A Knave Pantheon
This is the pantheon of patrons I created for my Knave 2e campaign setting, Ousteri Island. Each started as three d100 rolls on the patron tables, giving them their two domains and symbols. After a coin toss to assign a gender, I picked names I liked the sound of from an old celtic name generator.
What follows are the results of collaborating with Midjourney to create portraits of the patrons and with ChatGPT to develop their personalities and precepts.
Meara, The She-Wolf
Domains: The Sea, Jealousy
Symbol: Wolf
Gender: Female
Beathan, The Fox
Domains: Trees, Sleep
Symbol: Fox
Gender: Female
Sealbhach, The Shining Diamond
Domains: Travel, Luck
Symbol: Diamond
Gender: Male
Máirín, The Lamia
Domains: The Hearth, Serpents
Symbol: Oak Leaf
Gender: Female
Artair, The Sickle
Domains: Darkness, The Hunt
Symbol: Sickle
Gender: Male
Ailbhe, The Chronicler
Domains: Truth, The Grave
Symbol: Book
Gender: Female
Meara, The She-Wolf
The goddess Meara's dominions are the Sea and Jealousy. As nothing can stop the surging of the waves, She teaches that one's jealous emotions should not be suppressed, either, but that they should be channeled to manifest one's desires; and as one might take succor from the bounties of the sea, exploitation of Her waters or of other's jealousy is a sure course to ruin.
Her shrines are usually large pieces of driftwood, wedged upright in cairns of smooth sea-stone; some are engraved with the likeness of a wolf emerging from a cresting wave under the full moon. Those seeking Her blessing for smooth sailing or a full net leave offerings of driftwood, stones smoothed by the waves, bits of coral and other things washed up on the shore. Those who truly wish to express their devotion leave Her their most prized possessions. Once offered, She will guard what is Hers jealously, but when the time is right, Her disciples take the offerings out to sea, to be thrown into Her depths.
Meara guards her knowledge just as zealously. When She does share it, She does so through prophecy and riddles, branded into driftwood and washed ashore. Decoding Her messages is proof of one's worthiness of the revelations they contain.
The Depths' Dictum
Chapter I: Channeling the Tides of Jealousy
Embrace the Inner Swells: Let not jealousy be shackled, for it is a vessel of growth and self-improvement.
Envy's Guiding Star: Let jealousy steer thee true, as mariners navigate by constellations' gleam.
Nurture Noble Rivalry: Take joy in honorable competition, let jealousy catalyze greatness and inspire growth and camaraderie.
Chapter II: Stewardship of the Azure Depths
From Distant Shores, Offer Reverence: Though the sea may not grace thy dwelling, show respect and homage to its vast expanse and the creatures it cradles.
Harmony in Balance: Partake of the sea's blessings with moderation and reverence, ensuring thy actions do not exploit or deplete them.
Chapter III: Piety in the Waves of Offering
True Value Lies in Generosity: Understand the worth of thine own possessions and give with open-handedness, for Her favor shines upon the devout.
Tokens of Ocean's Memory: Lay before Her shrine items reclaimed from the depths, gifts that echo the sea's tempestuous beauty and its hold on mortal hearts.
Tides of Prophecy: Devote yourself to unveiling Her hidden truths, Her gifts washed ashore.
Sacrifice of the Treasured: Bestow upon Her an offering of thy most cherished possession, a testament of devotion and surrender.
Chapter IV: Wrath of the Envious Tides
Suppression Leads to Tempest: Deny not the surging tides of jealousy, for repressed envy begets storms of discontent and bitterness.
Beware Jealousy’s Gyre: Those who twist jealousy's winds arouse Her ire. Let not envy sow discord, or be lost to the maelstrom.
Desecration of Sacred Shrines: Plunder not Her shrines, for theft from the goddess of jealousy stokes a wrath that none shall quell.
Chapter V: Abyss of Chastisement and Reckoning
Salted Rhyme of Loss: Those who lose sight of Her shall witness their possessions transformed, salt adorning their treasures, a reminder of their transgressions.
The Brine's Embrace: Those who offend Her shall not have fresh water pass their lips, and only brine will they taste.
Nightmares of the Deep: Those who challenge Her shall suffer visions of drowning and unquenchable thirst, not knowing peaceful rest.
Empty Nets, Meager Catch: Those who abuse the bounties of Her domain shall see their efforts end in vain as the sea claws back its treasures.
Envy's Eternal Sting: Those who will not atone shall bear the burden of perpetual envy, their aspirations withered, watching others attain their deepest desires.
Storms of Divine Justice: Those who will not obey Her shall be crushed by the waves and dashed upon the rocks of the seas that will not tolerate them.
Curse of the Deeps: Those most heinous of sinners shall be forever twisted, monsters wandering the sea's floor, compelled to serve Her will alone.
