Suggested Lore

Suggested Lore is a worldbuilding effort and Twitter account (@SuggestedLore) by community member Ygduil. The project aims to propose histories for loreless Forgotten Runes Characters through poetry. However, some Suggested Lore content involves special requests from members in the Cult whose Characters already have presence in the Book of Lore. The end-goal of Suggested Lore is that these myths spark creative interest in the Characters within them. The project's success is determined by token-holders finding inspiration to begin building out their own idea of who their Characters can become, even if the poetry does not find its way into canonical history as written in the Book of Lore.

Suggested Lore (Myths, Reverse Chronological)

The following lore was pulled from the interdimensional depths of the Cave of the Platonic Shadow by Adept of the Platonic Shadow. The nature of this lore's Truth is uncertain:

The Toll of the Bell (Magus Wazir of the Mount)

Master of Dreams who rings the Siren's Bell —

that compass rose for those who've lost their way —

is said to lead the wayward with its knell —

a guiding chime to travelers who stray

too far from charted lands — too far from home.

And when it's heard: there blooms tranquility —

an inner peace to calm their minds that roam

and give their frightened feet mobility.

Yet loss may find a face in many forms.

The Magus knew it well in his own plot.

And even so, he found the absence warmed

the embers of a flame all else forgot.

He disappears from sight when he is sought

and walks alone so you, dear friend, do not.

Beguiler of the Guild (Bapho Grifter of the Mountain)

On Muscle Mountain's peak he nocked his bow

with arrows twain and aimed at Wizards' rule.

The Grifter's sight was trained on those below —

they dared not utter Magic's petty mewl

toward champions up on the crowded rock.

For through his helm he saw the Wizards' fear

behind illusion's veil — that pointed shock

at the display of Might. And though they jeered,

flaunting their lists of tricks by ancient words,

complacency in power brings despair.

He learned to flex the truth and with it gird

the minds of fighters in its molded snare.

While it was not the Wizards who forgot,

he would remind their ilk of his own lot.

When Time Was a Spiral (Rosabella Robber of Shadows)

Behind the Quantum Timefall, there's a cave —

unnoticed by most traveling along.

Its resident: a shade of that enclave

with yellow horns and clad in white sarong.

It hadn't always been that way, you know.

But when distorted wizards had begun

to pass (with hats like dreamsm under the glow

of moonlight) out of Shadow — casting none —

she took up arms — knowing no hunting knife

would wound the wisps of flesh that was not there —

yet found a cause to dedicate her life.

Rob the Shadow. Protect the mortal fare.

Well, does the hornet truly know its sting?

A parted veil reveals a broken ring.

You Can't Tune a Fish (Fuyumi Champion of Penguins)

Fuyumi staved off bitter cold, wrapped up

inside her tundra robe. Her spirit — warm

within her — sublimated from her cup,

a doubt which pooled like puddles from a storm.

She dwelled on what life by the blade would yield.

A warrior clad in Adventure's kit,

brimming with Wonder that her mind might wield.

Sharpen the sword, but cut only with wit.

Protection from the trident of her rune

untangled any need she had for steel.

Perhaps the want to fight had fled too soon —

that nagging thought instructed how to feel.

Purring delight betrayed any feigned wish,

thinking of spoiling flightless birds with fish.

BlackSand Born of Brimstone (Shaman Azazel of the Astral Plane)

Imperium, alone among the Salt —

the navel of all culture, magic, might —

at Sceena's feet was sat to fill its vault

with wealth earned from the mount and zeitgeist's Light.

The magma took the music from the bells.

The heat returned the sculptures to the earth.

The lava squall fell from all seven hells —

the city — licked by flames within its berth.

Azazel weeps for color in the sand.

A ruin resting where the Tower stood.

Forgotten Runes in shambled mounds of land

burn in the tomes of History, understood.

A champion will rise on field and track.

'Til then, the race is on — the Sands are Black.

Imp's Offering (The Nightmare Imp)

Tradition old as darkness in the night —

to don new skin and haunt the Vampyre Mist

in hope to scour adrenaline from fright.

You find a door — rap lightly with your fist.

