Wiki: Ghosts of Neithernor

PRSFNE Campaign

Ghosts of Neithernor was a campaign within Neithernor.


The Ghosts of Neithernor was a roleplay/creative writing hybrid. Mountaineers were faced with narrative moments where they could use context clues, creative writing roleplay, and their own imagination to figure out what they would do next, and how to continue the story. The first episode rolled out intermittently, focusing on one guild at a time, with an emphasis on taking time to explore.


Ghosts of Neithernor began with small hints in October 2017, which mentioned strange occurrences, like odd noises or machines turning. The events progressed into ghosts appearing in the various Guild Houses, echoes of a time when the Monarchs lived and studied in Neithernor. The ghosts were unresponsive but led the Mountaineers to learn more about the guild houses and how the Monarchs learned magiq.

MAGIQbot Posts



A murmur is heard on the wind. A low, familiar hum that grows louder as more, similar sounds join it. Voices. The voices of several passionate orators echo all around… coming from some great, distant hall. Their emphatic intonation carries into every corner, but the words are obscured. It becomes clear that they are not simply giving a speech, but telling a story. The wind that carries the sound eventually settles, and the voices vanish before their tale has been finished.


You find ghostly figures standing before nearly every shelf in the revered Thornmouth libraries. They are not simply browsing–no, they seem to have a very important task at hand, judging by the way in which they expertly remove each ancient tome, glance at the cover, a few pages, then return it to its respective shelf. Throughout, though, they never grow restless in their search. These ghosts are seasoned librarians. They all wear jackets which are beautifully dyed in swirling variations of the Thornmouth guild colors. Some edges of the jackets are frayed, as if they were idly worried while their wearers got lost in an old book. Small magnifying glasses hang from lapels. Other jacket pockets are stuffed with pens and scraps of paper for scribbling a note or documenting a stray thought. All have a small phial hanging from a chain, a warm light inside; a flicker of the Mindflame.

The librarians search with an assurance that indicates they know they will find what they’re seeking. One ghost removes a dusty, leather-bound book which seems to satisfy her. Stitched into its cover are intricately crafted leaves. With each step that the ghost takes towards the large table at the center of the library, the leaves change color, from green to vibrant red, then orange, then yellow. Other ghosts follow in time, each of them carrying similar tomes. Some books bear the symbol of the sun, which seems to set as the ghosts approach the table, replaced with a moon that rises from around the spine. Yet other books have ornate human figures stitched or paint onto their covers, which, as the ghosts approach the table, shift into other shapes, some gaining or losing limbs, some growing scales or fur, until they have been transfigured into other creatures altogether. You come to realize that the librarians are gathering books about change. And watching this vision, this ghostly show, you suddenly feel compelled to do the same.


(They are unresponsive to any attempts at communication. Their eyes stare vacantly past all who stand before them, as if they are unaware that anyone is present, other than themselves. They proceed with their task, seeking out and gathering books about change.)


The ghosts have all lit spectral candles and placed them on the sprawling table in the center of the library, and well-placed mirrors bounce fragments of the tower’s Mindflame down onto the gathering. The ghosts’ facial features, normally so hard to make out, can be seen clearly in the light of the flames. They are looking down upon the tomes they have selected, and seem to be reciting from them. The books seem to age in their hands, the autumn leaves on their covers crumbling to dust, the transfigured animals growing pale and withering until they are nothing but skeletons or ash. The book with a moonlit cover glows with rosy-fingered dawn as the sun rises again. All the while, these ghosts read and speak to one another. Their voices are faint, but it’s obvious in their time they read aloud and debated and filled the halls with discussion. Their muted voices echo louder and louder, and fainter rows of ghosts appear behind them, and more behind those ghosts, all reading with passion. They are sharing the stories from their respective books they were called to, discussing them, and attempting to understand their underlying themes. You believe this vision is leading you to do the same.


The ghosts have finished their discussions and storytelling. All the books lie closed upon the table, now little more than burnt chunks of ash, barely held together by their spines. It appears for a time as if their role here is done. The ghosts are restless, though, showing no signs of fading away. They remove large rolls of parchment from inside their jackets, and unroll them on the central table. They remove their quills as well and begin writing. This is no solitary task, though. Not a single ghost has written a line before they look up and begin conversing with their neighbors. Whatever they are working on, it is an effort of friendship. They share a collective goal. After they have worked for many hours, one of the ghosts gets up from the table and disappears into the shadows. This ghost returns with a roll of parchment much larger than the others. It is laid out upon the table, and the ghosts approach it, one by one, each consulting their own rolls of parchment and transferring what they have written to the great document. Together, with a sense of completion, they begin to fade away. They are separate tales, to be sure, and yet their efforts somehow combine into one story we’ve not yet heard, the story of all stories. Their oratory continues to sound through the halls long after their forms have faded. Though the tone is powerful, it is unintelligible. Soon, this too diminishes, turning to silence. You too feel compelled to combine the disparate stories of change into a new story. A story you feel is meant to be told, not here, but somewhere else. Somewhere yet unknown.



A vision appears in a dream. The sea swirls with all the colors of Earth’s waters. Deep swampy black circulates in an endless dance with shallow, stony blues and the bright greens of the tropics. They are like a paint palate, waiting for a great artist to dip their brush, mix the shades, and bring them into harmony. Something floats in the distance atop the waves. It is a red glow, a flame, with properties unknown, and it is moving. Carried by the wind, or its own will. A wave crests, obscuring the flame, and when the water settles, it is gone.


