Elminster's Ecologies: Book 2 - Cormanthor

This descriptive guide detailed the diverse plant life, natural species, magical creatures historical landmarks, geographical features and weather of the sprawling forest of Cormanthor. Its texts explored the four smaller woods that made up the greater region, including the Rimwood, Midwood, Starwood, and Edgelands. These included descriptions of the effects that residual magic from the Ruins of Myth Drannor had on the surrounding wild life and forests.

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Elminster's Ecologies: Book 2 - Cormanthor

Words From an Old Friend

Elminster says that the secret of happiness is having as many interests as stars in the sky, and the only way to find out if something interests you is to see it first hand. To him, that means travel, and plenty of it. "There's more to the world than the backsides of all these trees!" he always yowled at me. "Get out of the woods!"
No thanks. Everything I want is here. Why would I want to leave? To me, traveling means hours of boredom and discomfort, punctuated by an occasional ambush, robbery, or mauling. I've lived all my life in the elven woods. Cormanthor, if you prefer - and I intend to die here some day, preferably later than sooner.
Elminster likes to tease me about my attitude. He calls me "Little Miss Lemon." So I'm sour. It's part of my charm, and I came by it honestly.
I grew up in a tiny elven village called Alyssim, about 50 miles east of Essemore in the Tangled Trees. It was a pretty place, filled with violets and wild roses, but the villagers liked their flowers a lot more than they liked me. As far as they were concerned, I was an embarrassment from day one.
First, I had the audacity to be born half-elven. Half-elves may be common in the rest of the world, but not in Alyssim. I couldn't have stood out more if I'd been born with wings. Though the village elders resisted the urge to drown me in the Elvenflow, they made their displeasure clear by declaring my human father guilty of polluting the race and sentencing him to a decade of hard labor. He fled a day after the sentencing. I never got to meet him.
Second, I had the bad judgment to be born female. In Alyssim society, a woman was considered less useful than a good mule. Those few males who attempted to flaunt this foolish belief in my presence learned to swim a little faster than their much wiser - and silent - friends.
Third, I had the bad taste to reject Alyssim religion. The villagers worshiped Rillifane Rallathil, whom they believed gave them everything from the food in their bellies to the hair in their noses. My mother took a broader view. She worshiped the Sacred Hexad - my mother's term - of Rillifane Raillathil, the Great Mother Chauntea, Silvanus of the Wilderness, Mielikki, the Lady of the Forest, Eldath the Quiet One, and Aerdrie Faenya, goddess of the air. I still worship the Hexad today, fervently and passionately.
I suppose my disgust with the prattle and prejudice of my fellow elves is what nudged me to seek solace with animals and why I eventually became a ranger. Animals don't sell their loyalty for money. Animals know instinctively that life is for enjoyment, a fact that seems to have eluded most humanoid races. The Alyssim elves certainly took any sign of happiness on my part as a sign to make my life more difficult.
I left Alyssim as soon as I was old enough to lace my own boots. I never looked back. Alyssim is long gone now, overrun with weeds - stinkweeds, appropriately enough.
A few years later, I met a human explorer named Ruke Diggot, a young scholar from Mistledale who was studying the butterflies of Cormanthor. He stood as tall and straight as an oak, his smile as bright as the crescent moon. Within a month, we were married. We roamed the woods together for a blissful eleven years until a giant frog leaped from an alder thicket and swallowed him whole.
We had eleven children, one for each year of our marriage. From Ruke, they got common sense and curly red hair. From me, they got stubborn streaks and a love of the wilderness. They're grown now, with families of their own. All still live in these woods.
After Ruke's death, I spent most of the next decade feeling sorry for myself. I wandered the forest from one end to the other and back again, accumulating the information that graces these pages, just to fill the days. My children had lives of their own. I had no community, no friends. I ached for my husband.
Then I met Elminster. I caught him skinny dipping in the Elvenflow, soaping himself vigorously and singing in a voice so tuneless I expected squirrels to pelt him with acorns. When he spotted me, he shrieked like a cat with its tail in a trap, then scrambled for his clothes, red as a spring tomato.
If you've met Elminster, he's probably told you a lot about himself, but I bet he didn't mention a thing about that summer. How he made honey pudding for me on our very first day together. How he braided my hair with daisies. How we [manuscript deleted by Elminster]...
That was - my, that was at least 40 years ago. I've changed since then. My hair's gone gray, and I can't fit into the blouse El made for me.did you know he's good with a needle and thread?
Ordinarily, I couldn't be bothered to write a book like this, not while there are sick bear cubs to feed and grandchildren to take on unicorn rides. How could I refuse you, El? Besides, I've seen too many people die out here - including a couple of my own kin - from carelessness, misinformation, and ignorance.
I hope this helps, and El, look me up next time you get out this way. Bring daisies.

- Lyra Sunrose

Part One: Trees, Trees, and More Trees

You may think you've seen big forests, but you've never seen one that comes within a worg's whisker of Cormanthor.
On a map, it just looks like a green splotch between the Desertsmouth Mountains and the Cold Field. Take a closer look. Cormanthor covers more territory than the Thunder Peaks, and you could plop the Moonsea into here with enough room left over for the Lake of Dragons.
It's dense, too. Put a monkey in a branch just north of Highmoon, and it could swing its way to Elventree without ever setting foot in the grass. You could use the wood to make arrows for every archer from Calimshan to Vaasa, with enough left over to build a boat for all the sailors on the Inner Sea.
The Hexad must have truly loved Cormanthor, for it was the finest forest they ever created. Chauntea made beds of rich black soil, which Aerdrie Faenya fed with sunshine and soft rain. Mielikki and Rillifane Rallathil planted countless species of trees, ranging in size from the knee-high fairy pine to mighty oaks towering four hundred feet. Silvanus nurtured the forest like a loving gardener, shaping each leaf and painting them every color of the rainbow. Aerdrie Faenya sent gentle winds to caress the trees and thunderstorms to strengthen them. Eldath made them heavy with flowers and fruit.
It was a paradise, but like anything too good to be true, it didn't last. Not all of it, anyway. Cormanthor once encompassed a much greater region, stretching from the Storm Horns Mountains to the Sea of Fallen Stars. As cleanly as a scythe shears a wheat stalk, civilization cut it down.
The humanoid natives of the woods - the elves, half-elves, a few human tribes - have always harvested trees for homes, weapons, and trinkets. The forest shrugged off the damage. As the kingdoms of Cormyr and Sembia developed and grew, the forest was forced to surrender. The trees could withstand dozens of axes, but not thousands. The settlers regarded the trees as nothing more than weeds. sturdy weeds, perhaps, but weeds nonetheless. Some elves abandoned the woods for the new cities, others left in the great Retreat to Evermeet. A few die-hards, including yours truly, hung on.
Despite the settlers. shortsightedness - future generations will also need wood for their treasure chests and rowboats, but the settlers apparently didn't consider how long it takes for a new tree to grow - I don't begrudge them their actions. Humans need to build cities like bees need to make hives. If humans are dumb enough to wreck everything in their way.well, that's just their nature. Anyway, they did me a favor by scaring off the elves. Cormanthor is a nicer place to live now than it was before Cormyr and Sembia came along, at least for an old crab like me. Elminster says I'm not only an old crab, but an old fool, that if I think the days of human expansion are gone, I'm out of my mind. Maybe so, but for now, all's quiet. I can't mourn for what was or what might be.

