A cursed mix of wings, talons, and a vampiric stag's head, the Peryton is a monstrous entity.  It is depraved relentless in its vicious pursuit to maim and devour the hearts of other creatures, holding a specific hatred for humans and elves.  Even injured, these creatures will hunt down detected foes, until at least one of them is dead.

Their feathering from a distance could be considered beautiful, and with wings tucked, settled upon the ground, the Peryton might pass for a lesser woodland being.  The moment one gets closer, though, you'll notice a good many things are off.

First, actually, would be the smell.  In this case, a lack of one.  Less sensitive noses would identify the creature as human, but those with a modicum of training or enhanced primal senses would pick no smell at all, coupled with an overwhelming sense of dread.  
  Standing over 7 feet tall, the Peryton's demonic stag face smiles with rows of razor-sharp teeth.  The plumage of their chest might tell you their gender (males tend to be blue, while females are a pale white), but soon you won't care.  Their antlers, jet black and harder than steel, are used to rend and impale, and their depraved form is resilient to all but magical weapons. 
As their eyes of orange flame pierce through the fog, any light that passes over them lies about their true form.
  For you see, the most peculiar element of a Peryton is their shadow.  This winged, evil beast will hiss before you, but its shadow will present as human.  Always.  Human.  

This oddity presents a plethora of curious theories, but few had evidence to match.
  Some Loremasters believe the false shadow to be an echo of the last creature the Peryton killed.  Given its penchant for violence against humans and elves, this was the prevailing theory for hundreds of years.  It wasn't until the haphazard findings of one Grenaldi Mayweather, a gnomish priest under the cover of twilight, who one night happened upon a nest of the creatures in the Ghastshadow Mountains.  She observed the flock tear into a pack of roaming Aarakocran, ambushed or set upon as they slept.  Just as history told us, the Peryton ripped open the chests of their victims, consuming the still-warm hearts with grim satisfaction.  Mayweather watched in dread curiosity, eager to solve the riddle of the shadow...  But the humanoid echo remained.  No winged shadows manifested.
  Mayweather was lucky to escape with her life, but returned soon after for more observation, this time with an elite guard to watch her back; the knowledge was too important not to be careful...

It would also be Mayweather that would witness the first instance of a Peryton being born.  Though there are documented family units of a male and a female Peryton (though they'd be hard-pressed to care for their young, if not kill them), this instance within the nest involved two females.  
  Both left to hunt, smelling blood on the wind.  They were gone for hours.  When they returned, blood dripping from their claws, they delivered several chunks of flesh to the next to feast upon, and a still writhing human man!  Mayweather watched as her lookout - a young brown-eyed ranger - was clutched by one of the pair and pulled toward the other, like it was presenting a gift.  Firey smoke and twisting gray tendrils spilled from the one in waiting, before its teeth sank into the man's chest, ripping his beating heart from the cavity.  His body went limp, and Peryton female scarfed down the heart, her eyes shifting translucence in the penumbra.  
  Then Mayweather heard a sound that sent chills down her spine.  
Like an echo of a child's laugh.  A giggle in the gloom, small and innocent.  Then it grew, warping and dancing along the walls, raising in pitch and warble, until it is a chorus of cackling.  The other eyes in the nest rise and join in, their necks convulsing and twisting backward with the sound, a malevolent inversion of mirth and satisfaction.  The sound becomes a beast in and of itself, a roiling mass of whoops and hollers, striking chords and stark dissonance.  Vibrations spill out the mouth of the cave, whispers at the ears of the hidden spies, and shouts upon the walls that surround them.
  The guards around the gnome begin to clutch and claw at their ears, the cacophony bringing a few to tears.  Mayweather instinctually covers the sob of her closest ranger, insisting that he get himself together.
Then.
Silence.
  The smell of dread hits Mayweather's nostrils as she dares to peer into the nest.  All the Peryton stare straight ahead, their mouths gaping open - a frozen, terrifying smile.  Until they all snap their eyes...to her.

