The following is the legend of the Medusa Queen, a legend that is often told within the clergy and among the faithful of the Firehair, Sune, Goddess of Beauty. Many a paladin of the faith have considered it a sacred duty to watch for signs of the Medusa Queen, for slaying it would be considered one of the greatest accomplishments in the eyes of the Goddess of Passion and Love.

Long, long ago, there was a priestess of the goddess Sune, and this priestess was a being of exceptional beauty. She grew vain and arrogant, and expected those other members of the faith to consider her the paragon of what a Sunite should be. Sune was displeased with the hubris of her priestess, but still the priestess spread beauty and passion where she walked, so she had not lost the favor of the Firehair.

Eventually, the vain cleric heard rumors of the one Sunite more fair than even she. The priestess followed these rumors to another follower of the Firehair, this one said to be blessed with a trace of the blood of the goddess herself. Indeed, the younger priestess was a breathtaking sight, and the older priestess was furious to have found such a rival.

The older priestess set upon the younger late at night, and with a knife she marred the girl's face, ruining her beauty. Vindicated, she cried out to Sune in her pride, asking the goddess who her most beautiful servant was now.

Sune was horrified by what she had done, and withdrew her favor from the priestess, and banished her from all Sunite temples. Further, all Sunites were given her image in their minds, a reminder of the Firehair's cesure, and no Sunite was to speak with nor give aid to the fallen cleric.

The priestess swore that she would have her revenge upon her former goddess, and eventually she sought out the most handsome and virile of all of Sune's male priesthood. The man was wary of her, but in truth, he had been haunted by the image in his mind of the banished Sunite, and longed to see her face up close.

The fallen cleric seduced the male Sunite on the Altar of Sune in one of her most sacred temples. When the man realized what he had done, he ran in shame from the temple, and Sune turned her wrath on the fallen cleric once again. Sune cursed the woman's shining tresses, so that they moved constantly, whirling and tangled as if whipped by the wind. She also made the fallen one's eyes so deep that to gaze into them made anyone who looked upon her fall unconcious, not able to remember the face they had just seen. Sune took the image of the fallen priestess from all of her follower's minds, and told the former priestess that her beauty was now doomed to be forgotten.

In her despair, the woman cried out, wishing that she had never known the favor of Sune, that she had never known the blessings of her beauty, and that she never was moved by passions. The depths of her despair and loss reached out to Shar, the goddess of the night and loss, and Shar granted the fallen one's wishes.

The fallen cleric's hair turned from a tangled, wind tossed mass, into a mass of serpents, venemous and dangerous. Her gaze no longer caused those who gazed upon her to forget her beauty, but rather they froze, petrified in fear as they gazed into the depths of her hatred. She would turn her victims to stone.

The Medusa Queen, as she is now known, took several slaves as her playthings, and from her dalliances were born the whole race of vile creatures known as medusas.

Shar granted the Medusa Queen a longevity to match her hatred for Sune and her followers, and beauty in general, and thus, she may still live on, enslaving lovers, slaying those that displease her and creating a legion of statues made of the same cold stone as her heart.

There once lived a stonecutter. A half-elven stonecutter dissatisfied with himself, and with his lot in life. Day in, and often day out, he toiled laboriously to eke together a meager living; what was the point of all his hard work, if it never brought him anything more than the barest necessities?

One day, however, he passed by the home of a very wealthy merchant. Peering through the merchant's open door, he glimpsed many hurrying servants, several very important looking visitors, and countless fine possessions. "How powerful that merchant is, to lure in such people, and own such nice things!" the stonecutter thought, "How I wish I could be as him!"

Little did the stonecutter know, but his wishes were being watched from afar, by Sehanine Moonbow, the Goddess of Mysteries. With a smile, she waved her hand. The stonecutter's surprise was palpable when he found himself looking through the eyes of the merchant. For the first time in his life, he knew power and luxury - anything he desired was but a servant's call away. He lived decadently, and was envied and despised by all those with less than he had. But one day, a powerful government official passed by - carried in a sedan chair, with attendants and soldiers and men beating gongs. Everyone, pauper and merchant alike, had to bow low before him.