Old Settlements

If you've spent any time at all in or around Cormanthor, you've undoubtedly heard of the four elven communities: Semberholme, the Tangled Trees, the Elven Court, and Myth Drannor. If you're like most people, you've heard the legends and wonder if they're true. On our first night together, Elminster insisted on grilling me about Myth Drannor until I dumped a bowl of honey pudding on his head to shut him up.
As far as I'm concerned, the legends are more interesting than reality. Maybe they used to be bustling centers of art, science and commerce, but now they're mostly crumbling stone and rotten wood. I suggest that you avoid them. Places this famous invariably attract troublemakers. At best, you may run into an elven geezer bent on boring you to tears with stories about the good old days. At worst, you may find monsters so nasty they make dracoliches look like bunny rabbits.
Go if you must, but be careful. If you're looking to get rich, you can find plenty of people to sell you information and treasure maps. I'm not one of them, but I'll tell you - free of charge - about some things you might otherwise miss.
The Elven Court, for instance, is littered with old buildings of every conceivable size and shape, from box-sized shacks to spectacular palaces big enough to hold a convention of storm giants. Most have been picked clean.
You want treasure? Keep going until you get to an oak grove about 50 miles south of Elventree. It's thick with bats, most of them ordinary insect-eaters, with a few assorted azmyths and sinisters. Find an oak whose trunk diameter equals exactly half the wingspan of one of the male sinisters; male Elven Court sinisters have white mouths. Scrape the bark from the oak - the "tree" is solid gold. An elven mage accomplished this before his death, apparently to keep his treasure safe from grave robbers.
Which oak, you ask? Beats me. Good luck.
The hills of Semberholme are still riddled with the limestone caves that the original residents used for shelter. Some contain pools of fresh water fed by underground streams. Don't be put off by the odor. Some smell like spoiled milk and dead fish, but they're all drinkable.
You'll find a scattering of oat fields near the west shore of Lake Sember, which the elves maintained for food and trade. The fields now attract wild horses, especially in the autumn. If you're in the market for a new mount, you could do worse. Be careful though. if even a single horse considers you a threat, expect them all to attack as a herd. A nephew of mine was killed when he spotted a mare drinking from a brook and tried to lasso it. The rest of the herd surrounded and charged. They stomped him so brutally that there was nothing left to bury.
Hundreds of elves still call the Tangled Trees home. Unless you're elven, stay away - they're as ornery as bee-stung badgers and don't take kindly to trespassers. Most prefer to fire arrows first, then ask questions during the funeral. If by circumstance or stupidity you find yourself in these parts, bring along a canary. specifically, one of the emerald throated canaries that nest in the butternut trees along the southwestern shore of the River Duathamper. They're easy to catch. Hold out a handful of lemon or orange peelings and sooner or later, one will land in your palm.
The Tangled Tree elves - some, not all - consider themselves devout worshippers of Rillifane Rallathil. An elven priest by the name of Makk Fireseed has convinced his followers that the canaries are Rillifane's favorite creature; the yellow feathers stand for the sun, the green throat represents the leaves of the trees, or some such nonsense. If you run into a band of elves with a bad disposition, try offering them a Duathamper canary. If you can supply a silver cage or a gold band for its foot, so much the better. The elves may not become your best friends, but with luck, they'll let you pass.
By the way, when traveling through the Tangled Trees, you may notice the occasional oak tree with an outline of a canary carved in the trunk, usually about two feet from the ground. Let it be; it's an elven shrine to Rillifane Rallathil. If you chop it down, tie your horse to it, or even lean against it, a whole flock of canaries won't save your neck. Need convincing? Look up. In the highest branches, you'll see the dangling skulls of previous defilers who mistook the shrine for just another tree.
Somebody could write a book about Myth Drannor - I think Elminster may have tried - but not me. I've made it a point to stay out of Myth Drannor altogether. When I was young and too dumb to know better, I decided to check it out. I had some half-baked notion that I'd find a secret cache of gold, as if the same idea hadn't occurred to every avaricious soul from here to Amn. To be on the safe side, I recruited a pair of black bears to go with me.
When we got within ten miles of the place, the bears were growling and snorting. Every few minutes, they stopped to sniff the air, then shook their heads in confusion before reluctantly padding on. By the time we reached the outskirts of the city, one bear had already bolted into the brush, scrambling in the general direction of Anauroch as fast as his paws could take him. The other bear was whining like a whipped kitten, digging his claws into the ground and refusing to move. I had my arms around his neck and was trying to drag him forward when I heard something thunder overhead. A red dragon was roaring out of Myth Drannor, wings beating furiously, its face wrenched in stark terror!
I didn't wait to see what was chasing it. I dived into a clump of brambles, squirming underneath as far as I could, ignoring the thorns that ripped my back. I cowered there shaking, waiting for the end. The bear bolted into the trees and disappeared.
Gradually, the roar receded. I stayed where I was, listening to the crickets chirp and leaves rustle. Three hours later, I wriggled out of the brambles, half expecting some hellish monstrosity to swoop from above and carry me away in its claws. It didn't happen, but I kept one eye cocked toward the sky all the way home, just in case.
I never found out what was chasing the red dragon. I hope I never do.
So what do you need to know about Myth Drannor? Just this: Ages ago, they called it the City of Love, an elven paradise where beauty reigned and peace prevailed. Then came the Army of Darkness, an onslaught of fiends and brutes bent on grinding the city to dust. The elves defended themselves by erecting shields of magic and recruiting dragon guardians. In the end, the effort failed and the kingdom collapsed. The elves fled, leaving behind a graveyard of collapsed buildings and abandoned dreams. Myth Drannor now exists as a refuge for predators and a breeding ground for monsters. The City of Love? The City of Death is more like it.
Anyone who rests his neck on the executioner's block deserves to have his head removed. I have no advice for navigating Myth Drannor, nor suggestions for surviving its many dangers. I will, however, share some observations about how Myth Drannor has affected the rest of Cormanthor.
So powerful is the magic of Myth Drannor that it's spilled over into the surrounding countryside, drenching the creatures, the trees, and the very soil. I don't pretend to understand the reasons for or even the extent of these effects. To be honest, I probably wouldn't have realized that the elven woods were so different from forests elsewhere in the world if Elminster hadn't educated me. Now I'm convinced. You need to know about them so you don't think you're going crazy when your potion of healing goes flat or you see a chicken trying to eat a mouse.
According to Elminster, the magic of Myth Drannor has had three major effects on Cormanthor. Briefly:
The Weather: Summers aren't as hot and winters aren't as cold as they ought to be. The temperature differences between Cormanthor and similar forests are subtle, only a few degrees in some instances. Normal factors - shade, precipitation, winds - can't account for the favorable climate, which prevails nearly all year long.
Diversity: The number of animal and plant species in Cormanthor far exceeds that of other temperate woodlands. Virtually any organism that could survive in a forest environment can be found here. You won't find locathah or frost giants, but such otherwise rare creatures as bulettes and chimerae turn up in surprising numbers. We have far more than our share of oddities, many of them refugees from Myth Drannor.
Edgelands: They don't look unusual, but these patches of wilderness scattered throughout Cormanthor affect magic and its wielders in extraordinary ways. Elminster theorizes that the edgelands were created by magical energies that drifted from the mythal, the web-work of living magic enveloping Myth Drannor. I'll take his word for it. Suffice to say, if you depend on spells to rustle up food or defend yourself from angry ogres, don't camp in the edgelands. We'll get into the details of the edgelands a little later. Right now, let's talk about where you can take a bath.

Two Rivers

Two major rivers wind through the elven woods: the Duathamper, or the Elvenflow, which runs along the southwestern border, and the Ashaba, which cuts the forest in half from Shadowdale to just east of Semberholme. Both are suitable for swimming, boating, and bathing, though I prefer the Elvenflow for the latter, as it provides more privacy. Of course, that's what Elminster thought, too; he was soaping himself about 10 miles north of Hammer Ford when I saw him - all of him - for the first time.
Though most maps don't show them, dozens of narrow streams branch off the Elvenflow, many ending in small ponds. The streams usually run clear and are rarely more than a few inches deep, perfect for cooling your feet on a hot day.
You'll never touch bottom in most sections of the Elvenflow proper. I tied a stone to a 30-foot vine to measure the depth at various points, and I usually ran out of vine before I ran out of water. It's also wide, hundreds of yards most of the way, but every few miles it narrows and shallows out enough to wade across. Black granite bridges span the river at three places, courtesy of some enterprising elves - I didn't say they were all bad.
The Hexad must have made the Elvenflow for fishing, as they stocked it with bass, catfish, and trout, some as big as a ponies. The fish are so thick that a raccoon could cross the river by walking on their backs. For fishing, a cane pole or even a simple hand line will suffice. With fish practically flinging themselves ashore, if you can't catch your dinner, you deserve to go hungry.
Bait? Worms, animal fat, or even a scrap of colored cloth will work. If you want to land the big ones, try the button fungus that grows on the undersides of birch limbs; it looks like tiny mushrooms covered with brown fur and smells like month-old cheese. The fish love it, especially those pudgy trout.
The Ashaba is as wide as the Elvenflow and nearly as deep. I know of only one granite bridge, about 30 miles south of Mistledale, but it's in bad shape thanks to a nearsighted black dragon who mistook it for a rival and tried to smash it to pieces. The banks of the Ashaba slope much more sharply than those of the Elvenflow, a straight drop in some places.
If you're lucky, you might spot an orc on his belly, leaning over the bank to hand-fish. Watch long enough, and you may see him lean too far and fall in. If you're really lucky, you might see a giant carp break the surface and suck him down like a worm. The carp around here, by the way, have perpetually empty stomachs. They've been known to chew up canoes and pick their teeth with the oars.
Truth to tell, it wouldn't bother me if the carp grew legs and chased down every orc south of Ashabenford. The Ashaba used to be as rich a fishing ground as the Elvenflow. No more. On a good day, a patient fisherman can still snag enough walleye and bullhead to feed his family, particularly in the southern waters. Up north, in a section Elminster refers to as "The Barrens," you can cast your line for hours on end and have nothing to show for effort except a skinny sunfish the size of your little finger. The orcs overworked the northern section of the river, using trawling nets to scoop up fish by the hundreds. To get rid of the giant carp, they dumped in wagonloads of a special herbal poison. Not only did the poison fail to get rid of the carp, it turned them black and made them meaner.
The orcs' attempt at wildlife management decimated the game fish population. For nearly a year, the waters reeked so badly from dead fish that you could smell it ten miles away. The water has cleared up some, but the carp are still practicing a little management of their own, so be careful when wading out into the Ashaba.
A pair of streams in the southern woods, the Semberflow and the Deeping, also provide relief for the thirsty traveler. Their crystal waters teem with bass and catfish in quantities rivaling the Elvenflow. It is an otherwise unremarkable area, drawing too many human tourists for my taste.
The westernmost stretch of the Deeping, however, serves as a spawning ground for a tasty variety of freshwater shrimp. The Deeping shrimp, nearly a foot long and brilliant red, can be caught by dragging nets along the river bed. The halflings living in the area manufacture special trawling nets for just this purpose, consisting of finely-woven mesh attached to weighted boards. The boards are buoyant enough to make for easy trawling, but not heavy enough to sink. The halflings are excellent net-makers, but dismal businessmen. You should be able to buy a net for a couple of silver pieces. As a bonus, the dried shrimp shells emit a soft pink light for up to two days and can be used to mark trails.

Weather

A forest the size of Cormanthor needs the right amount of rain and sunshine. Too much water washes away delicate seedlings and topsoil. If there's not enough water, the soil dries up and everything starts to die. Excessive heat causes the ground water to evaporate and plants to wither.
Fortunately, the climate couldn't be better. In part, this is due to the moderating effect of the Myth Drannor energies, but it's also due to the way the Hexad designed the terrain. According to Elminster, the sun strikes Cormanthor at precisely the right angle to warm the trees without scorching them. Precipitation falls lightly but steadily all year long, keeping the ground moist and the air cool. Thanks to the forest's sheltering canopy, which provides both shade and protection from harsh winds, we're spared the temperature extremes of the surrounding areas. A fur jacket and a good pair of leather trousers, and I'm cozy on the coldest winter day.
In short, compared to other regions - especially other forests - Cormanthor has warmer winters, fewer gale-force winds, higher humidity, and more than its share of rain. As to how hot it gets and how much rain falls, I've never kept track, but Elminster has, and he's slipped some figures in here somewhere. Those figures aside, I'd say that if you spend a couple of weeks in these parts, plan on getting rained on a day or two. Otherwise, enjoy the sunshine - we've got plenty of it.