They made it out with one casualty.  Her second blue-eyed scout, snatched by a rogue talon before he could slip into the wooden door of a magnificent mansion.  
  Safe within the dimensional space, Mayweather vigorously wrote down her conclusions:
1. New Peryton are born by a female consuming the heart of a freshly killed humanoid.
2. Their shadows flicker into monstrous forms during the process of incubation.
3. When incubation begins, nearby Peryton gain heightened senses to protect the pregnant female, becoming even more violent.  The more there are, the stronger the pack's senses.
  Her fourth note she added weeks later, when her guards - while out hunting - were set upon by a pair of Peryton, seemingly tracking them for miles.  When they finally confronted the creatures, they were surprised to see two young Peryton, newborns - one with brown eyes and the other with blue, both with shadows of human form.  ...Felling the creatures was tough, but much worse for their psychology.  Poor guys.
4. Newborn Peryton share the eyes of the creature whose heart they were born from.  As they get older, and kill more for their own survival and pleasure, the blood tarnishes the eye color, shifting it to match the orange-red of the others.

Mayweather and others theorized that the first Peryton was a cursed human or elf, twisted by a god of chaos.  The bards of old expanded upon this, marking its origin to infidelity, curses, and carrions feasting on cursed corpses.
  Given Mayweather's most recent expeditions, however, the clearest line exists through pure vehemence.  These aren't cursed humans - they were MADE by something.  Sometime in the first age, when great magics could be wielded by mere mortals, a wizard general - whose name is lost to time - sought a tactical edge against the elven and human alliances.  So he juxtaposed what he had on hand with fiendish blood.  An intellect unmatched, the alchemist rivaled the gods for a moment - before his heart was ripped from his chest...

Mind the shadows.  Watch the skies.
See you next time.
-Adamus

On the edges of the Autumncrest, flowing down from Astrazalian is the once ruined bastion of Harrowhome.  A piecemeal, patchwork fortress of scorched stone and new construction, this half-sunken memorial is a testament to an ages old war and a memory not forgotten.

  The walls of Harrowhome remember the battle that carved the Autumn Court into being, and beyond its walls it welcomed every creature upended and scarred by war.  And continue to do so to this day.  
  Any wanderer that walks under its arches and through its gates, no matter their make or manner, will be treated to a warm bed, a hearty meal, and a safe rest.  You see, even before the Autumn, Harrowhome was a place of spirits.  Not haunted, mind you, but inhabited and cared for by creatures long dead.  Spirits of cooks, caretakers, healers, and one particularly crotchety jarl care for its visitors as if they were their own citizens.  
  Not going to lie, it is a bit off-putting at first.  Seeing the smiling, humming halfling maid that floats through the wall carrying a platter of fine kippers and tea as she drifts over to your bedside and kisses your forehead goodnight.  
And yet, Harrowhome is a place of comfort.  Weary travelers find assured rest within its walls without trickery (though the child ghosts can be a little mischievous); visiting guilds catch their breath and count their coin; and even an occasional warlord takes up residence once in a while.
  But any who pass through know the laws.  I - No violence will be willfully committed within the city's walls, not by its keepers nor its visitors.  II - Under no circumstances will these halls or their denizens be exorcised, for this place is under the watch of the Erlking, and thou shall not rob him of his subjects, lest they wish to join the Wild Hunt themselves.

Passage through the Wildes can be treacherous and unpredictable for the uninitiated.  Rampant quicklings, enchanted campfires, giant mimics, and roaming primal spirits are commonplace under this aurora sky.  
  Nicholas Falanel, an old tortle of kind face and dreadful past, used his blessings in the arcane and survival to construct minute, portable waystations.  He would call these more accurately - totems.  Tiny pockets of neutral energy, these carved wood and stone spires would rest on either side of a beaten path no more than ten feet wide, planted at 10 foot intervals.  The resulting network of short-form, concentrated abjuration could hold at bay any number of malevolent Fey or Undead creatures.  
  But the totems are difficult to construct.  Though Nick has attempted to pass on his techniques, Wayfarers are a rare branch of an extremely rare sect, so the old tortle appears to be on his own for this endeavor.  That doesn't stop "Old Nick", though, and many a traveler has seen him tending to one of his seven Waystations across the Wildes - collecting more materials on his quest to connect the Feywild for any who may wander its beautiful and dangerous landscape.  
  Stop by for a tune or three, and a bowl of gumbo for thee.  And remember the skies before the Harrowed be true; we will always open our doors to you.  