"How powerful that official!" thought the merchant, "That even those wealthier than him must bend the knee! Oh, I wish I were he!" - And Sehanine smiled once more.

He saw through the eyes of the official, carried everywhere in his sedan chair, surveying those around him from up high as they prostrated themselves before him - hating and fearing the power he wielded. But one summer day, it became extremely hot. Seated in his sticky sedan chair, the official glanced up - and spied the sun in the sky, shining brightly and unabated by his authoritative presence.

"How powerful the sun!" thought the official, "That it can ignore the executive authority of any mortal man, even one so powerful as I! Oh, how I wish I had its power!" - And Sehanine smiled once more.

He became the sun. He shone fierce and harsh, causing drought, and baring down heavily on drying fields. He became cursed by farmers and laborers who had to toil under his heavy rule. Until one day, a fat black raincloud moved beneath him, and his rays could no longer reach the ground.

"How powerful that cloud!" thought he, "To defy even the sun! How I wish I had its power!" - And Sehanine smiled once more.

He became the raincloud, flooding fields and roads and villages alike. He let loose torrential deluge after deluge, and all men cursed their luck when they spied his approach on the horizon. He enjoyed his power for awhile, until he realized he had no freedom. He could not move on his own, nor could he choose his path. Looking behind him, he saw the force that determined his fate: The wind.

"How powerful the wind!" thought he, "To choose the paths and fate of clouds and man! I wish I were it!" - And Sehanine smiled once more.

He then became the wind - whipping across the land. He uprooted mighty trees and tore the tiles off houses. All men and women hated him, and ran to bolt their shutters when they felt the stirrings of his coming. But soon, he ran up against something that would not move when he pushed. He pushed, and pushed, and pushed again, but it would not budge even a fraction. Looking up, he saw what defied him: A mountain.

"How powerful the deeprooted stone!" he thought, "To defy even the wind! Surely, nothing can be more powerful than it! I wish I had its strength!" - And Sehanine smiled once more.

He became the stone, passive and immovable. Satisfied finally, he surveyed all the land he towered before, certain that none could defy him now. Until one day, he heard the fall of hammer on chisel on rock, and felt himself change: "How can this be!? After all this, something MORE powerful than I!?" and so, he cast his gaze far below to his feet.

There, at the base of the mountain, he saw the vague image of a half-elven stonecutter hard at work: genuinely liked, and appreciated by those he dealt with for his honesty and hard labor. And so, Sehanine smiled. Once more.

When I was a child, there was a phrase my father used, when speaking of someone whose integrity he admired. “That one would true the Trickster,” he would say, and he would smile approvingly. One day I asked him what this meant, and he told me this tale.

Many winters ago, in the time when the People were young and the Seldarine still sometimes walked Faerun in elf-shape, there was a Teu-tel’Quessir girl who served her kin and the Seldarine with deep passion and fierce pride.

This young elf was a warrior, a soldier in the army of her Queen, and nothing gave her life more purpose or meaning than knowing that she stood ready to defend all that she loved.

One long, green summer, there came a time of peace, when all threats to her People had been banished from her Queen’s forests. So the moon-elf went exploring, as moon-elves will often do, and she traveled though regions she had not known.

One night she came upon a wide, swift river, white with rapids. The path she had chosen continued beyond, but there was no bridge, so the elf steeled herself, got a good running start, and made to leap high into the air to reach the opposite bank.

But as she jumped, her foot was caught by a hidden stone, and she tripped. She splashed into the water well short of the dry riverbank she had hoped to reach.

She sputtered and swam, and finally she crawled soaked and muddy onto the shore. And as she cursed her clumsiness, she saw the cruel trick that fate had visited upon her: the river’s current had carried away her sword from her belt.

She wept, for her sword was her life. It was the instrument of her love for her kin and devotion to her Queen. Without it, she was nothing. And so she shivered in the cold and dark, and she wept, for many hours.

But this was in the time when the Seldarine yet sometimes walked the realm in elf-shape. It happened that the Trickster, Erevan Ilesere, heard the elf’s tears, and felt pity.