Seasons

Unlike Anauroch or the Great Glacier, where every miserable day is pretty much like the next, Cormanthor experiences distinct seasons. The inhabitants adapt accordingly; bears hibernate in the winter, caterpillars spin cocoons in the spring, wild ducks migrate in the autumn. Though rare, a bad stretch of weather can wreak havoc on the animals.
Eighteen years ago, we experienced a summer drought that just about killed off the rye grass, which in turn starved most of the region's red deer. The autumn before last hit us with an earlier-than-usual frost, destroying nearly all the wild flowers and berry bushes north of Highmoon, which wiped out most of the rabbits and gophers. The leucrotta in the area had less to eat, and turned on Casckel, a village of peaceful halflings. By spring, there was nothing left of Casckel but empty huts and halfling bones.
Fortunately, seasons tend to be pretty much the same from year to year. This summer should be about as warm as the one before, and I'd be surprised if the amount of rain varies more than an inch or two from spring to spring.
Spring comes calling in Ches and lasts until Flamerule. Thawing begins in the first few weeks of Ches, and by mid-Tarsakh the cottonwood trees are already sprouting buds and daffodils are beginning to flower. The lengthening day, providing nearly 16 hours of direct sunlight by Flamerule, allows vegetation to grow quickly; most seedlings mature before summer begins. Rain is frequent but light. Skies remain bright and clear during most spring storms.
Summer arrives in Eleasias and extends through Marpenoth. Temperatures peak in late Eleasias, but we experience only a handful of days I'd consider uncomfortable. For perhaps half of Eleasias, an old horse might risk exhaustion from overheating, or a traveler might find the shade of an oak tree more appealing than the arms of her lover. Calm winds and blue skies predominate, but you should stay on guard for thunderstorms. A summer storm can come and go in an hour's time, pounding the earth with sheets of rain and shattering trees with lightning spears. Pockets of fog often shroud long stretches of the forest, particularly near the northern Elvenflow. Oppressive humidity, common in Eleint, can sap the strength of the mightiest warrior; wear loose clothes, drink plenty of water, and if possible, travel at night.
Autumn, occurring in Uktar and Nightal, brings lower temperatures, shorter days, and an avalanche of falling leaves that hides most of the ground within a few weeks. Rain falls infrequently, but winds blow almost daily, often with enough force to flip the hat from your head or stir up a whirlwind of fallen leaves. The first killing frost, usually arriving in the final days of Nightal, marks the beginning of winter.
Winter consists of the months of Hammer and Alturiak. Hammer tends to be dry and cool, but by early Alturiak, most of the forest has been blanketed by an inch or two of snow. Temperatures remain cold but tolerable. Icicles dangle from bare limbs of oaks, and pheasants huddle beneath huckleberry bushes for warmth.
Don't look for bears or grasshoppers; they're sound asleep, the former in secluded caves, the latter in rotted stumps. Thick, fluffy fur makes rabbits and badgers appear larger than normal. The Semberholme ferret, brown in the spring, now sports a white coat to make him less visible to hungry wolves. You may see a jackalwere rubbing pyrolisk bones together to melt the ice from its paws. Scare away the jackalwere and steal the bones. You can't start a fire with them, but stick them in your sleeping bag at night and they'll keep you toasty.

Adaptations

Ever heard of the communal tower east of Suzail that looked like twenty brick houses piled on top of each other? The bottom layers were reserved for laborers and other common folk while the highest levels.the ones closest to the gods.were home to rich merchants and big shots. A great idea, until a stiff wind blowing off the Lake of Dragons leveled it like a kid swatting a stack of building blocks.
Cormanthor is like that tower, only without the snobbery - and it's a lot sturdier. The height of the trees, hundreds of feet in some places, offers numerous living environments, one atop the other. High-flying falcons make nests in the tree tops. In the branches below, owls live in the hollows, squirrels snooze in the limbs. All manner of animals, ranging from tiny mice to lumbering aurumvorax, lair in the shaded meadows and valleys. Worms and beetles feast on the decayed matter in the ground, much of it derived from rotting leaves.
Cormanthor boasts a good food supply, plenty of water, and ample living space. Still, the creatures who have thrived are those who have enhanced their survival chances with physical adaptations, such as:
Coloration: A chipmunk that glows in the dark or a rabbit with bright red ears might as well hang a sign around its neck that says, "Eat Me." Most species are colored shades of brown, gray, and green, the better to blend in with the surrounding terrain. Some, like the naga and the boa constrictor, sport patterns of blotches for camouflage.
Senses: With so many trees and bushes for hiding places, predators can't rely on eyesight alone to locate their prey. Most forest creatures, predators and prey alike, have sharper-than-average senses of smell and hearing. A behir can distinguish between the scents of a raccoon and a possum at 100 yards. A giant black squirrel can hear a constrictor slithering in the next tree. Likewise, forest dwellers observe a strict code of silence so as not to draw attention to themselves; you will hear few roars, hisses, or tweets, even if surrounded by a zoo full of creatures.
Movement: Because moving through woods this dense can be difficult, maneuverability is valued more than speed, climbing more than flight. Antelope and similarly slender herd animals capable of darting around trees do well; bulky buffalo are better suited to the open ground. Claws for climbing are favored over claws that tear and shred. Woodpeckers and wrens who can swoop through webs of branches fare better than giant eagles.

The Cormanthor Woods

Although many consider Cormanthor to be one big forest, it's actually made up of four forests; Semberholme, the Elven Court, the Tangled Trees, and the Vale of Lost Voices. I've divided Cormanthor up into three areas I call the rimwood, the midwood and the starwood. Admittedly, it's hard to tell where one ends and the next begins, but if you know what to look for, you'll know where you are.
What do you look for? What else? You look for trees. The rimwood consists mainly of pines. The midwood are predominantly white ash and beech. Gigantic oaks and maple make up most of the star- wood. The farther into Cormanthor you go, the denser the vegetation - the rimwood are relatively barren, the starwood are as thick as a jungle.

Rimwood

The rimwood serves as a 10-20 mile border between the elven woods and the rest of the world. Because of the sandy, mineral-poor soil, the rimwood supports little vegetation. Blueridge and needleleaf pines, the primary species of trees, seldom exceed 20 feet and are spaced wide apart; you'll look all day to find two trees whose branches touch each other. The pines continually drop needles that are slow to decompose, inhibiting the growth of other plant life. Softwood ferns, brownish in color and as tough as shoe leather, sprout near the pines, but that's about it. Clumps of wiregrass adorn a few hillsides, as do some droopy willows and stubby spruces.
Because of the lack of vegetation, the area attracts few herbivores, which also accounts for the absence of meat-eaters. You might see a solitary wolf wandering about, or a tortoise pawing the dirt for grubs, but few animals settle permanently in the rimwood. With the lush midwood a few miles away, why would they?
Insects flourish in the rimwood, however, since there aren't many creatures who want to eat them. Beetles scuttle down hillsides like an avalanche of black pebbles. Mosquitoes swarm in clouds so thick you can barely see the sky. Many a traveler who's camped in the rimwood has awakened the following morning with her tent infested with red ants or her sleeping bag crawling with lice.
After a long day's journey through the rimwood, I remember seeing what I thought was an apple tree, heavy with plump fruit. My mouth watered at the thought of apple dumplings, and I rode toward the tree as fast as my horse would carry me. Turned out that it wasn't an apple tree at all, but a pine filled with red leafhopper larvae, hanging from the limbs in squirming clusters.
Aside from its usefulness as an insect haven, the rimwood acts as a buffer zone. It discourages animals from wandering out of the midwood, and makes travelers from the outlands think twice about taking shortcuts through Cormanthor. The major roadways winding through the rimwood - including Rauthauvyr's Road, Moonsea Ride, Moander's Road, and Halfaxe Trail - remain relatively free of pests. You can use them without fear of waking up with a mama tick laying eggs in your hair.

Midwood

Just under half of Cormanthor can be considered the midwood. These are the trees separate ing the rimwood from the starwood, including a thick stretch along the Moonsea Ride that cuts Cormanthor in two. So dense is the midwood that a high-flying bird would be looking down on a sea of solid green. If the bird had bad eyes, it might think the midwood to be a single, sprawling tree.
That bird would be surprised to discover how diverse the midwood truly is, as its rich soil supports hundreds of species of trees, flowers, and plants. White ash and beeches line the gentle valleys along the Ashaba. Chestnuts and red maples crowd the hills north of Mistledale. Vast meadows near Essemore blossom with honeysuckles and snapdragons, bordered by groves of cherry trees and blue cedars. Ivory moss and moonfern decorate groves of alders, hickories, and bitternuts.
Tree trunks provide homes for giant constrictors, while rotting logs give shelter to salamanders and scorpions. Thrushes, cuckoos, and swallows nest in the limbs. The hammering of woodpeckers mingles with the sweet singing of bluebirds. A traveler setting up camp under a canopy of redbud trees might be startled to discover an audience of curious squirrels and warthogs. The traveler may also be puzzled by some of the odd vegetation. A few examples:
Beetle palm trees, named for the black bark that looks like a beetle's shell, grow to heights of 100 feet or more. Clusters of spindly, leafless branches crown the otherwise smooth trunks. The wood contains oily deposits that make it exceptionally flammable. It burns nearly three times as long as other types of wood and produces about half the amount of smoke.
Foxberries, resembling bright yellow grapes, grow on snaky vines found throughout the midwood, typically near beech trees. Foxberries are greasy to the touch and smell like cooked steak. One of the world's few fruits digestible by carnivores, they make an acceptable meal for wolves and other meat-eaters in times of scarce game. Humans can eat them, too, but don't be misled by the aroma.they taste like dirt.
Roseneedle pines thrive along the banks of the Ashaba, growing there the year round. They resemble miniature evergreens, seldom exceeding three feet tall. A roselike blossom, pink or white, sprouts from the end of each tiny needle. A roseneedle's roots extend ten or more feet into the ground, each ending in a fat tuber the size of a potato. Chunks of the tubers make excellent fishing bait; a fisherwoman can easily double her day's catch when using them.