Now, stranger, it's your fate that has been sealed —

a scroll fresh-scribed and stamped with dripping wax —

the thing beyond the door will be revealed.

An answer to your call and seeking tax

for the disturbance with an impish seeth.

"Perhaps a wager better suits your purse,"

the Nightmare lowly growls behind its teeth.

"A Trick or Treat?" The offer's cold and terse.

A token of the thrill you sought: unearthed —

slipped in your bag to later find its worth.

Game's End (Doyle Defeater of the Arena)

The Runiverse may have nothing so crass

as the Arena's reign over the land.

In all the realms and times that rose, then passed,

that circle begged for its return to sand.

In darkness, Doyle dared to look above

through his cell's ceiling grates to spy the light

that fell through by the night — and with a shove

a notion's lucky action proved him right:

The rusted bars gave way and set him free.

Unfettered, he escaped, and freed the rest

who scattered with the wind. Yet he and three

remained 'til morn to put an oath to test:

With weapons found on corpses from the Games,

they vowed that place had claimed its final names.

Wisdom & Light (Hex Mage Lumos of the Palms)

In Wizards' lives, they live through all the myths

of humankind, and suffer at their verse.

Prometheus, as he is known to smiths

of words (who forge their tales in ink, but curse

the matter's truth) has suffered much the same.

For in the dark of night, he bears a light —

the mage, Lumos — as is his rightful name.

No vultures prey upon his flesh. Chains' might

can't hold his feet that wander through the dark.

Yet, banished from the Palms, he walks the world

for purpose found in travelogues — his mark

upon the door — that Rune of his unfurled

enlightenment round those nomadic flames.

Perhaps there is some truth to humans' claims...

Cromwell's Reach (Battle Mage Cromwell of the Reach)

When Time was captured in an hourglass —

where quicksand's past would sculpt its future's dunes —

the Reach became. No single grain would pass

between the tenses — no light from cursed moons.

If one is to believe the stuff of myth,

then this intent was Cromwell's legacy.

Without a Rune to call upon, but with

a Sphinx's 'glass and some dark chemistry,

the mage had caught chronology, it seemed.

And in the Reach, the lycanthrope remained.

Where lunacy once held him, now he dreamed

without his self-forged fetters — unrestrained.

How curious that a power like this

was first but a shelter from full moon's kiss.

Marlan's Fork (Marlan Protector of Goblins)

Kninght of the Aura, Sir Marlan collects

himself after a great blow to his helm.

World spinning — he musters strength and projects

his spetum in hope it might overwhelm

the target while senses return. His beast

of Night, now confused by the newfound foe,

races to see the knight's polearm has ceased

life's pulse, and whimpers when he finds it so.

A goblin — innocent of crimes — behind

Marlan rises to see their protector.

Before the Warrior can speak his mind

the creature flees and leaves the defector

alone to watch the soul leak from a friend.

He fears no means could justify this end.

Under the Weight of History (Meryl Vindicator of Dragons)

The skies were darkened when the lands were young —

a nascent world just on the cusp of being —

by leathered wings, and scales, and teeth among

broods of the flying creatures. And seeing

as mortals rose to claim their magic Runes —

though many faltered at the chance —

during the waning of draconic moons,

a hierarchy shaped within their hands.

Meryl was the first to stand against it.

While the other mortals fought by tooth and claw,

she tracked the dragons with her cunning wit,

and through young wyrmling eyes she saw the flaw

in slaying giants one can't comprehend.

Yet, Time, her revelation couldn't mend.

A Medium's Medium (Medium Otto of the Mount)

The thunder rolled outside the wizard's room

and gentle rain fell on the Tower's stone.

As Otto took a seat, a look of gloom

fell on his face. Another drink alone.

He drew the mug of ale up to his lips,

emptied the draught, and slammed the thing in shame,

which formed a ring around its base on scripts

for calling Souls back from the Sacred Flame.

These spells that sutured time had earned the mage

more than his weight in gold, for Wizards' loss

will linger on — even after their age

has passed and left their tomb's head thick with moss.

One vessel emptied and one vessel filled —

He woke a spirit and scribed what it willed.