He hid himself in the form of a sea-elf, and he swam up out of the river, bearing a mighty golden sword, a perfect weapon, with an edge too sharp even to touch, and so finely wrought that one could balance the blade on its tip.

“Loyal daughter of Corellon,” he said. “I found this blade in the river. Could it be that the loss of such a thing is the cause of your tears?” But the elf girl said no. “That is a mighty blade, good brother, but it is not mine.”

Erevan the Trickster dove again into the river, this time surfacing with a beautiful silver sword, with jewels about its hilt and mithril all throughout. “Surely this must be the sword you lost,” he said. But the girl said no. “That is a beautiful sword, but mine was of mere humble steel.”

So Erevan dove a third time, and now he returned with the warrior’s own beloved sword, common unadorned steel though it was. And as he restored it to her hand, he revealed his true self. The elf fell to her knees.

Erevan smiled. “Rise, faithful daughter,” he said. “And know that your truthfulness is an honor to you, and has pleased your gods.” He bestowed his blessing upon her as he sent her on her way, and wove powerful magics into the common steel of her sword.

The elf became known as a great warrior, an indomitable heart, and she lived out her days beloved by her kin and celebrated for her honor and goodness...

... and never did she know that it was Erevan who had tripped her in the first place.

And thus it is said among the People to this day, when one keeps faith with the truth even when an easy lie would have been profitable, that that elf is “one who would true the Trickster.”

It is told that many years ago, in the Festhall of Eternal Delight in Calimport, there was a fair young priestess of Sharess by the name of Buthaynah. As an assistant to the High Priestess and being of good family, she had a small room within the Temple itself. Each morning she would arise and go about the Festhall, dutifully cleaning, changing the rushes, setting out fresh candles, anointing the idols of Sharess, and doing many other tasks as she joyfully sang hymns to the Goddess, all for love of her Lady. She was always happy and strove ever to keep the Goddess in the forefront of her thoughts, and for her devotion she was favoured by the Goddess, though she knew it not.

Dark-eyed and raven-haired, she was beautiful and graceful and was greatly admired for her skills at dance and pleasure, and though she was a quiet girl (or perhaps because of it!) she was often sought out by many of the men who came to the Temple seeking the blessing of Sharess in the arms of a priestess. One such was Razhu Mashid, a mage of no small accomplishment, but a cold-hearted and grasping man.

It came to pass one day that as Razhu Mashid was being carried in his litter along the waterfront of Calimport, striking his slaves with his goad to speed them on their way, he spied the priestess Buthaynah while passing before the Temple. Stopping right there, he strode over to her and demanded her name. I am Buthaynah, Lord, she replied, bowing her head to him, a humble servant of the Princess of Passion. I would have you, woman, he said, meaning that in his lust and greed he coveted her for himself. As you wish, my Lord, she said, and took him by the hand and led him to her chamber, as it is often the way of the Sharessin to give themselves in honour of She whom they serve when asked, for she did not understand what dark passions she had inflamed in him.

Though she found his attentions harsh and demanding, she endured them for the love of her Lady, and even more did she strive to pleasure him, using all her skills to leave him weak and exhausted. This angered him all the more, that he should be rendered so powerless by a mere woman. In his dudgeon he named her a she-eel and a whore, that he might deny his own feelings and magnify himself in his own sight, for it is written that he who makes his own mirror shall see only that which he wishes. I shall take you and I shall make you mine, he said, his face dark as the storm. You will hold me to your breast and kiss me, he said, and you will enjoy it. I shall lay my head upon your lap and you will sing to me of love. You will feed me and comb my hair and you will please me with the touch of your fingers. This I vow, for I am Razhu Mashid the mage, and my power is great.