Starwood

I came up with the name when I was settling under a maple tree to go to sleep. The maple was so high, it looked like its branches could pierce the stars.
Okay, so the trees aren't really that high, but they're certainly impressive. I'd guess the maples average 200 feet with some of the taller oaks being twice that. If an oak trunk were hollow, it could hold a small farmhouse.
The starwood consists of four distinct areas. All have towering oaks, hickories, and maples, but each also has its own signature species. West starwood, the area containing Semberholme, boasts thick groves of poplar and gum trees. Spruce and hemlock are common in the central starwood, west of the Ashaba. East starwood, roughly divided into the Elven Court and Tangled Trees regions, feature firs and elms, particularly where the starwood border the midwood. Cedars line the perimeter of the North starwood, home to Myth Drannor.
The starwood soil, as moist as that in the midwood but nearly black, gives rise to all variety of shrubs and thick grasses. The dense underbrush can make traveling difficult. The waist-high wood ferns are as thick as corn stalks, and traversing the carpets of mushy peat feels like wading through mud. Gray mist permeates much of the forest, particularly in the north and east, reducing vision to a few hundred feet. The humid air encourages the growth of lichens and mosses, which drip from tree branches like shredded velvet.
The profusion of grasses and brush supply an endless food source for grazers, such as elk and deer. Well fed manticores sleep on beds of violets, owls chase screeching finches, and wood rats scramble for the cover of zebra grass. Ground-dwellers include both normal and gargantuan porcupines, skunks, and weasels. The fog-shrouded groves of the North and East starwood conceal roving packs of dire wolves. A careless traveler may mistake an emerald constrictor for a mossy tree branch.
As in the midwood, much of the starwood vegetation may be unfamiliar. For example:
Medquat is a crimson lichen found inside hollow logs, particularly camphor. The soft lichen tastes like lemons and is highly prized by Cormyr gourmets. Be careful when groping around in camphor logs; scorpions adore the scent of medquat and like to cover themselves in it.
Chime oak trees thrive in the northern sections of the East starwood. They resemble normal oak trees made of clear glass. Aside from their appearance, chime oaks are indistinguishable from other oaks; birds nest in their branches, they sprout and grow from seedlings, their limbs can be cut and burned for firewood. Unlike normal oaks, however, chime oaks don't lose their leaves in the autumn. Instead, the leaves freeze solid, remaining frozen throughout the autumn and winter until they thaw in the spring. Light breezes cause the frozen leaves to tinkle like wind chimes, producing a soothing, pleasant sound especially attractive to basilisks. These creatures may be found curled up near the trunks, eyes closed, completely relaxed.
Hinnies are forest flowers that look like giant buttercups, 10 feet in diameter, with bright blue petals. Normally, a hinnie's petals are closed tight, giving it the appearance of a huge ball. The closed petals protect a pool of sweet nectar, two or three inches deep. Any attempt to pry the petals apart, pierce them with a sword, or otherwise gain access to the nectar by force causes the hinnie to crumble to dust and its nectar to instantly evaporate. The petals open by themselves for one day in the first week of spring. It's also possible to open the petals by warming them, such as by holding a torch near the petals or building a small fire next to the base. This must be done carefully. If the hinnie gets too hot, it ignites and disintegrates. If a traveler manages to open a hinnie, or is fortunate enough to find one open in the spring, he may sit in its pool and allow the nectar to be absorbed into his body. The results are usually beneficial, but not always. A few years ago, a sister-in-law of mine was found floating face-down in a hinnie pool, the blood drained from her body.
Worth the risk? Not for me.

Edgelands

My first encounter with the edgelands came 44 summers ago. I was exploring the midwood south of Elventree, looking for a place where my niece could set up her refuge for abandoned centaur colts. Seven weeks of searching had been in vain. The land was simply too barren for centaurs, despite the abundance of sunshine and clean brooks.
Another long day was coming to an end. Misha, my wolf cub companion, was hungry and in a bad mood. Rabbits and gophers were scarce, and if Misha didn't get something to eat soon, I was afraid she might develop a craving for horse flesh. I had only one horse, an old mare named Geldi, and I needed to keep her flesh attached to her bones if I was going to get home.
I cast locate plants and animals, hoping to scrounge up some foxberries for Misha, who was now circling an increasingly uncomfortable Geldi. Then the oddest thing happened.
The spell fizzled.
I've cast this particular spell hundreds of times, and I can count on one hand the number of times it failed. Maybe I was more tired than I thought. I tried it again.
Another dud.
I sat in the grass, confused and - I'll admit it - a little scared. I reviewed the spell in my head, trying to recall if I'd left out a step, when I saw something that made me forget what I was trying to remember. Not five feet away from me, Misha was munching sunflowers, pulling petals from stems and chewing them up as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Behind her, Geldi was kicking at a chipmunk. The chipmunk lunged like a cobra, determined to take a chunk out of Geldi's leg.
I shooed away the chipmunk and gathered Misha in my arms, a sunflower stem drooping from her mouth. I mounted Geldi and we galloped away. My niece would have to find her own refuge.
A month later, I told Elminster about my experience. "You're not alone," he said. A cottonmouth snake near the rimwood east of Semberholme had choked to death trying to swallow an apple. North of Highmoon, grasshoppers were seen feasting on the corpse of a cow.
Elminster explained that all of these were natural events - natural, that is, for Cormanthor. Apparently, energy drifts from Myth Drannor were creating regions where magic goes haywire and animal diets are turned upside down. He called these regions "Edgelands," as they only occurred on the borders of two different forests, say, a stretch between the rimwood and the midwood.
Casual inspection of these areas reveal nothing out of the ordinary. Fortunately, they don't last. Elminster says that an edgeland appears in the early spring and vanishes when the first autumn frost arrives. It may or may not reappear in the same place the following spring; usually, it doesn't. He has no idea how many edgelands exist at any given time, but says he'd be surprised if there were more than three or four.
So how do you identify an edgeland? Here are some signs. Not all apply to every edgeland, but if you notice more than one, I'd assume the worst. The area faintly radiates magic. (All edgelands do this.) . Spells don't work the way they should, or they don't work at all. The same for magical items. The diets of small animals are off-kilter; herbivores eat meat, carnivores eat fruit. The area experiences unusual weather effects; raindrops feel warm, a breeze abruptly changes direction, a snow flurry blows up on a summer day.
Aside from some inconvenience - it's frustrating not to be able to cast spells, but hardly the end of the world - what's so bad about an edgeland? Well, consider the ramifications of a swarm of bees with a craving for meat - and you're the only meat available. Stay on your toes when crossing from one forest into another, and if you see a squirrel licking its lips, get out fast.

Beware of the Dog

You know enough not to grab a chimera by the tail or poke a sleeping wyvern with a stick. You also know to expect the unexpected when encountering monsters in the wilderness - otherwise, you wouldn't be reading this book.
Remember that so-called "normal" animals can be just as dangerous as the monstrous ones, particularly those living in the relative isolation of Cormanthor. The less contact animals have with humans, the less they fear them. Some animals are merely curious, like an owl who eyes you from a tree top or a raccoon who joins you for a swim. A few are even friendly, such as the parrot who may flutter out of an elm tree to perch on your shoulder and hitchhike for an afternoon. Most animals are suspicious at best, hostile at worst. After all, this is their territory you're invading.
Consider, for example, the wild dog, normally skittish around humans unless starving or provoked. A particular Cormanthor version, a tough, sinewy canine recognizable by its mottled hide, has a foul temper. If awoken by a thunderstorm, a Cormanthor wild dog will snarl and snap at the raindrops. If it survives a hunter's attack, it will track the hunter for weeks. One such vengeful dog tracked a hunter all the way to Arabel, chewed its way into the hunter's bedroom door, then killed the hunter in bed. Though omnivorous, the wild dog prefers the flesh of mammals, and makes no distinction between a baby opossum and a human infant.
It's unclear whether the black or brown bear is more vicious. The black is smaller and faster, the brown larger and stronger. Both are relentless killers. Cormanthor bears consider humans just another type of monkey, annoying and easily dispatched. The bears prefer blueberries and gooseberries to most other food, but when supplies are low, particularly in mid-to-late autumn, they'll eat anything that walks, flies, or crawls. A hungry bear will knock down your horse with a swat of its paw, chase you up a tree, and break your sword in two with a single snap of its jaws.
Interestingly, I've probably heard of more unprovoked attacks from wild boars than any other "normal" animal within Cormanthor. Our boars seem to be born mean; one of my sons reported seeing a litter of newborns rip out the throat of their own mother. Unlike the omnivorous boars elsewhere in the world, Cormanthor boars eat nothing but meat, and they're hungry 24 hours a day. Boars will excavate graves to get to the corpses and swim across rivers to attack boats.
Finally, consider the story of the young elf who discovered a rabbit outside of Myth Drannor. Except for the red fur and bright green eyes, it resembled and behaved like a normal rabbit. The elf put the rabbit inside his coat, where it snuggled against his chest, content and docile. He brought the rabbit home to his family and showed it to his younger brothers and sisters, who fed it clover and stroked its soft fur. That night, he took the rabbit to his grandmother, who shrieked in terror when she recognized the animal for what it really was. The shriek startled the rabbit, causing three spines on its stomach to become erect. The spines pierced the elf's arm, and he fell to the ground, unconscious. He died within an hour.

Cormanthor - Part Two: Monsters

Elminster always says that the first step to knowledge is admitting how little you know. I always say, if you're knowledgeable too often, people will expect you to be that way all the time.
We're probably both right.
If you think you're as smart as you need to be, you're free to ignore the following information. The last person, however, who declined to take me seriously wound up as powder in a bulette nest.
Powder?
Bulette nest?
Maybe you do have a few things to learn!

Aurumvorax

I sprained my ankle so badly I had to use a crutch for a month because of an aurumvorax. The rimwood plains east of the River Lis are riddled with aurumvorax holes. Most of the holes are overgrown with weeds and wild flowers, making them just about impossible to see.
I was chasing a sand hen, a rare type of quail that makes the best soup stock you've ever tasted. It was inches from my fingers when I stepped in an aurumvorax hole. I slammed to the ground, my body going one direction, my foot in another. Howling in pain, I gripped my twisted ankle and watched the sand hen trot off into the brush, cackling with glee.
It could've been worse. The hole could've contained an actual aurumvorax, in which case a sprained ankle would've been the least of my problems. I've seen an aurumvorax strip the flesh from a war horse, and it can hold its own in a fight with a chimera.
The odds, however, of encountering an actual aurumvorax in Cormanthor are about as slim as a ruby dropping out of the sky and bouncing off your head. They're here, of course - I can show you the holes - you just never see them. I've always felt that aurumvorax spend half their waking hours looking for food, the other half trying to find a way out of Cormanthor.
You see, aurumvorax aren't native to Cormanthor. They don't belong here, and they don't particularly like it here, either. For one thing, they're the wrong color for life in a green forest; their golden hides make them stand out like coal on a snow drift. There's little for them to eat; Cormanthor has plenty of mice and gooseberries, but not much gold.
A group of avaricious treasure hunters from Ylraphon introduced aurumvorax to the elven woods three centuries ago. Rumors of gold lured the hunters to the eastern rimwood, and they brought six pair of aurumvorax to sniff it out. The aurumvorax went to work the moment they were released, hungrily digging up rich veins in the hills and plains, gorging on ore while the hunters congratulated themselves on their brilliance.
Unfortunately, the aurumvorax had no intention of sharing. When a hunter attempted to examine one of the gold veins, an aurumvorax sprang, sinking its jaws in the hunter's back. In short order, the aurumvorax polished off the remaining hunters, then returned to the business of excavating their glittery cuisine.
With so much to eat and few predators to bother them, the aurumvorax multiplied like rabbits. Within a decade, they had pretty much depleted the gold, turning the plains of the eastern rimwood into a sea of holes. They spread west, searching for gold in the midwood, then north and south, hoping to find deposits like those in the eastern rimwood. Unfortunately, gold was scarce - the rich deposits in the eastern midwood turned out to be a one-of-a-kind aberration - and life became an unending quest for something to eat.
Survival required a change in diet. Gradually, the aurumvorax digestive system adapted to handle metals other than gold, as well as gems and minerals. The aurumvorax learned to eat the iron ore found in the hillsides south of the Tangled Forest, and the onyx deposits hidden in the rosemary valleys north of Hap. Some suspect aurumvorax of devouring the secret jade caches of Myth Drannan royalty, hidden in subterranean vaults near the Standing Stone. The Cormanthor aurumvorax have also increased the proportion of red meat in their diets, favoring groundhogs, wild cats, and ferrets.
The changes in diet have also brought about changes in appearance and behavior. The Cormanthor aurumvorax have mottled coats, their golden fur streaked with dull reds and blues. While normal aurumvorax hides may fetch as much as 15,000-20,000 gold pieces, an elven woods aurumvorax hide might bring half that amount. When burned in a forge, a Cormanthor aurumvorax leaves behind about 50-75 pounds of gold. The claws are usually bright green or violet; collectors have paid up to 100 gold pieces per green claw, ten times that for the rarer violet claws.
To minimize the need for food, the Cormanthor aurumvorax hibernates for about three months, usually in the autumn and winter. A hibernating aurumvorax buries itself in mud or dirt, then curls into a ball with its head tucked beneath its legs.
Though an active aurumvorax breathes through its nostrils, a hibernating aurumvorax absorbs air through pores in its hide. A patch of skin about three inches in circumference remains exposed during hibernation. Unwary travelers may mistake this exposed skin for gold. The slightest disturbance - a touch, a loud sound - and a hibernating aurumvorax snaps to life, snarling and clawing at whoever had the misfortune to wake it up.
During the spring, many Cormanthor aurumvorax suffer from allergies. The allergies result in fits of sneezing, which merely annoy the aurumvorax, but may seriously inconvenience a traveler. An aurumvorax's spittle, expelled when the creature sneezes, can corrode metal, reducing a suit of armor to worthless rust in a matter of minutes.