In the distance, ghostly figures stand on the shore of the great sea, watching the many hued waves as they swirl and lick at the sand. Their long jackets are shades of ochres, umber, crimson, and made from fine, but proudly-aged leather. The jackets whip in the wind off the sea. Maps peek out from their pockets, some of the ghosts even have sections of unfinished maps etched onto the fabric of their clothes. They seem to be longing for something, as if waiting to see the prow of a ship on the crest of a wave. Or the flame that they, and you envisioned, but is now gone. The colors of the sea almost seem faded since the great flame vanished. It is clear that the ghosts can see this too. They clasp hands and form a circle, speaking unheard words as the shade of a compass appears at the center of their joining, pointing somewhere out on the sea. A glimmer of hope shines in their eyes before they disappear. You feel compelled to form that same circle, and speak similar words, even though you are unsure what was spoken. You do not know the words or rituals, but you long to find a way to summon the compass nonetheless.


The ghosts have reappeared and are preparing as if to set out on a long journey. Gathering supplies and equipment through both magical and mundane methods. You see they all have compasses, like the one which appeared among them not long ago, some hanging around their necks, some in hand, some embedded in the hilt of their walking sticks. And they’re all pointing in one direction. To sea.They are loading cargo onto their ship, and they glow with the air of bravery and excitement. As they file onto the ship, the glimmer of hope once again shines in their eyes, but now that glimmer, if only for an instant, bears a resemblance to the great flame which once sat upon the sea. As they vanish, you are left with the desire to set out onto the sea, to seek what they sought. To bring back what they too seek.



A warm wind blows through the halls and on it the faint, sourceless sound of arrows being born from bows and finding purchase in straw-filled targets.


You see ghostly figures walking along the shore. They seem completely unaware of the world around them. The tails of their indigo jackets catch in the seawind as the ebbing colors of dusk play along their wool-trimmed edges. Their jackets are set with ordered pockets and loops of varying sizes and placements. Some to hold a bow across one’s back. Others to carry rows of worn tools for carving stone, or painting, or scrying. They each wear a small set of scales around a chain, scales that tip and move of their own accord, measuring some unseen balance. The ghosts are all looking downward, as if expecting to find something hidden in the sand, all the while muttering words unheard. After a while, one of the figures picks up a piece of rotten wood, shakes their head, and casts it back into the ocean. This happens a few times. Eventually, though, there is a ghost who seems pleased with what she has found. This long piece of wood is not rotten at all-- it is relatively straight, and strong, and on closer inspection, almost glowing. Their words call out to more shards of wood. This happens again and again, until the ghosts stand together, holding six glowing fragments. They begin to carve the now-floating fragments with unseen tools and before they vanish, you see they are crafting arrows.


You now hold six finely carved arrows among you.

Up from the shore the ghosts are now roaming the edges of forests and fields.They are searching once more, but are being less selective than they were on the beach. Their moods seem high and jovial. One ghost picks up a pumpkin, and chuckles to himself as if no pumpkin in the world could be better suited to the job. Other ghosts are picking up different found objects. They gather them together on the beach, and begin to paint red circles on the objects with enchanted brushes. Soon, it becomes clear that they must be targets. When they have finished, the ghosts gather together and enter into a focus, speaking, almost humming to themselves in a low, steady drone which carries over to you. The nearby targets begin to float off of the ground and arrange themselves in a line, far in the air above the ghosts.


The ghosts return and now they have their arms around other ghosts, previously unseen. While the previous ghosts were all wearing similar jackets, these new ghosts wear jackets from the five other guilds. One of the Ebenguard ghosts joins them in a line, until there are six of them, one for each guild. The original Ebenguard ghosts, while still serious, are allowing themselves a hearty laugh and an encouraging pat on the back for the new ones, of whom they seem to have some specific expectation. The new ghosts are shaking with nerves, but as they pick up their bows and arrows from the ground, it is clear that they have been chosen for a reason. They begin to fire arrows towards the floating targets. It is a difficult task, and they are unskilled, occasionally lapsing into bouts of frustration. One by one though the Ebenguardians correct and encourage the other six, until the new ghosts hit their far off floating targets, and they look to the sky with smiles of accomplishment. The original ghosts grant the newly carved arrows to the archer ghosts, who take them graciously and put them in their quivers. They vanish as they all begin walking west.



The cacophony of a thousand boughs bending and cracking begins to echo from the depths of the hall. Windows vanish as the walls begin to shift and grow, and new windows appear, letting in different, late season light. The doors also shift, consumed by roiling waves of branches, and emerge in other places. Then, as quickly as it began, the chaos of noise settles and it is quiet again. The layout of the hall has completely changed.



A whistle blast pierces the quiet and sheets of steam explode from exhaust stacks. Somewhere in the depths, massive unseen gears slam together and begin turning, clanking chains rattle inside the walls… and then after a few moments, all grows quiet again.



The ghostly sound of wagon wheels can be faintly heard rattling along a worn path. There is also the clinking of bottles, and merry laughter coming from the wagon’s passengers. The sound becomes several wagons, all rolling along the path, one after another. They continue on, and then are gone.