The beautiful Buthaynah bowed her head to him, attentive to each touch and word as her Goddess commanded she be, and learning therefrom, yet repulsed by the evil in this man. This may not be, O great Lord, she said, for I am bound in my heart to the Lady of Lust, and it is Her only that I serve. You may not command a Sharessin, Lord, for Her blessing is only that pleasure which is freely given. I care not for your goddess and I shall have you nonetheless, he said. Truly, he was made foolish by his lust to say such things in the temple of She to whom he had just made offering, though he thought not of it as such. As the sages say, it is evil for a man to curse the one in whose house he is a guest. And with those fateful words he belted his robe about himself and strode off.

That night his slaves knew his fury, though not the cause of it, for he was ashamed at his weakness and denied it even to himself, that he should feel such yearning for a woman he had named a hard-coin girl. I shall take her as I vowed, he said, and he set about casting many powerful magics upon himself, of protection and of invisibility and others. And summoning a djinn, he commanded it to carry him through the air, and so set out for the Festhall of Eternal Delight.

The Temple, being what it is (for those who know not), is open all hours and some days there is more activity at night than while the sun shines, and so it was that the doors stood wide before Razhu Mashid. Casting upon himself a spell of shape change, he took the form of a cat, reasoning that thus disguised he could go unnoticed in a temple where there were many such. O foolish man, blinded by greed and lust! To enter the Temple of Bast in the form of one of Her sacred creatures was the height of foolishness, but do so he did.

In this way, then, did Razhu Mashid enter into the chamber of Buthaynah where she knelt in prayer before an image of the Goddess as beautiful as she herself. O Sharess, she called, O Bast, O Mother of Cats. Protect me, I pray, from the wrath of this man who would claim me for his own. If it is Your will that I give in to his intentions should he come again, I shall do so for love of You, but do not let him take me from Your house, for this I could not endure.

At that very moment, it is said, the eyes of the idol flashed and Razhu Mashid felt upon him the touch of an unseen hand. And lo, when he sought to once again take his own form that he might carry off the priestess, he found that could not. Buthaynah, for her part, saw in her chamber a cat she did not recognize, which sat before her and regarded her with wide eyes. O my Goddess, she cried, You have truly honoured me by sending one of Your servants to watch over me! And she took the form of Razhu Mashid into her arms and held him to her breast and kissed him.

And so it was that the vows of Razhu Mashid came true, though not in the way he would have wished. For now the beautiful Buthaynah lays his head in her lap and sings hymns of her love for Sharess to him, and each day she feeds him and combs his fur and pleasures him with her petting. And he who sought to own a priestess of Bast is himself owned, for it is well and truly said that he who curses the gods shall have his curses returned upon him ten-fold. Great indeed is the power of Sharess, and all praise to Her!

Muses, Muses, sing to me!
Sing of how things used to be!
Whisper secrets down to me!
Whisper first of old Tyche!

Tell me how she falls in love!
Tell me who she's dreaming of!
Tell me it's the Morning Lord!
Tell me how she was ignored!

Burning, burning in her heart!
Tell me how the troubles start!
How a flower dark she found,
Growing there upon the ground!

Pulling, Pulling, it won't budge!
Tell me about Tyche's grudge!
Cursing it, it fell down there!
Placing it into her hair!

But Moander cursed it too!
Evil plotting he did do!
Wilting, wilting her inside!
Tyche surely would have died!

Muses, muses, now I pray!
Sing of happy Selune!
How she knew about the plot!
How she planned to end the rot!

Happy, Happy Selune!
How she struck with light of day!
Bolt of lightning pure and white!
Bolt of purifying light!

Muses, Muses, dance with me!
Dance and sing the things you see!
Dancing, dancing, in the light!
Sing to me about that night!

Flashing, burning, crackle bright!
Lightning pure and white in flight!
Faces of the gods alight!
Selune at power's height!

Splitting, splitting, Tyche falls,
To the Morning Lord she calls!
Falling then she splits in two!
Goddesses are born anew!

Muses, Muses, call her name!
Sing how bright Tymora came!
Lucky, lucky, bright and free,
What a happy sight to see!

Bright Tymora, be with me!
Guide me with your lucky glee!
Show me lucky things to see!
Dance with me so happily!

Dancing, dancing, all of us!
Come, Tymora, dance with us!
Singing, laughing, let us dance,
Dance to goddess of good chance!