Bulettes

Everything about the Cormanthor bulette is awful - the way it eats (by swallowing live prey feet first, sometimes leaving the head), the way it sleeps (often napping in the middle of a meal, a victim squirming in its jaws), even the way it breathes (wheezing when it inhales, drooling when it exhales). Nothing is more awful than the way it mates.
At the end of summer, the male stakes out its territory in the starwood, ringing the boundary with corpses of deer and wild boar. The corpses usually attract predators, which the bulette destroys and adds to the ring. With the boundary complete, the bulette digs a shallow pit, then lines it with bones extracted from the corpses. For the next week or so, the bulette sits in the pit, chewing the bones and grinding them to a fine powder. It spreads the powder over the bottom of the pit, then tunnels underneath.
Within a month, a female bulette arrives, drawn by the odor. As she settles into the powder, the male bursts from the tunnel. They mate. The male wanders away. The female rests.
Gestation occurs in a matter of hours. By the following evening, the female has laid up to a dozen rock-hard, spine-covered eggs. By morning, the eggs hatch. While they're hatching, the female announces the event by bellowing like an elephant.
Once hatched, the young immediately attack the mother, attaching themselves to her feet, her tail, her snout. The mother responds by gobbling up as many of the infants as she can. The battle rages until the mother eats all the infants, or the infants kill the mother. Usually, the infants win, although it's rare that more than two or three survive. Those left alive celebrate their victory by devouring their dead siblings and whatever's left of their mother.
I told you it was awful.
Still, despite the obvious risks, should you hear the female bulette's distinctive birth roar, I suggest that you investigate. After it's been saturated with the fluid inside the eggs, the bone powder in the nest makes a potent fertilizer. A handful of powder applied to a seedling will result in a tree twice its normal height. The powder may have additional applications yet unknown; I suspect it may cause an apple tree to bear twice the normal amount of fruit, a rose to bloom in winter, and wheat to sprout in sand. Act quickly; the powder loses its special properties if it isn't removed from the nest within 48 hours after the eggs hatch.

Centaurs

You wouldn't know it now, but Cormanthor once teemed with centaurs. In the old days, if you rode a mile or two in any direction, chances were that you'd spot a centaur giving a lift to a hitchhiking halfling, or frolicking in a sunflower field with an elven child.
Not any more. A century ago, a plague swept through the midwood that caused several generations of centaurs to be born with their left hind feet three inches too short. The crippled colts could barely hobble, let alone run, making them easy pickings for dragons and other predators. Pleas for help went unanswered; the elves and halflings kept their distance, fearing they'd join the centaurs on the dragons' menu.
Within a few decades, the centaurs were all but wiped out. A population that had numbered in the thousands had been reduced to three tribes, each consisting of about a dozen families. Though eventually the plague played itself out and the dragons left for greener pastures, the legacy of death dramatically affected the behavior of the survivors.
Elsewhere in the world, centaurs tend to form self-contained communities, settling in glades and valleys which they seldom leave. The centaurs of Cormanthor, vowing never to repeat the mistakes of their ancestors, are constantly on the move. Staying in one place too long, they believe, invites trouble. The three tribes travel separately, each about a week behind the other.
Migrating centaurs follow a more or less fixed route. In the summer, they settle in the midwood south of Semberholme, a relatively reclusive area that provides ample clover for grazing and cool water from Lake Sember for drinking and bathing. They journey east at the end of summer, stopping in central starwood pastures for the autumn, then continuing into the East starwood where they spend the winter. In early spring, they move to the West starwood, circle Myth Drannor, then return to the Semberholme midwood before summer begins.
The centaurs have carved out trails through the starwood that enable them to quickly traverse the dense forest vegetation. Any traveler following these trails can expect to cross the starwood at about twice his normal speed - providing, of course, he can find the trails in the first place. Hallucinatory terrain interrupts the trails at regular intervals, making them indistinguishable from the surrounding trees and brush. The centaur leaders create these illusions with magical amulets, gifts from a friendly human priest sympathetic to their plight. An observant traveler, however, may detect the illusions by looking for abnormalities. In some places, the illusory maples are free of birds. In others, the illusory bluegrass doesn't move when the wind blows.
Unlike their amiable ancestors, Cormanthor centaurs are anxious, distrustful, and hostile. They refuse to associate, let alone cooperate, with other sentient creatures. Strangers are greeted with volleys of arrows tipped with fungal poison; earthen mounds along their secret trails mark the graves of former trespassers. The tribes also maintain small flocks of falcons which they use as scouts and guards. Despite their foul attitudes, centaurs live in harmony with the environment, taking care not to overgraze a clover field or deplete a favorite catfish pond. They particularly enjoy pears and peaches, and will stray from their migratory routes if they catch the scent of an orchard. If you're thinking of luring a centaur with fresh fruit, don't bother. With a single sniff, he can usually tell if a peach has been contaminated by a human's touch, even if the human was gloved.

Chimerae

Two types of chimerae stalk Cormanthor: the mean ones, and the really mean ones. You can't tell one from the other, except for their lips. The mean ones have black lips, the really mean ones have red lips.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
For a chimera of any lip color, life in Cormanthor is one long picnic. Everywhere it goes, it has something to eat. The goat head can munch crabgrass in the rimwood. The lion head can hunt antelopes in the midwood. The starwood provides a veritable banquet for the dragon head; it can begin with an appetizer of wild dog, have a warthog or two for a main course, then snack on a halfling for dessert.
While chimerae in other parts of the world tend to remain in territories of 20 square miles or less, the Cormanthor chimera is a true nomad. It wanders from place to place, seemingly at random, led by its stomach. A chimera who welcomes the spring with a wolf dinner in Semberholme might drift east for three or four days, scoop trout and dogfish from the Ashaba, then flap toward Ashabenford. After a hot meal - perhaps an elven explorer, fried crispy black with dragon breath - it may head to the central starwood, lured by the aroma of bear cubs. By late autumn, it could end up in Elven Court, where it might evict a badger family from a hollow oak trunk, eat the badgers, then move in for a snooze. It may slumber for as long as two or three weeks before its rumbling stomach awakens it for another cycle of snacks.
It's no surprise that the Cormanthor chimera is easy on the environment. It never stays still long enough to deplete a food source, leaving plenty for other predators. It has a generally positive effect on animal populations, preferring to eat weak and dying animals instead of strong and healthy ones. Like all scavengers, the chimera helps reduce disease and keep the forest tidy by consuming corpses, bones, and other debris.
Because the Cormanthor chimera favors no particular habit and is usually too lazy to maintain its own lair, it can pop up anywhere. It can pounce on a traveler from a tree limb or burst from a pile of fallen leaves. To cool itself in the summer, the chimera likes to bury itself in soft mud. That lump by the river bank might decide to have you for lunch.
Thankfully, the surplus of food in Cormanthor has dulled the chimera's hunting skills. As often as not, a chimera would rather wait for new prey than pursue a victim with a head start. It would rather withdraw than continue a difficult battle. If injured, it would rather look for a soft bed of ferns than search for the enemy who harmed it.
A hungry chimera can be an angry chimera. Like many of the monsters in Cormanthor, the chimera has had little contact with humans and doesn't know enough to fear their weapons or magic. The average chimera considers the average human about as threatening as a butterfly and much more filling.
A chimera prefers to attack by swooping from the sky with slashing claws and snapping jaws, but the dense vegetation discourages aerial assaults. Instead, the chimera hides in tall grass or behind a thick oak, then charges, leading with its lion head. Using its forepaw, it swats with the force of a war hammer. While the roaring dragon head keeps the victim's companions at bay, the lion head sinks its teeth in the victim's neck, snapping it with a single yank. A mature chimera attacks so smoothly and efficiently that its goat head may sleep through the entire procedure.
Fortunately, the chimera seldom cooperates with others of his species, so travelers will rarely have to face more than one at a time. Only during mating season, typically late in the spring, do chimerae get together. Females hate everything about the process and do their best to elude the males. Mating usually takes place in the rimwood, where there are fewer places for the females to hide. Good thing, too, since the female thrashes and spews fire during mating, and there isn't much in the rimwood to knock down or burn. Should the couple spot a potential meal - say, a curious adventuring party - they.ll interrupt their courtship, have dinner together, then resume their romance. The male will be just as eager as before, the female just as hysterically reluctant.
The female gives birth to as many as six young the following spring, depositing them wherever she happens to be at the time. A chimera makes a poor mother; though she produces black milk for several months, she nurses her brood for only a few days before abandoning them. She releases the excess milk while sleeping, often waking up in a pool of thick, dark liquid. Though most humanoids find chimera milk sour and undrinkable, orcs prize it as an intoxicant; a jug of chimera milk will often buy cooperation from an unfriendly orc party.
Now, about those red-lips...
All Cormanthor chimerae, regardless of lip color, like to fly to the top of the highest elms in the star- wood, settle down in the leaves, and bask in the sun. About 10 percent of these chimerae are born with light pink lips. Invariably, the pink lips become sunburned, an indignity not suffered by their black lipped cousins. The burned lips make eating extremely painful. Unable to enjoy their favorite pastime, the sunburned chimerae vent their frustration on any creature who gets in their way. They attack giant spiders, manticores, and even dragons, working themselves into a rage so out of control that their own well-being is no longer of consequence. A red-lipped chimera will not only fight to the death, it will pursue you the length of Cormanthor for the opportunity.
Aside from the red dragon I saw high-tailing out of Myth Drannor, I've had few other firsthand experiences with dragons. While I haven't actively looked for them - a practice as risky as juggling wasp nests - neither have they found me. Either I'm too old to eat, or there aren't that many here in the first place. Since I'm sure a hungry dragon would be more than happy to have me for breakfast, I.ve concluded that dragons don't find Cormanthor all that hospitable. Why? Three reasons:
No Room: There's too many trees. A dragon couldn't fly 100 yards without colliding with an elm or bumping his head on a maple. While seemingly an ideal home for greens, the density of vegetation makes it difficult to get around. I suspect that the younger the green dragon, the more likely it is to lair in Cormanthor; by the time it reaches adulthood, it's probably ready for a roomier habitat.
No Food: A cousin of mine, who's made a study of such things, told me that a hundred years ago Cormanthor was crawling with green dragons. The dragons had a fondness for centaurs, who also occupied the forest in unprecedented numbers. The dragons feasted freely on the hapless centaurs and nearly drove them to extinction. The greens blamed each other for overharvesting their favorite food, culminating in an all-out war where they killed each other by the dozens, destroying a good chunk of the central starwood in the process. To this day, the aroma of chlorine breath still lingers. The acres of toppled hickory trees now serve as lairs for adders and wood beetles.
Today, the few remaining dragons find themselves in competition with chimerae and other large carnivores for the same food. A Cormanthor dragon may be forced to spend most of his time hunting; it takes a lot of hedgehogs and woodchucks to fill a dragon belly.
No Treasure: If dragons lusted for pine needles and daffodils instead of diamonds and gold pieces, Cormanthor would be a godsend. These woods lack the quantity of jewels and precious metals necessary to keep an avaricious dragon content, and with the exception of Myth Drannor, Cormanthor has few suitable cities to raid.
Of course, dragons do exist here, as they do virtually everywhere in the world. I discovered one quite by accident about a day's ride north of Myth Drannor.
On a gorgeous spring morning, I had climbed to the top of a birch-covered hill in search of catmint to season a stew. In the valley below, I saw a gold dragon roughly the size of a small castle, head in hand, listening intently to a pair of elves at his feet. The elves gestured wildly, pointing accusing fingers at one another; I was too far away to make out their words. An hour later, the dragon lifted his head into the air and roared loud enough to rattle the trees. The dragon snatched one of the elves, then soared away into the clouds, leaving the other elf gaping in astonishment. Elminster later told me that I had witnessed a trial adjudicated by His Resplendence Lareth, the King of Justice, ruler of the gold dragons.
The King had settled an elven dispute by carrying off the guilty party, probably to a prison in the Great Desert.
Undoubtedly, a few dragons still roam Cormanthor, but you're going to have to look hard to find them. A few observations, courtesy of my cousin, you might find useful:

The green dragons of Cormanthor retain their love of centaur flesh. Unlike, say, red dragons, who devour centaurs whole, the greens find the tails distasteful. Should you see a tail that appears to have been ripped or nipped from a centaur's body, take it as a sign of a green in the area.
Satyrs of the elven woods consider it good luck to spot a dragon in a rainstorm. Though I don't believe such a sighting actually affects one's fortune, this information may still come in handy. If you can convince a group of satyrs you've seen a rain-soaked dragon, they may more inclined to cooperate, hoping your "luck" will rub off on them.
If a green dragon's eyes dart from side to side, it's in the mood for vegetation. If the eyes stare straight ahead, it's hankering for meat. Remember, though, that a hungry dragon will probably settle for whatever food happens to be available. If you think you saw a dragon, you probably did.

Fyreflies

Cormanthor must have the world's dumbest insects. To cool off, shrub beetles jump into the Ashaba, float until their spongy wings become engorged with water, then sink and drown. Seeking shade, horse crickets march into the open mouths of bluetail snakes where they're promptly swallowed.
Cormanthor fyreflies make shrub beetles look like geniuses. Most of the time, fyreflies are content to flit about the rimwood, gorging on cornflower pollen by day, flickering themselves silly by night. On clear summer evenings, however, fyreflies gather in frenzied swarms, rolling across the landscape and zig-zagging through the sky like uncontrollable fireballs. The swarms scorch everything in their paths, leaving behind broad swaths of smoking grass, blackened trees, and incinerated animals. The random devastation continues until the swarms dissipate from sheer exhaustion, or they scatter in the rays of the rising sun.
Have you ever seen an evening sky so rich with stars that it looks as if the gods had strewn the heavens with buckets of diamonds? It's just such a night that drives fyreflies out of their minds. They mistake the stars for rival flies trespassing on their territory. When attempts to drive off the stars with fiery displays and threatening motions invariably fail, the swarm's frustration turns to blind rage. The flies' reaction could be dismissed as humorous, even pathetic, were it not for the tragic consequences. Fyrefly swarms cause more fires than lightning, careless travelers, or any other forest creature; even chimerae and cockatrices have enough sense not to burn down their own habitats.
Two summers ago, a swarm ignited a pine forest in the rimwood south of Shadowdale, destroying the primary nesting ground of the needle wrens. As the needle wrens were primarily responsible for keeping the area's locust population in check, Shadowdale farmers now fear a locust plague; a swarm of locusts can chew up a corn field in a matter of hours. Nearly all the game fish in an Elvenflow tributary were killed following a fyrefly fire that burned down a beech grove; the fish that weren't poisoned by ashes died from the high temperatures. A rimwood fire east of Hap not only wiped out every last blade of peppergrass, it also seared the topsoil; autumn winds dried out and blew away the upper layers, spring rain washed away the rest. The area now consists of 40 square miles of dust.
Efforts to control the fyreflies have been futile. Rangers introduced giant wasps into fyrefly territory, hoping the wasps would eat the flies' favorite cornflower pollen and force them to move on. The fireflies learned to eat dried pigweed and quack grass instead. Fyreflies lay eggs in such massive quantities - I saw a wild pig suffocate when it fell into a hole filled with wriggling larvae and couldn't get out - that destroying their nests is a waste of time. I heard of an elven mage named Horquine who spent years trying to breed azmyths with a taste for fyreflies. Though each Horquine azmyth reportedly consumed triple its weight in fyreflies every day, the effect on the fyrefly population was incidental at best. Worse, the azmyths were unable to digest the flies' abdomens, the source of the magical flames. The azmyths expelled the organs as a blast of fire. Having never seen one, I can't say if these fire-blasting azmyth actually exist, but in the witch hazel groves of the eastern rimwood - a favorite azmyth roost - I've seen enough charred branches to make me wonder.

Gorgon

Heavy spring rains can cause the Ashaba and Elvenflow to rise, spill over their banks, and flood the surrounding areas. The shallow floods don't do much damage, however, aside from washing out some flower beds and a few ant colonies.
Within a week or so, the water recedes. Left behind are hundreds of fish and frogs, flopping helplessly in the mud. Some manage to find their way back to the water, but most die of exposure.
The aroma invariably attracts curious gorgons, who love the taste of fish but ordinarily have no access to them - gorgons swim like cows fly. The gorgons spend a few days stuffing themselves with grounded fish before depleting the supply. Most of the gorgons wander back into the woods, but a few remain on the shore, gazing longingly into the river. The lure becomes too great for some; they ease themselves into the water, gulping minnows and tadpoles, edging out a little farther, then farther yet, until finally they're in up to their noses. One slip on the muddy bottom, and it's all over; the gorgons plunge helplessly into the river and are swallowed by the currents. Unable to swim, they sink like bricks.
The benevolent Hexad have imbued Cormanthor gorgons with a safeguard. Within minutes after submerging, the gorgons turn to solid stone and enter a state of dormancy. The dormant gorgons settle on the bottom of the river where they can exist indefinitely, requiring neither air nor food.
Occasionally, powerful currents may wash a dormant gorgon ashore. If rain cleans away the grime and the sun warms its hide, the gorgon will revive, refreshed and as good as new, though perhaps a bit disoriented. More likely, however, a dormant gorgon will remain underwater until someone retrieves it. A diver may mistake it for a valuable statue. A fisherman may snag it, believing he's caught the world's heaviest bullhead. If cleaned up and allowed to dry out, a dormant gorgon will come roaring back to life, usually to the shock of its rescuers.

Owlbear

Like too many selfish, short-sighted species, the owlbears of Cormanthor ate up all the rabbits, serpents, and wolves in their starwood habitats as fast as they could. About a decade ago, it dawned on them that the days of unlimited food were gone. Faced with a dwindling population - and perhaps extinction - they'd either have to move on or wise up. Too stubborn to relocate and too pea-brained to get any smarter, the owlbears blundered into salvation by becoming insect farmers. On a routine hunt in the central starwood, an owlbear pack chanced across a pit containing a fallen oak tree, the rotten wood infested with giant harvester termites. The owlbears killed a few termites by smashing them with rocks, then fished them out with sticks. They found the termites reasonably tasty but not particularly filling. A month later, the owlbears returned to the pit. Now it was crawling with larvae. Thousands of termites had hatched since the owlbears' previous visit. The owlbears dumped in some rotting limbs and wet leaves, then sat at the edge of the pit, fascinated by the tiny insects chewing on the soft wood. Occasionally, the owlbears scooped up and swallowed handfuls of larvae. By the day's end, the owlbears had decided the larvae weren't half bad, and were certainly much easier to catch than wolves.
In the following weeks, the owlbears continued to dump rotten wood in the pit, and the termite colony continued to grow. The owlbears killed the soldier termites as soon as they hatched, since the solders had the annoying habit of spewing flammable liquid. The owlbears created more colonies by digging new pits and adding adult termites. The practice spread to other owlbear packs. Soon, owlbears throughout the starwood were subsisting on homegrown termites. The owlbear population stabilized, then slowly began to expand.
Owlbears eat adult termites by crushing them, eating the tender innards, then tossing the empty shells back in the pit. Owlbear saliva mixed with the decomposing termite shells has the fortuitous effect of attracting wild horses, who are irresistibly drawn to the aroma. Owlbears learned to hide behind trees near the termite pits, wait for a horse to investigate the odor, then dash from the trees and shove the horse into the pit. If the horse happened to be carrying a rider, so much the better. With a regular diet of termites, horses, and riders, the owlbears have never been more content - or better fed.
Interestingly, pyrolisks are also attracted to the termite pits and use them as nesting grounds. The owlbears despise the trespassing pyrolisks, but leave them alone - the owlbears would rather give up a pit than risk incineration. Once a pyrolisk hen finds a suitable pit - usually a smaller one, no more than 5 feet in diameter - she makes herself at home by eating all the adult termites, then scatters a few gems and other shiny objects around the rotten wood for decoration.
After laying one or two speckled eggs, the hen abandons the nest. The hatchlings subsist on the termite larvae until they're old enough to fend for themselves, a period lasting a few weeks.
Should the gems scattered among the wood tempt you into disturbing the nest, think again. Though hatchling pyrolisks can't attack - and the termite larvae pose no threat - panicky hatchlings can still cast pyrotechnics. The spell can ignite the larvae, causing the pit to spew flames and roast the hatchlings, the larvae, and anyone who happens to be standing around.