Beathan, The Fox
Beathan is the goddess of Sleep and Trees. Her symbol is a slumbering fox, often depicted being curled around a bonsai tree, which are the centerpieces of her shrines.
Her philosophies emphasize harmony and stewardship of nature and to find wisdom in both the natural and subconscious worlds.
Because of Her deep connection to trees and nature, she is revered by those who make their livelihoods from them, including lumberjacks, hunters and gatherers. She expects her followers to show Her reverence not through sacrifice, but acts of environmental preservation and restoration.
Those seeking Her guidance first weave a dream catcher from materials gathered in the wilds. Then, upon offering it at one of Her shrines, beseech Her aid through meditation and prayer. Afterward, the dream catcher is kept nearby while the seeker sleeps, a talisman and anchor to remind them of what they wish to learn. After the seeker feels that they've received their answer, they must take the dream catcher to the wilds, to be reclaimed.
Beathan has relatively few attendants to care for her shrines, owing to the training required to keep their trees in good health, and each attendant is usually responsible for the care of multiple shrines. Like Her other followers, they perform acts of conservation and act as mediators to maintain a balance between nature and human interests. And though a seeker's journey to wisdom through dreams is a personal one, they may also assist in the interpretation of dreams.
Though She primarily holds dominion over trees, because they cannot survive alone, Her influence extends to the environs they grow in as well, in turn impacting Her own nature. Similarly, what is sleep without the dreams that come with it? Because She tends to communicate with and guide Her followers through dreams, many often wrongly assume that She claims the domain as Her own.
'Neath green sentries' guard, do foxes dream,
Forest leaves whisper, on swirling breeze.
Dell stream murmurs, o'er stones this night,
Shaping, smoothing, with patient might.
Dreamer, dreamer, in Beathan's maze,
Through mist you wander, for nights and days.
Seeker, seeker, take Beathan's hand,
Be never alone in this timeless land.
Moon shining above, echoes sun's light,
Dancing stream's ripples, swallowed by the night.
Surrounded by stars, may they never fade,
Lighting the path, showing the way.
Dreamer, dreamer, in Beathan's maze,
Through mist you wander, for nights and days.
Seeker, seeker, take Beathan's hand,
Be never alone in this timeless land.
Down mem'ry's long corridors, we twist and turn,
Echoes of our past, in each chambered room.
Tomorrow's beasts faceless, in dread pursuit,
Through dark and light, I search for you.
Roots crawl deeper, seeking hidden waterways,
Trees grow stronger, taller, day by day.
At dawn's first light, do foxes wake,
within they've changed, found their place.
Dreamer, dreamer, in Beathan's maze,
Through mist you wander, for nights and days.
Seeker, seeker, take Beathan's hand,
Be never alone in this timeless land.
Sealbhach, The Shining Diamond
Sealbhach is the god of Travel and Luck. He is often depicted as a wizened, old man, His face toward the horizon, leading His fellow travelers down life's long road. His mark is a diamond, shining with light in the dark.
His shrines are built around a walking staff bearing a crystal, or the mark of one, on its head. The most opulent shrines' crystals are diamonds, but the quality of the stone matters little; all of Sealbhach's shrines are places for travelers to make offerings to one another, leaving and taking them to help each other on their journeys.
The night of the brightest full moon of the year is dedicated to Sealbhach and the Festival of Guiding Light. It is a time to gather and share tales and lessons learned on the road, to celebrate the triumphs of challenges overcome, and to honor those whose journeys ended too soon.
Some swear they've met Sealbhach himself out on the roads, lending a hand to free a cart stuck in a rut here; there, pointing a weary traveler to a place to take shelter out of the rain; or just sharing a fire and a word of wisdom with those that will listen.
Gather 'round the fire for a while and humor an old man. In my years, I've gathered a few truths, humble as they are. Take them as you will; lessons of the road tend to be as fleeting as the journey itself.
First, keep your eyes on the horizon. Life's trials and joys often lie ahead. The past has no power here; it's the path before us that counts.
Luck is a fickle thing. Sometimes it smiles, sometimes it hides. But remember, we shape our luck as much as it shapes us. Take risks wisely, for fortune can be both a friend and a thief.
Trust your instincts, but don't trust blindly. The stars guide our nights, but not all stars are kind. Be cautious but remember the kindness of fellow travelers; sometimes, they're all we have.
In your travels, you'll come across staffs with crystals, diamonds or otherwise. People leave tokens, wishes, and hopes at those shrines. These offerings aren't just for gods; they're gifts from one wanderer to another. Take what you need, leave something behind. It's a silent pact of shared fortune.
Lastly, treasure your journey's stories. Victories, defeats, and the unexpected turns. By the fire, we share not only warmth but the fragments of each other's journeys, for in the sharing, we find a connection that transcends the miles.
