Dark things soar on shadowed wings between the chilling moon and the rolling orchards of Varno. Here legends take on existences greater then the living, and peasants cling to centuries-old traditions, fears, and superstitions. Amid misty pastures and groves the heritage of the Varisian people still f lourishes, and furtive arts passed down through centuries reveal power in cards, song, and blood. Yet amid such mysteries also lurk the memories of ancient terrors, dread secrets, and the names of sleeping evils against which the modern world is all too vulnerable.
Time means little in Varno. Generations are born, life passes, and death eventually touches servants and princes, the just and unjust, all the same. Such has been the philosophy of Varno’s people since the Kellids were driven from the land, and such remains their mantra today. When legions of the dead rose in envious war against the living, most of Varno’s people held their lives at greater value than their land, departing Ustalav to settle among the people of the neighboring Arch-Duchy of Melcat, rejoin their wandering kinsmen in distant Varisia, or seek new vistas exploring Taldor’s vast empire. After the dead returned to dust, some wandering Varisians resettled Varno, bringing with them their ancient ways and the reminder that a land holds no memory—only its people can do that. Yet for all the resilience and wisdom of Varno’s populace, their stories are less akin to fairytales and more like grim epics, rife with tragedy, warnings, and righteous suspicion. Few in eastern Ustalav don’t know of the hardships faced by their people or the suddenness with which paradise might transform into pandemonium. Thus, the people of Varno live by the timeless Varisian maxim, “Welcome your sister, but never let her keep her knife.”
Mild slopes roll across Varno in a gentle surf of emerald orchards and golden fields. To the west, the Forest of Veils knots in a tangle of dense cypress, laurel, and alder, its boughs rising high like the buttresses of some grand cathedral, a sanctuary that burns every autumn in a riot of crimson leaves. Predators are scarce in Varno, with bats and wolves ranging through forests and fields, occasionally joined by bear and cougars. Snakes, catoblepas, tatzlwyrms, and stranger things also occasionally cross the border from Versex and Numeria, while caverns exposed by crevices or sinkholes often reveal breeding grounds of vermin and more monstrous lurkers. The peasants of the land also spread innumerable tales of vampires and their hosts of deadly kin, immortal witches, children of shadows, malicious faeries, fiends wearing the skins of humans, and countless other predators seeking to make meals of mortal lives and souls.
Varno’s people are a hardworking lot who embrace life even as they remain mindful of death. While devoted to Pharasma just as faithfully as worshipers in other counties, most supplement their weekly worship with prayers to Desna for fortune, Gozreh for good weather, and Shelyn for joy, as well as a diverse array of regional folk beliefs, traditional wisdom, and superstitions. Yet for all their dependence on talismans and rhyming charms, most in Varno harbor an abiding trepidation regarding arcane magic, with even fortune-telling, alchemy, medicine, and traditional dances being acts of mystical power that could draw the attentions of evil spirits. Most of the county’s population work modest farms, orchards, and vineyards, or on the estates of the region’s few noble families, but several still keep to the ancient Varisian wandering lifestyle. Even among their own people, these wanderers attract suspicion. While many clans are comprised of freewheeling lovers of life—following the ancient customs of dance and fate-reading Desna taught their ancestors—others are Sczarni, traveling wolves, conartists, and brigands who prey upon settled Varisians and strangers alike in a bitter cycle of suspicion and hate.
Noteworthy Locations
A land of simple beauties and peacefulness by day, Varno holds several sites that, by night, take on a fearful aspect.
Bastardhall: Amid the mists of Lake Laruba sits the ruin of what was once Arudora Manor, now known as Bastardhall. This prison of timeless terrors is detailed later.
Cesca: Rising amid sprawling vineyards and sleepy fields, Cesca clings to its peace in the face of both real and imagined terrors, its people distrustful of outsiders. The parochial paradise is explored later.
Corvischior: Fewer than 300 people live along the shore of Lake Korsinoria at the derelict county seat of Corvischior. Across the unreasonably rough waters of the lake stands Castle Corvischior, sometimes called Korsinoria Palace by old folks who remember tales of a brighter time when it was the home of a beloved count. Now the castle is an abandoned treasure, home in name only to a truant lord who would rather gallivant in distant lands than attend to the needs of his people. In the days since the Tiriac family abandoned their rule, rumors tell of mysterious lights at the castle, shadows slipping among its crenellations, and unmanned gates opening to admit midnight coaches. Whatever mystery hangs over Corvischior, the people argue over whether they are blessed or cursed, as regardless of rumored evils, the village’s residents seem strangely immune.