Shambling Mounds

You wouldn't think the width of a blueberry stem could cause so much trouble, but it did. In the depths of the East starwood, a few miles north of Halfaxe Trail, grows a hundred acres of blueberry shrubs. Until they ripen, the berries are inedible, pale green and hard as stone. By late spring, the berries turn purple and swell to the size of watermelons. And the taste - imagine the sweetest blueberry you've ever eaten, glazed in honey with just a hint of cinnamon. Truly exquisite.
At one time, a small tribe of elves and dozens of shambling mounds subsisted on these berries. It was an unusual living arrangement, to say the least, since shambling mounds rarely congregate with others of their kind, let alone with other species. Thanks to the abundance and quality of the berries, the mounds and elves got along just fine. They ate at their leisure from summer through autumn, then stockpiled berries to get them through the winter. Spring brought a fresh crop.
One starless summer night, a couatl spiraled from the sky and crashed into the berry field. It died on impact, but not even the force of its landing could explain its strange markings and coloration. Both the mounds and the elves refused to examine the creature's remains any closer, convinced that they'd seen too much already. The superstitious elves were afraid of it, and the mounds, who might be tempted to eat it in other circumstances, were suspicious of its strange smell and stuck with the berries. In time, the corpse decomposed and was absorbed into the earth. The mysterious couatl was soon forgotten.
The following spring, the blueberries blossomed as usual. Days before the berries matured, their stems stretched and broke, and the unripened berries fell to the ground. The elves and mounds watched helplessly as one by one, the berries dropped, the thin stems unable to support their weight. Within a month, the entire crop was ruined.
The elves examined the bushes and discovered a brown dust covering the stems. The decomposing couatl had infected the field with a form of vine blight that had caused the stems to elongate. The elves blamed their leader for the crop loss, and at the urging of the leader's lieutenant, crushed his skull with a rock. The lieutenant, an evil priest who called himself Blackjackal, assumed leadership of the tribe. He convinced several of the shambling mounds to become allies. The elves and mounds now roam the starwood, assaulting innocents in the name of the dark god Talos.
The remaining mounds stayed behind, hoping the field would recover. Eventually it did, but not before the impatient mounds ate the old berries. The tainted berries caused the mounds' bodies to stretch until they resembled immense serpents, head and hands on one end, legs on the other. These serpentine shambling mounds still dwell in the area, nesting in mossy trees, guarding their blueberry field from trespassers.

Stirges

Stirges roost everywhere; where there's a blood supply, there's probably a stirge colony. Each colony follows its own migratory route, beginning in a forested area staked out by the adult feeders. A map elsewhere in this book shows the route of a typical colony. A colony's feeding grounds usually comprise a square mile of trees occupied by a sizable population of birds and mammals. By day, the stirges hang by their feet from the highest limbs in the area, sound asleep. By night, they suck blood from slumbering dogs, goats, and pheasants, avoiding bears and other large animals who might put up a fight.
Within a few months, the stirges will have begun to deplete the food supply. Prey becomes harder to find. Older, weaker stirges begin to die off. Fortunately, female stirges outnumber males, ten to one; by summer's end, half the females are ready to lay eggs. Stirges won't lay eggs in their feeding grounds, fearing competition from their own young. Early in the fall, the pregnant females migrate to a distant locale to deposit their eggs. Since they prefer barren fields, they often choose a site in the rimwood. Each female lays hundreds of eggs in a shallow hole, which she sloppily covers with a few inches of dirt and brush. The exhausted females then fly to a secluded forest for a few weeks of hibernation. Meanwhile, badgers and wild pigs are busy digging up the unprotected stirge eggs. All told, the stirges will lose about 90 percent of their eggs to predators.
By the beginning of spring, the dozing mothers awaken and fly back to their feeding grounds. In the interim, the bird and mammal population has revived somewhat, providing the returning females with fresh food. The food supply is almost always less than it was the year before. Sooner or later, the region will no longer be able to support the entire colony. Some stirges engage in cannibalism. A few relocate while others simply starve, too lazy or too dim-witted to move on. Meanwhile, the hatchling stirges, who emerge from their eggs in midsummer, migrate in a random direction. This frequently means flying 100 miles or more to establish their own feeding grounds. The cycle continues.
The broken shells of stirge eggs usually contain droplets of a greasy green jelly that developing stirges use for nourishment. Adult stirges find this jelly repulsive, possibly because they associate it with the demands of parenthood. A traveler can repel stirge attacks by smearing this jelly over his exposed flesh. The jelly from a dozen eggs will protect an average-sized human for an entire day. It smells bad, sort of a cross between pig's breath and rotten cabbage, but if you're truly interested in avoiding a nest full of stirges, you'll get used to it.

Treants

Treants thrive in Cormanthor, and not just because of the environment. Sure, the sun keeps them warm and well fed, and the frequent rains give them more than enough to drink, but if the treants hadn't established mutually beneficial relationships with other species, there might be a lot fewer of them. Like a normal tree, the treant depends on the health of its wood for survival. While the wood may appear to be as solid as stone, it's actually laced with tiny tubes. The tubes transmit food, manufactured in the leaves, throughout the treant's body. The tubes also carry water from the roots. If the tubes break down, the treant dies.
It's no wonder, then, that treants fear tube wilt more than any other disease. Caused by tiny spores in the soil, tube wilt enters the treant through the roots. Once inside the trunk, the spores multiply rapidly and become fungal growths that feed on the heartwood, the core of the trunk that contains most of the food tubes. The treant literally rots from the inside out. Within a few months, the treant collapses, its trunk too weak to support the weight of its limbs. It dies an agonizing death shortly thereafter.
Cormanthor treants have successfully combatted tube wilt by serving as hosts to a special species of rot grub with a voracious appetite for rotten wood. A treant suffering from a tube wilt infection opens a small crack near the base of its trunk, then stuffs the crack with decaying bark. Rot grubs, attracted by the bark, enter the crack and worm their way inside the treant.
The grubs burrow through the trunk, eating both the rotten wood and the fungi. Thereafter, the grubs remain inside the treant, keeping the treant free of decay and preventing a recurrence of tube wilt. The grub burrows don't harm the treant; in fact, they seem to enhance the flow of water and nutrients. Older treants may house hundreds of grubs. A woodsman attempting to chop down a treant may be greeted with a shower of grubs when his ax splits the bark.
Bark-eating creatures, such as woodchucks and certain types of wild horses, also pose a threat to treants. To scare off predators, many treants surround the bases of their trunks with a special species of violet fungus. Unlike normal violet fungi, which are 4-7 feet tall and almost exclusively subterranean, Cormanthor violet fungi rarely exceed 3 feet in height and grow on the forest floor. Tiny tendrils extend from the base of the fungi, tap into the treant's roots, and worm upward into the treant's trunk. The fungus lives on the treant's sap.
Should a predator threaten the treant, the fungus flails with its branches, attempting to rot the predator's flesh. A treant may be surrounded by as many as six violet fungi, but two or three are typical. When the treant moves, its fungi move with it.
Treants also risk damage from bark beetles, which burrow under the bark to lay eggs, and leaf ants, which chew holes in the leaves. To deal with these pests, treants encourage azmyths and large bats to nest in their limbs. The azmyths and bats enjoy the privacy of the treant's leafy crown, and feast on banquets of fat beetles and crunchy ants.
Black squirrels also make their homes in the treant's thick foliage. The squirrels enjoy nibbling on the female treant's off-shoot stalks. The stalks that survive the nibbling eventually become new treants. Since Cormanthor treants almost always generate more stalks than the forest can support, the squirrels help limit the population.
So what are the chances of finding a treant with all of these creatures? It depends on where you look. The birch treants of the rimwood - identifiable by their smooth white bark - usually have rot grubs in the trunk, purple fungi around the base, and azmyths and black squirrels in the branches. These treants grow exceptionally long roots to get to the deep water table, anchoring them in place for periods as long as six months; they need all the help they can get to survive.
The sap of the birch treants has a delectable aroma, a combination of lemon and mint. It can be used to make perfumes and food flavoring. Most midwood treants resemble golden willow and black locust trees. Webs of deep grooves cover the bark. The midwood treants share the attitude of treants elsewhere in the world: generally passive, but quick to confront evil. Many have violet fungi guardians, necessary to protect them from brush rats bent on digging nests under their trunks. Black squirrel tenants are also common. Midwood treant bark can be boiled to produce gold and black dyes.
Starwood treants look like dark brown oaks and mist gray elms. All have diamond-shaped patterns etched into their bark. About half share the midwood treants. docile personality and hatred of evil. The other half tend to be hostile; the starwood contain so many potential enemies that the treants prefer to strike first and negotiate later. A starwood treant may contain any combination of rot grubs, violet fungi, azmyths, and black squirrels. The leaves, when eaten, will cure certain fever plagues.

Cormanthor violet fungus

Cormanthor violet fungus flails with 1-2 tentacles, each 1 foot long. Except for the smaller size, it resembles a normal violet fungus in all other respects.