Now, whether you heed these words or let them slip away, it matters little. The road remains, and each traveler must find their own way, guided by their own stars.
Máirín, The Lamia
The goddess Máirín presides over Hearths and Serpents and Her symbol is an oak leaf. Her followers adhere to teachings that revolve around hospitality, duty and protection, and transformative adaptability.
Though She has shrines devoted to Her, often a simple standing stone or one with a serpent carved around it, where Her followers truly worship Her is in their own homes, gathered around the warmth of their own hearths. She expects Her followers to open their doors to those in need and share their good fortune. Neither may they become so set in their ways that shifting times leave their hearths cold and barren.
Her followers may welcome strangers in need, but this does not mean they are expected to let themselves be taken advantage of - revering The Lamia also calls one to protect their families, homes and communities as a central tenet. In the most dire circumstances, Máirín may offer a terrible blessing to one of Her followers, transforming them into a champion capable of repelling grave threats. They shed their human forms to become monstrous serpents, oaken sentinels or living infernos. This power comes at a great cost, however. Once the blessing has been accepted, those transformed can never regain their original form, and eventually the serpent seeks the embrace of the earth, the oak sinks its roots deep and the flames run out of fuel. It is the ultimate act of duty and self-sacrifice.
Hear now a tale of fear and betrayal. In a quaint village under tall oak trees, dwelled a lad named Osgar. His village was his heart, its folks, his kin. His oath was to shield them all.
But as war loomed, fear gripped him. He fled from his comrades, thinking it would spare him the horrors of battle. Weeks later, word came, his village had fallen. Now there were only charred bones in the rubble and hollow stares that haunted his dreams.
Osgar tried to atone for his selfishness, rejoin the king's men, but, instead, they bound him in chains of iron, and they sent him to mine in the dark depths of the earth. And still his past clung like a shadow, regrets gnawing on him just the same as he chipping away at the earth.
So, remember this tale, young ones. Duty betrayed scars the soul, and a vow broken leaves marks that don't easily fade.
Now, this tale is one of darkness and chilling consequences. Nestled deep within an ancient forest, there lived a recluse named Agnes. Her small cottage stood alone, and its hearth had long been extinguished. Agnes had grown cold of heart, shunning travelers who sought refuge at her doorstep, reveling in her isolation.
One bitter winter's night, a terrible storm descended upon the forest, and the winds howled like vengeful spirits. Desperate travelers sought shelter, knocking at Agnes's door. They begged for warmth, safety, and respite from the tempest.
But Agnes, her heart as cold as the winter frost, turned them away. She watched through her window as the desperate wanderers stumbled into the blizzard, their cries swallowed by the winds.
As the storm raged on, Agnes, nestled by her barren hearth, began to hear eerie whispers. Serpents of dread slithered through her home, whispering haunting songs that sent shivers down her spine. The whispers grew louder, hissing spells that bound her and transformed her into an abomination, forever cursed to guard the hearth she’d forsaken.
Remember the importance of welcoming travelers and offering the warmth of your hearth, younglings, lest you someday need the hospitality of a stranger.
These tales remind us of Máirín’s wisdom, to cherish hospitality, honor duty and loyalty, and accept change in the face of fear. Heed Her lessons well, young ones.
Artair, The Sickle
Artair presides over Darkness and The Hunt. He grants blessings related to stealth, primal instincts, and the embrace of nature in its most untamed form.
Though His shrines can be found in settlements, they are mere shadows of the shrines secluded away from civilization. The shrines are built around a cairn supporting a standing stone, etched with a circle, the new moon, inscribed within a crescent, His Sickle. This is the part of the shrine that would be found in the confines of a village or town. But in the wilderness, one would also find a fire pit to gather around, truly the heart of Artair’s shrines. Here, his followers gather to share the tales and wisdom of their own hunts. Wherever the shrine, though, one might make offerings of hunting trophies, the likes of pelts, fangs and claws, especially if they themselves earned them.
One night, in the middle of each season, on the night of a new moon, the New Moon Hunt is observed. Participants are encouraged to strip themselves of tools, weapons, and even clothing to become more primal, connecting with nature in its rawest form. The hunt represents a spiritual communion with Artair, embracing the terror and vulnerability that comes with nature's savage beauty. After the hunt, it is customary to pay homage to the hunted creature in solitude and reflect on the hunt's lessons and the cycle and duality of life and death.
As with most human affairs, some have twisted Artair’s rituals into mere competition, seeking only to prove themselves a superior predator among their rivals. These apostates often overestimate themselves in their pride, shedding too much or hunting quarry beyond their capabilities. Whether in their final moments they realized their folly is anyone’s guess.
"Get closer to the fire, everyone. It’s cold, and I want you to hear this. It's the New Moon, and that means I owe a story to Artair and all of you."