Spinning, spinning, dance with me!
See the lucky things I see!
Dancing, dancing happily!
Sing Tymora's praise with me!

There once was a woman that we now call Mémoire. She was not a goddess. She was her father's.

Now she and her father lived in a dirty-white manse, made of the bones and teeth of actors. It was the scene of many atrocities- as the house itself was also home to a stage, for her father was a playwright. There were crumbling columns in front, a dining room they never used, and a giant chandelier from which one of her father's characters hung herself.

Mémoire did not know much of her mother, and as she grew, she would sometimes put on her lingering mother's dresses, and light candles, and dance with her mother's shadow. However, most of the time, she simply uses candles in her room waiting for her to come back.

The coquette's beauty was that of myth, though she would never acknowledge it herself. So legendary it was that word spread of it across her country, so much so that priests and followers of Sune turned from her instead to visit this woman.

Understandably, Sune hears of this Mémoire, and she is angered- after all, why would a mere mortal get the worship and attentions that her followers would usually give to her? She then demands of one of her Chosen, Aimer, to make Mémoire fall in love with a monster. You see, Aimer is the holder of a bow that controls emotions- he carries with him golden arrows that pierce a person's heart, and makes them fall in love with the first being they see, and lead arrows that pierce a person's heart, and makes them hate the next being they see.

However, when Aimer comes upon Mémoire, when he readies a golden arrow, his aim slips and he cuts his hand upon a golden edge. His heart is no longer his own.

As the years pass, the father hears word of his daughter's popularity, and he goes to a wizard, specializing in Divination. The red-robed man simply replies that his daughter is fated to marry a monster, and that he should abandon her upon a mountain, to distance himself from his child for when the inevitable shall happen.

With a mournful heart, the playwright does so, for he cannot change fate. He is only a man.

However, Aimer has been keeping tabs on Mémoire from afar, and when he hears of this, he moves to save her. And as Mémoire faints from the cold and the snow, Aimer wraps her within his cloak, taking her away with him.

When Mémoire awakes, she smells night-blooming jasmine. He knelt beside her bed and put his head near hers. He whispered, 'I just want to lie beside you tonight. I won't hurt you."

Each night, Aimer would lie beside Mémoire, and he would recount the stories to her. The wild girls who cut off the head of a great minstrel, whose only fault was his own self-doubt. The woman who had her tongue cut out so she would not tell of the evils done to her- and how she turned into a nightingale to sing her story.

All the myths, one after another, night after night. The girl who crashed through the earth in a chariot drawn by black steeds. Love's mother, the jealous one, who sent his beloved on a quest, carrying her heart in her hands like a broken urn. Love the shining god with wings. Love the monster.

He asked of her only one thing. Never to look upon him in the light. He did not wish to be seen.

And so they lived, Aimer and Mémoire, in their odd arrangement. Mémoire would occasionally visit her half-sisters, who lived in the next town.

But her half-sisters were not so pleased with the arrangement. They wouldn't stop asking.

Mémoire told them finally that she had never seen them. That he only comes at night.

They were appalled. They laughed. Then their faces turned grave. "You must make him show himself. He might be a monster."

Mémoire listened to them. She was not sure why her lover chose her. Perhaps he was a monster?

And so, one night, he came to her. Mémoire hid in the shadows and waited. A dark figure went to her bed, to feel around for the shape of her body. His movements became more agitated when Aimer did not find her, and he called her name. He, nevertheless, lay down upon the bed and fell asleep, searching for her scent amidst the sheets.

Mémoire crept over to him and lit the candle she held- a tall taper of melting honey. In its light, her lover was revealed.

Is beauty monstrous? If so, then her sisters were right. His beauty was so sharp it could have cut out her heart. As she stood, amazed, a drop of wax from the candle fell and touched his bare shoulder- and he cried out, leaping up, his face filled with pain.

"I told you not to look at me," he said, voice pained. "My deity... My mother was right."

He gathered his things, and left.

Mémoire, still doubting herself, curled in on herself. But she was ready to do anything to be forgiven.

The rest of the story... Is for another time.