Water Nagas

The water naga undergoes a rigorous - some would say gruesome - series of transformations from egg to adult. To the unwary, each state poses a threat.
Adult water naga spend the winter hibernating in deep holes dug in the floors of ponds or rivers. They emerge in early spring and, after eating a hearty meal of frogs and fish, mate underwater. The female lays 100-500 eggs in the deepest area of the pond, then covers them with mud. The mud conceals the eggs and keeps them warm.
Water naga eggs resemble dark green spheres, about 3 inches in diameter, coated with a protective layer of clear jelly. The jelly provides nutrients for the developing naga and also deters predators. If touched, the coating attaches to the predator's flesh.
In a matter of minutes, the predator's body transforms into naga egg jelly. Despite this unique defense, rarely do more than half of the eggs hatch; about 30 percent are infertile, another 20 percent fall victim to low temperatures and various diseases. If you fish an egg from the water - use a staff or a metal pole - the coating will dry out and become inert in about an hour. The dried coating can be used as an antidote for crystal ooze poison. By mid-spring, the naga eggs begin to hatch. A typical hatchling looks like a footlong black worm with a pointed head and a circle of spikes around its neck. It breathes water with four pair of gills under its chin.
Hatchlings spend the daylight hours resting on the floor of the pond, then rise at night to feed on minnows and decayed plants. When a predator approaches, the hatchling becomes as rigid as stone. The rigid hatchling thrusts itself at the predator like a tiny spear, its neck spines erect. If the predator survives the attack, the hatchling can withdraw and try again. Perhaps a fourth of the hatchling naga survive this stage; the rest are consumed by giant carp and other carnivorous fish.
If you catch a hatchling - they occasionally attach to fishing lines - strip off the neck spikes with a sharp blade. A handful of spikes, when ground to powder and consumed, gives you the effect of a true seeing spell, enabling you to see all things as they actually are.
The hatchlings grow quickly, reaching a length of 10 feet in a matter of weeks. During this time, their neck spikes fall out, and they begin to acquire their characteristic scales (emerald green in reticulated patterns with pale jade green) and red spikes along the length of their spine. They also grow lizardlike legs, a pair at each end. Lungs develop, enabling the adolescent naga to crawl ashore and breathe air. Though it can still breathe water, the naga spends most of its adolescence on land, creeping through the grass for rats and slithering up trees for bluebirds.
All but the most ferocious predators, such as chimerae and dragons, avoid the adolescent naga. If the naga can't frighten them away, it can usually outrun them; the naga's legs allow it to move as fast as a jackal. The intact hide of an adolescent naga, including the leg skin, can bring as much as 5,000 gold pieces from collectors.
By late summer the adolescent has grown to its full 20-foot length. At this time, the naga enters its final stage by shedding its outer layer of skin. It scrapes against rocks or other sharp projections until the skin peels off in a single piece. Its head comes off as well, along with its legs. A tiny bud resembling a miniature human skull appears where the serpent head used to be. Over the next few days, the skull expands and becomes covered with scaly flesh. The water naga is now mature. The shed skin, complete with serpent head and legs, can fetch 35,000 gold pieces or more.
The mature water naga can breathe both water and air. It kills prey, usually mammals such as wolves and wild dogs, with its poison bite or constrictive coils. It often lures victims with magically created traps. The water naga of the Elvenflow lurk in shallow tributaries obscured with wall of fog. Those living near the Ashaba hide in elm trees, ensnare victims with web, then drop from the branches. I've heard of water naga mating with couatl north of Myth Drannor, their offspring having the abilities of both parents, but as far as I know, it's only a rumor.

Worgs

The worg occupies an enviable position in the food chain. It's large and strong enough to bring down wild boars, yet small and quick enough to elude chimerae and other predators. No wonder the worg thrives here, particularly in the North starwood where they're as thick as rabbits.
Though the starwood provide a comfortable habitat for the worg, with plenty of game and more than enough brush for lairs, it also poses a problem. Every autumn the oaks cover the forest floor with a carpet of leaves as high as the worg's neck. Not only do the leaves hamper the worg's movement, they also make it difficult for the worg to stalk prey. An alert deer can hear a worg crunching through brittle leaves a hundred yards away.
The worg has solved this dilemma with a clever adaptation, the result of a gift from the Hexad, the effect of residual magic from Myth Drannor, or perhaps a combination of both. Worgs of Cormanthor have developed the ability to walk on top of fallen leaves, hovering a fraction of an inch above the surface.
Additionally, they can walk on fresh snow without sinking, run through a muddy field without leaving tracks, even dash across the surface of a pond without getting their feet wet. Worgs can use this ability at will; a worg can swim or bury itself in leaves whenever it likes.
Worgs occasionally allow goblins to use them as mounts. However, Cormanthor worgs are notoriously cranky. Should a goblin make excessive demands of a worg - such as ordering it to leave the comfort of the starwood - it is as likely to devour its rider as comply.

Cormanthor: Rumors

Below, I offer an assortment of tips, speculations, and dispatches regarding Cormanthor, some from reliable sources, some just idle chitchat. I haven.t had the time or, to be honest, the inclination to verify any of these. Consider them interesting leads or dire warnings, and proceed accordingly.

War of the Oaks

The otherwise docile dryads of the central starwood have been rallying sympathetic satyrs, pixies, elves, and druids to stave off an impeding attack by an army of gnolls who want to demolish the dryads. oak grove for a gnollish cemetery. The gnolls. effort has attracted the interest of a nearby community of jackalweres, who wish to re-establish their dominance in the area.
Theft Of the Treasure Tree A band of ogres has discovered the golden treasure tree south of Elventree. One of the ogres flung an ax at a deer, missed, and hit a large oak. The split bark revealed the gold beneath. The band's chieftain, an exceptionally intelligent ogre named Horukk, used a magical pendant recovered from the ruins of Myth Drannor to enslave a family of unicorns. He is forcing them to haul the treasure tree to the ogres. lair in the East starwood.

Cool Wolfwere

A species of wolfwere residing in the midwood south of Lake Sember has developed a unique ability to keep away insects. The wolfwere's fur radiates cold, lowering the air temperature sufficiently to kill fleas and lice. Entrepreneurs are offering sizeable rewards for samples of this fur, which they believe can be used to manufacture self-cooling coats and trousers.

Strange Magic

A band of evil druids in East starwood have created bizarre new spells that will enable them to triple the reproduction rate of chimerae, poison the waters of the Semberflow, and create spontaneous ice storms at any forest location. The druids. motives are unknown, but it is feared they will attempt to extort treasure and allegiance from the sentient beings of Cormanthor.

Aquatic Menace

Underwater choke creepers in the Ashaba threaten to deplete the river of frogs and fish. Animals that depend on these creatures for food risk starvation. Worse, without frogs and fish to eat them, the insect population may swell. An increase in insects may result in an increase in diseases, particularly those carried by mosquitoes.

Fire Bug

A vengeful priest, angry at the lack of interest in his Talos cult, has vowed to burn down Cormanthor. He employs a special summon insects spell to gather immense swarms of fyreflies in areas of dry brush, then drives them into a frenzy with faerie fire and light spells. The aggravated insects ignite the brush, and the fire soon spreads to the surrounding trees. The priest has already incinerated hundreds of acres of beech trees in the midwood west of the River Lis. Next, he plans to burn a willow grove in the midwood south of the Standing Stone, said to be the homeland of benevolent sprites.
Armed Naga Explorers have found dozens of wild horse skeletons in the midwood along the western banks of the Ashaba. Huge spears, fashioned from black walnut limbs, were lodged in the horses' ribs.
A previously unknown type of spirit naga used the horses for target practice. Crossbreeds of normal spirit naga and Cormanthor water naga, these creatures resemble 15-foot serpents with human heads, stringy hair, black scales, and functional arms. They have the poisonous bite, charm gaze, and evil disposition of spirit naga, along with the spellcasting abilities of water naga. They are also learning to use weapons, beginning with crude spears tipped with a poison made from the jelly covering water naga eggs.
Though normal egg jelly hardens when removed from water, the naga have treated the jelly to remain moist and potent indefinitely. Additionally, instead of turning the victim's flesh to jelly, the coated spears rot the flesh, leaving nothing behind but bones. The naga are also rumored to be developing an arrow that changes into a poisonous serpent moments after being fired from a bow.
Noisy Neighbor A family of elves in the western starwood is being tormented by the ceaseless screams of a cockatrice nesting in the hollow of a nearby oak. While the cockatrice was away hunting, a band of grigs stole her eggs as a practical joke. The despondent cockatrice has been shrieking ever since. The elves can't stand the racket, but they're afraid to go near the cockatrice and are also leery of the grigs. They're willing to pay a sizeable reward to anyone who can shut up the cockatrice, either by returning her eggs (the elves know where the grigs live) or destroying her.
Rendezvous with Kyrach Kyrach, an eccentric druid who lives in the central starwood, seeks help in capturing a dragonne, which he intends to tame and use for a mount. He will reward his helper with a map that shows the location of a secret cache of rubies in a cavern beneath Myth Drannor. However, Kyrach refuses to cooperate with anyone who uses metal weapons or armor, which he deems "unnatural."
Those seeking to associate with Kyrach will have to leave sword and shield behind.

The 100-Yard Behir

An immense granite statue of a behir, nearly 100 yards long, winds through the starwood west of Myth Drannor. Is it a sculpture created by ambitious artisans, or perhaps the idol of a long-defunct serpent cult? Is it a genuine couatl, its gargantuan size and stony body the result of bizarre experiments by Myth Drannan wizards? Explorers may enter the behir's open mouth to find out what's inside. The behir may contain vast treasures, deadly creatures, or a combination of both. Removal of a particular treasure may trigger a reaction that transforms the granite body back to flesh, enabling the gargantuan behir to live again.
Vanished Centaurs One of the three known centaur tribes of Cormanthor has disappeared. Not a single member of the tribe has been seen in a month. The remaining centaurs are understandably concerned. Some say that a magical disease infected the tribe and caused them to shrink; a friendly elf swears he saw chipmunk-sized centaurs galloping through the underbrush of the central starwood. Others fear that a recent thunderstorm caused a portal to appear; the portal swallowed the tribe and transported them to another plane of existence. Still others fear that green dragons have again infested Cormanthor; the dragons ate the entire tribe, and it's only a matter of time before the rest of the centaurs fall victim.

Unwelcome Tenant

Families of stirges have taken up occupancy in the branches of a grove of rimwood treants, driving out the azmyths and black squirrels who used to live there. Without the azmyths and squirrels, the treants are more susceptible to disease and destruction. As fast as the treants drive the stirges from the branches, others arrive to take their place. The treants believe that the green jelly from stirge eggs may solve their dilemma; if the jelly is applied to the treants. trunks, the stirges will be repelled. Because travel is difficult for the treants, they need someone else to find the eggs and retrieve the jelly.

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