Might of Myla (Myla Render of Dragons)

The warrior of Spring withdrew her sword —

a Goblin blade of tainted, glowing steel —

and turned to face the growing demon horde

which writhed and formed a single mass. The seal

that she had summoned could not keep the beast

held in another plane. The portal closed

around the form, which had grown wings that beat

against the magic gate. It clawed and rose

out from the mystic depth called by her Rune.

Behemoth — monster formed from demons' souls —

peered in her eyes, perched on a golden dune,

stoked in its throat the warmth of burning coals —

yet its hail of fire was quickly ended.

Might and Magic saw the dragon rended.

Retired in Flowers (Quinton of Flowers)

The vale of Flowers went unknown to most

of those who never sought its mystic door,

save two or three who stumbled to the host

that welcomed them when others balked before.

And in the vale of Flowers, Quinton spent

his days in solitude — without a care

to words whispered in pubs that might torment

some others' sense. But he had paid the fare

for passage from the plain of blood and ash

and dandelions smothered in a mess

of bodies. He decided that no cache —

fiction or fact — could cause him such duress

when he could drink imported goblin beer

and listen to the whir of his dog's gears.

Strings & Branches (Atsuko Cutter of the Wood)

With a verdant affinity, she found

herself in the Wood for some time most days.

She felt wild — letting the forest surround

her, listening to its whispers and ways

that it would speak to her in its candor.

But a time came when she was just budding

where the voices of neighbors changed timbre —

when she was given an axe for cutting

wood from the forest: "The fires need stoking.

The coals in the forge are getting colder,

and the smith's got no use for cold, smoking

embers — you'll understand when you're older."

Atsuko did find knowledge in her age:

now clipping Fate's strings for her living wage.

Tera in Ruin (Tera Ruin of the Temple)

Cartographers would dream a place like that —

the Temple, lost to time and history —

to record rubble for no bureaucrat,

but for the pleasure of the mystery.

But in the tragic tale of Tera, there's

no noble feat to tell — just influence

from a dark spell no witch or wizard dares

to cast, to write, to think in the days since:

A warlock took possession of her soul,

and razed the sacred Temple to the Earth.

The magic burned his mortal flesh — the toll

he paid — and yet she bears the burden's worth

in an assumed, associated name.

Sword foregone, she kept a Shield — took the blame.

The Warrior's Dilemma (Einer Dispatcher of the Wood)

Gusting wind unfurled the warrior's hair.

The Summit's bite broke on his magic shield,

which kept him warm outside the Wyvern's lair.

Another beast. Another sword to wield.

He heaved the Master claymore from its sheath —

his face reflected in the golden hilt —

and swung the great blade at the depths beneath.

The hands of Time pluck plants to watch them wilt.

And in his time, too, Einer's hands had seen

their own share of life wilted in their palms.

Shine always restored crimson steel — pristine

in the afterglow of polish and balms.

But there was no salve to salvage a mind

from unearned deaths of creatures so divine.

Alchemist Axel of the Tower

Even below the Tower, Axel could

be heard. A great cacophony rang out

his window — travelled to Hedge Wizard Wood.

A jest, yet even so, without a doubt,

the alchemist conjured a din, indeed.

Though he did not make a sound with potions

or spells — or with magic of any breed —

still he summoned a few vulgar motions

from other wizards down beneath the spire

when night had fallen. High up in the stone,

the mustached mage was clueless to their ire;

he bellowed laughter 'til the sun had grown

full out over the snow-capped mountains' spine

casting ribbons for his favorite feline.

Electromancer Leah of the Hills

Leah wept on the day that her horns grew —

like most huntresses’ — painfully and quick.

The stories she had heard had all been true.

Spring’s candle burned to the end of its wick.

And not only did she have to suffer

that nasty trick of nature for her kind:

She had another mark left within her

a spell of lightning branded on her mind.

The time that passed brought with it a slow change

of temperament in people of the Hills.

That rite of passage marred by something strange

eventually caused a flurry of quills

demanding that the aberration flee.

Leah split the sky — left only debris.

Archmagus Cairon of the Bastion

The Wizard ran his fingers through his beard.

