo’s work revisiting classic monsters shows there’s an appetite. And with 4th Edition D&D now out, I'm supposing that there are two natural audiences—4th Ed fans looking to build brand new worlds and 3.0 and 3.5 fans hungry for fresh content for their favorite system.

By the way, I have not made the switch to 4th Edition. Whether I do so in the future is up in the air. But I’ll try to make the ideas fresh enough that they can crossover among editions, even if particular crunchy nuggets don’t.

I promised evil elves. I’ll deliver tomorrow: the hag elves.

Introduction

Most great D&D campaigns are defined by their villains. A heroine's legacy is shaped by the monsters she chooses—or is forced—to face. A land in the clutches of an undead tyrant breeds one kind of champion; a land living under the shadow of a dragon breeds another.

The drow are, in some ways, the ultimate villainous race. But their very power and popularity with DMs and designers alike have made them ubiquitous to the point of cliché.

In this space we will—to borrow a notion from Dr. Seuss—move on beyond drow. We'll create other evil elves for characters to fight. We'll come up with new subraces to stymie (and aid) your PCs. And we'll try to create cultures that feel alive, fresh, and fantastic.

By "we," of course I mean "me." This is a place for me to jot down and share ideas. If you're intrigued by what you read here, feel free to comment, contribute, and/or riff. Just be sure that if you borrow an idea, it's for your personal use and not something to be published or posted somewhere else. That's how intellectual property works. Cool? Cool.