Lorna, her grizzled features warmed by the flickering fire, began to tell her tale. The other hunters leaned in, their eyes wide with anticipation, like children around a hearth, awaiting a cherished bedtime story.
"I took my clothes off and left them at the camp," Lorna said, her voice steady. "No weapons, no gear. Artair's night demands it, and I needed to be as close to nature as I could. I won't lie, it was terrifying. But that's the point, isn't it? The closer you get to the bone, the closer you get to Artair."
She hesitated for a moment, as if the memories weighed upon her. "I was chasing a silverhide that night, a creature I'd seen signs of before, but never encountered. A beast that could melt into the shadows, and on a moonless night, you can imagine, it was near invisible. It was almost as if Artair himself had turned his dark eyes upon me and whispered, 'There, that's your prey.'"
Lorna's rough fingers gestured through the air, drawing out the beast's elusive shape. "It wasn't like any hunt I'd ever known. I could hear its call, like a scream from some ancient and dark part of the earth. It was beautiful, powerful, and I wanted it. I pursued it deeper and deeper, only guided by my instincts and the earth beneath my skin."
She shivered at the memory.
"And then, it came for me. At first, I didn't see it, only heard its breath in the shadows. Then its eyes... Artair’s dark eyes themselves couldn't have shone any brighter. It lunged, and all I could do was meet it head-on. I grappled with it in the dark, and it was powerful, a force of nature. I knew that this might be the end."
Lorna's expression darkened. "I left that night with scars," she said, her voice unadorned, humble. "I'd be lying if I told you I brought the silverhide down, that I'd won the hunt. But, I think I met Artair in the dark of those woods. I danced with death, and I lived."
Lorna fell silent, and for a moment, only the crackling of the fire and the wilderness beyond filled the air.
"And then I found it, right here." She reached inside her weathered leather pouch and produced a jagged, silver fang. "Lodged deep in my side, I pulled it free, and here it is."
The hunters gathered around, their eyes fixed on the serrated tooth gleaming in the firelight.
"It wasn't about victory," she whispered. "It was about understanding that we're all part of the hunt. That we're all prey, no matter how strong or cunning. That's what He teaches us."
Ailbhe, The Chronicler
Ailbhe’s domains are Truth and The Grave. She reveres knowledge and the patient pursuit of it and the deceased are to be honored for the knowledge they’ve taken a lifetime to accumulate. She counts librarians, researchers, diviners and those who regularly confront death among her followers. Those who revel in death rather than respect it will have their just rewards in due time.
Her shrines are solemn places of communion: A cairn supports a standing stone, upon which rests a bleached human skull. These skulls are donated for a time by Her disciples after they’ve died, before being interred with their owner by the next disciple whose skull will rest on the shrine. Ailbhe’s parishioners can feel Her influence strongest at Her shrines, their hand resting on its skull, reaching through a conduit forged by the soul that once resided there. This ritual is the final duty carried out by Her most devout disciples.
One duty of a chronicler is to safeguard the knowledge they hold against abuse, and Ailbhe is no exception. Though she grants the blessing of divination to reveal her wisdom directly, she demands a heavy price for it in return: memories of equal weight, surrendered forever. More often, though, She prefers to nudge a supplicant toward an appropriate guide, perhaps even one of her disciples, rather than exacting the terrible toll for revelation.
The brittle bones of my hands tremble as I hold the skull in my lap. It's an eerie weight of memories, secrets, and a life's worth of knowledge. I find solace in the presence of my fellow disciples, their quiet reverence, and our shared commitment to Ailbhe. We're all bound in this union of the living and the dead.
The room is dimly lit, with the low flicker of candles casting dancing shadows on the walls. Silence hangs heavy in the air, everyone knows the gravity of this moment. It's a rite as old as the faith itself. I've watched other disciples do this - those who came before me, now with their skulls on the shrines - and I knew that my time had come.
The skull is cold and smooth, like a page from one of Ailbhe's books. I touch it gently, my fingers caressing the ridges and hollows, as if I could trace the memories inscribed within. A shiver courses down my spine. This skull, and soon mine, is a vessel of transcendence, a vessel to carry knowledge and experiences to the afterlife.
I turn to the younger disciples, their eyes filled with a mixture of awe and sorrow. I know they must be strong for this, and I have faith in them. "Remember," I say softly, my voice barely a whisper. "This is our sacred duty, to preserve and to pass on." The words are more for me than for them, a final affirmation of my commitment.
The silence that follows is profound. The candles cast an eerie light upon the skull, and for a moment, it seems as if it might speak. Yet, the skull remains silent, a testament of the past and a promise for the future.
I close my eyes, finding comfort in the silence. The knowledge, the secrets, the stories - they will be preserved. My soul will continue in the hallowed halls of Ailbhe, and the wisdom of the ages will persist. I find peace in this.