The secret to the art of brewing still

eluded him. If it weren’t for the weird

Way within him — and moreso that Way’s will —

he might have simply let the potion be.

But Cairon, in his years, had learned the pull

to alchemy’s not difficult to heed.

Although, many devoted minds are full

of riches — endless toil towards certain doom —

the mandrake of the mage’s current work

would never spirit gold into his room.

He peered into the amber-colored murk.

The drink, imbibed, presents a dreamer’s lid.

Imagine fates the waker could forbid.

Conjurer Nemo of the Toadstools

The thread of Magic pulled a wooden boy —

from Toadstools grown far out of human sight.

An elven cloak found in the earth — no toy —

sparked its power in him. To his delight,

with but a whim all objects would obey

and follow well words spoken by the youth.

In time, the boy would scout and roam The Fey —

that border to his home — a dreadful truth

beneath its bones (and better left alone)

would rob the child the world’s untethered grace.

The young Wizard, still dewy, new, and prone

to misbelief — no Elder’s hand to stay —

bound a familiar under harvest moon:

Forgot his name, and carved himself a rune.

Suggested Lore (Canonized, Reverse Chronological)

The following lore has been confirmed as True:

Calm After the Storm (Booshi Assailant of the Road)

The hum of sleeping circuits filled his ears

as Booshi stirred awake there on the Road.

The kobold had attuned to spinning gears —

the sound of hard drives ticking where they're stowed

with care like hearts made of the finest stone

in the companions that Nombeko made.

He missed that wild Storm — as she was known

in camps that laid just South. He wished she'd stayed

but knew within himself that storm would pass

through Kobold's Cross as all the others had.

The fellow felt like he was made of glass —

transparent — standing next to his comrade —

now booting at the sound of its ward's rise.

The kobold smiled. Sufficient compromise.

Myth confirmed by 0x9Baf1B105B591B2107620017Dbe02cA8D7589a49

An Eye For An Eye (Witch Rowena of the Wild)

The witch, Rowena of the Wild, sits in her hut,

now barren from a petty thief's skullduggery.

A cause to call a curse out from the void, but what

should she bring forth as punishment for thuggery?

She roots about in the remainder of her tomes

and thumbs a spellbook pulled out from a hidden cache.

A head that aches with no reprieve; a mouth that foams

eleven days — the first signs of her succotash.

Over the brew she strings a clay homunculus —

the boiling steam will fan a fever in the cur —

and in the dreams it brings, appears a succubus

to cling to psyche's walls and prick it like a bur.

And when the rat is spoiled and writhing on the ground,

Rowena's Eye will show her Wolf the treat it's found.

Myth confirmed by 0x63a37D243F74aCe73e3a5C50D3fBC66d9Bfd4560

Our Neighbor, Enigma (Druid Enigma of the Valley)

Enigma, Born of Light — a name quite known

over the land — was Just and Good and Right.

Out from the dark, her Caduceus shone

as blazing sunrise casts away the night.

In all her travels, bound within the Book,

she never left a cry for help unheard.

With a familiar to complete her look,

Enigma flew to aid before the word

escaped their lips. That shapeless friend called Fred

beside the mage would often lead the way

(if with a humor's lilt). The wizard spread

the word of love and never would delay

to notify a bestie of their post

or offer kindness when the need was most.

Myth confirmed by 0x4DbbCe1A3A8b2B62580eE256D47FB2e6252504d3

Light-footed Leah (Druid Leah of the Circle)

A flutter of her vibrant cloak shone through

the trees as Leah hurtled through the wood.

Though she was unaware, her planet flew

over the plane she sped. Her Rune felt good

within her and without. Jupiter's eye.

Familiar's trail streaked emerald green with slime

behind her as she ran — and just as spry.

A huntress on the wind and in her prime.

That night she stole a treasure for herself —

Unusual, considering her past.

A staff of Courage gleamed on a bookshelf

inside a witch's den. She acted fast.

She'd known no better pairing in her days

than lavish, Elvish garb and crooked staves.

Myth confirmed by 0xb68468e48bF7263797aD9e1D50884dEf7a4F8E74