Redleaf: The manor houses of the families Adler, Boadely, Druanwiet, Millair, and Vanache circle forested Redleaf Lake. Though the retreat is known for its seclusion and waters that take on the color of fire every autumn, generations of bad blood among the resident families taint the quiet serenity. While the other four proud estates circle the lake at roughly even distances, Adler Manor rises ominously upon eroding cliffs, visible from any shore and home of the spiteful recluse Damita Adler—though none have actually seen the bitter spinster for years.
Conte Ristomaur Tiriac
The year 4521 was a shining time for the Tiriac family. With pride and great hope, the beloved Count Dionis Tiriac had passed his title and rule of Varno to his only son, Ristomaur. The black scourge upon the county, the feral vampire named Beruso, had been captured and staked by noble huntsmen, bringing an end to a season of horrors. The fair Iltainya Arsbeta had also accepted Ristomaur’s marriage proposal, and preparations for a spring wedding were underway. The county seemed blessed, and it was this contrast that made the misfortunes to follow seem not just tragic, but a curse.
Returning to Corvischior from a holiday, Ristomaur’s coach was ambushed by brigands, a magical explosion sending the conveyance reeling into a ravine. Escaping the wreckage, the wounded nobleman proved his skill with a rapier, slaying several highwaymen despite a spear of jagged wood piercing his breast. Iltainya, though, had not proven so lucky. Desperation and love granted the young count the resilience to escape with the unconscious form of his soon-to-be bride, but the mysterious attackers were not so easily deterred. Within sight of Lake Korsinoria, the brigands overrode the count and, knocking him from his horse, beat him to the threshold of death.
With the count’s family still in the country, servants retrieved their lordship’s body. It fell to the Tiriacs’ aged housemother Radaya to see to Ristomaur’s care. Relying upon her wanderer heritage, Radaya employed all her craft to save her master. But even her enigmatic skills were not enough, and Ristomaur’s life waned. Possessed by her devotion to the family, the wrinkled housemother gave strange orders, and in the direness of the moment, the servants obeyed.
By midnight the still form of the vampire Beruso lay in Korsinoria’s great hall, bound by chains of garlic and verbena. Removing the stake piercing the creature’s breast and brandishing Desna’s symbol, Radaya bid the vampire breathe life back into the count, even if it must be the breath of his accursed kind. Beruso, vicious and ravenous, cackled as he drank from the dying count, draining the last of his faltering life. As the vampire emptied Ristomaur of his final drops of vital essence, Radaya interrupted the beast, returning the ash stake back to his unholy breast.
For the next thirteen nights, Radaya prayed over the count’s corpse, speaking timeless invocations so that on the final night, when the count’s body rose again, his true soul, and not the spirit of a fiend, would be master once more.
When Ristomaur rose, it was with a hunger he had never known. Radaya, watching over him, explained how she had saved him. Yet her superstitions and prayers had proven powerless, for as the count’s chill flesh attested, the vampire’s curse sowed only death. Although terrified and furious, Ristomaur knew that so long as Iltainya was safe, his death would not be in vain. When the baffled housemother reported that his fiancé’s body had never been found, his mind snapped, and the blood-starved madness took hold.
Awakening the next night among the gore-soaked ruins of the family chapel, Ristomaur found the castle empty, the servants massacred or fled. Only Radaya remained, her body shattered but her faithful ghost lingering on. As Ristomaur knelt upon the palace’s highest turret, awaiting the dawn’s purifying destruction, the spectral crone explained that, should he die as he was, his soul would be condemned to the charnel pits of Hell. Whether Iltainya were dead or alive, he would never see his beloved again. So the count despaired and, cursing the witch, fled Corvischior.
Over the next decade, Tiriac haunted Varno, more beast then man, hunting for some word of Iltainya. Gradually, he came to understand his aff liction and view vampirism as a disease. And if it were a malady, he reasoned, then it must have a cure. This possibility brought reason and purpose back to Ristomaur, and slowly he became like himself once more.
Since his death, Ristomaur Tiriac has journeyed far. Reappearing to his people in 4536 as a cousin of the heartbroken rulers, he took control of Varno, employing agents to hold his proxy at court. Traveling often in his search for a cure for vampirism, Tiriac is known in many lands, sometimes by his own name, sometimes under aliases, and often adopting colorful corruptions of his title, such as “conte.” Charming and eternally youthful, he retains a shadow of the humor he possessed in life, though an age as a predator has granted him the cunning and manipulative forethought of an undead lord. Yet while his research has made him a scholar of strange arts, his sought-after cure continues to elude him.