Legacies carry weight in the expansive timeline of Io.  A name can be earned, or stolen, or bound, or lost, and all carry a legacy of rich history and meaning.  Much like the etymology of language, a name's path and purpose can change given their circumstances; heroes become villains, tyrants become priests, and thieves become nobles.
  Yet these developments benefit most from a structured timeline.  Instances and events of momentous growth and change powered by the metaphorical jet engine of past transgressions.  There is a line to follow in this madness.  

But.

What if the line were broken?  What if your name, your legacy, was taken from you; displaced somehow?  Without the benefit of a past to learn from, what new future does a creature forge?
  In today's Lore Drop, on November's theme of Legacy Names, let's take a look at one of the most curious of NPCs - the Va'Orodin.

In every Age of Io, a Va'Orodin has crossed the paths of the dozens of heroes ignited by furious purpose, but few gave their names.  Of the ones that did, even fewer stuck around.  
  Io-Shar: Ja'Naya Va'Orodin was discovered by a pirate crew under the leadership of a stalwart lizardfolk (Ricin) and a grumpy elf (Grim).  Ja'Naya was fiercely loyal to Captain Grim, devoting her life to his cause of vengeance and dominance over the flooded world.  An adept cleric of some ancient neutral angel, Ja'Naya entered hailed from Io-Sooth, the 2nd Age, and carried with her a terrible sacrifice.  The first keeper of the legendary Sunraker Gauntlet, she was surprised to find that when she would remove the item from her arm, her skin and muscle came with it.  At some point in her past life, she willingly or unwillingly traded the flesh of her right arm for a legendary item.  Whatever the case, though, the Gauntlet would leave her body at her passing nearly 20 years later, and serve the Valenwood family for nearly 100 years before passing into Loremaster care.
  Io-Ren / Io-Shar: Once a cleric of Istus, the deity of fate and chance, Straiga Va'Orodin was undeterred by his displacement.  An adept tactician and pole arm master, this red trifling would find rewarding work among others like him - the lost and forgotten.  He found this home through the mercenary band known as the Knight Owls, and would rise through its ranks to command his own team in the 4th Age (Knight Owls - Season 3).
   Io-Shar (Feywild): Yasha Va'Orodin is a creature of subtle, athletic frame, and stalwart reserve.  She is one of the Gatekeepers of the nexus city of Astrazalian.  Where and when she came from, no one really knows, but she holds great respect for the Fey Court, especially Lady Winter Sarissa.  Perhaps we'll see more of her...perhaps not.

And what say the Raven Queen, the one who holds memory and time and antiquity aloft to the thousands of souls that pass her bastion in the planes of shadow?  Or the Angels of the Sunrake?  Or the Valkyrum of the Evernight?  Powerful overlords and dissonant factions pull a curious lens over those in ages without belonging, so what purpose awaits creatures like this?

Well.

This old Loremaster is pulled to consider instead the Equation of Potential.  As long-lived as I am, I know not everything, nor did my past lives, but if you'll humor a fellow ancient for a moment, we may yet find common ground.  There are many across the Ages whose actions have sent ripples unknown; great things, terrible things, powerful things.  All without knowledge of the future.  Yet, we know there to be entities whose intelligence and memory are ageless; the mere concept of our mortality is a single drop in the river of their understanding.  Perhaps, say, they drop a pebble into that river.  Each ripple is a lifetime, and three lifetimes over, a ripple shifts a stone ever so slightly, and the river flows a different direction.  Such a tiny act can have a tremendous impact.  And if that pebble had free will?  Yes, I think we understand each other.
  So are the Storm-Touched spilled by design of some great entity, or are their fateful tempests random?  This one knows not.  Only time will tell.

Safe travels, Stormsinger.
-Loremaster Arteza Rainmaker