[ Outsiders > Celestials > Eladrin ]
[ Aestetica | Paragons | Court of Stars ]
Eladrin, Gancanagh
Also known as passion azata †
Who Revels in being Your Fantasy
CG; CR 4
Also known as passion azata †
Alternate form: A shower of red rose petals
Gancanaghs [GHAN-kan-ah] mix troubadour charm and swashbuckling élan—flutes, rapiers, and flirtation as instruments of artistic virtue. They can change shape to become whatever their intended partner most desires, and speak any language with their silver-tongues. The kiss of a gancanagh is said to be invigorating—if potentially exhausting for those who can’t keep up!
The graybeards reckon that the gancanagh should be thought of as a separate Aestetica to the amori, but frankly, they’re much closer to being a fashion statement among amori who fancy themselves swashbucklers. Gancanaghs usually—but not always—present as masculine, dress fashionably, and carry a pipe (called a dudeen) because they think it makes them look sophisticated. Ironically, they never use them for tobacco, because they have a strange vulnerability to all kinds of smoke.
The Gancanagh and the Succubus
In the golden hour between “too late” and “ought to be in bed,” a gentleman with mirth in his eyes and a flute at his hip sauntered into the Moon-and-Misrule tavern. He wore velvet the colour of a blushing debutant and a smile that had won him several duels. His name—for today at least—was Finn.
Finn, being a connoisseur of both love and of dramatic irony, ordered a cocktail called a Kiss-Then-Regret, then ignored the second part. He was tracing hearts in the condensation on the glass when the tavern’s door sighed open and a breeze came in wearing a woman.
She was striking in the way a brewing storm is beautiful. She cast no reflection in the bottles on the shelf, and the candles she passed leaned away as if they knew better.
“Alone, sweet mortal?” she purred.
Finn fluttered his lashes, which was frankly irresponsible. “Terminally,” he said. “But I’m open to embracing new opportunities.”
“I am Sira,” she smiled. “I collect lonely hearts. Souvenirs, really.”
“Traveling light is wise,” Finn replied. “Hearts can be so burdensome.”
He made a show of fidgeting—mortals, he had learned, are expected to fidget—and let her take his hand. Her touch was warm, moist even.
“Come,” Sira whispered. “Walk with me. The alley back there has a perfect view of the moon, and I adore an audience of one.”
Finn glanced at the bartender, who mouthed “don’t” with obvious concern for Finn’s continued existence. Finn tipped him with a coin and a wink. “If I’m not back in ten minutes,” he said, “don’t come looking.”
Out in the alley, the moon was full and the air smelled carefree. Sira leaned close, and the night shifted to accommodate her. Finn admired her craftsmanship. He quite liked professionals.
“Tell me,” she murmured, “what do you desire most?”
Finn pretended to consider, which is apparently a form of flirtation. “To compose a melody that would make a pit fiend weep,” he said. “Failing that, a good kiss.”
“Perhaps I can assist,” she whispered, lips dark with promises. “Look into my eyes. Relax.”
Her perfume was intoxicating—silken, sinuous, confident. It billowed around Finn, seeking thresholds to trespass, the unlocked door of a soft human heart.
Sira blinked. Then pressed harder.
“Oh,” Finn said, very gently, “Careful—that door sticks if you shove it.”
She frowned. “Do not second guess me, mortal.”
He placed a hand over his own heart, and beneath his palm something bright thrummed. The moon, sensing a spectacle, drew closer for a better view.
Sira hesitated. “Perhaps you are more than you seem.”
Finn sighed in theatrical relief. “At last, someone sees beyond my cheekbones.”
Her glamour reared for another leap. This time she used the most persuasive arrow in her quiver: a kiss. She leaned in—and Finn let her—almost.
At the last instant he gave her a kiss of his own. It was not a surrender, it was a playful blessing, and it slid right beneath her magical wards.
Sira staggered as if she’d taken a swig of holy water. “What—what did you do?”
“Seized the moment,” Finn said. He flicked his wrist and a rapier suddenly glinted in the moonlight, not pointed at her, but dueling playfully with his own shadow. “Allow me to re-introduce myself.”
He stepped back, swept a courtly bow, and the drape of the world changed. His velvet shone in the night’s glow. “Finn,” he said. “A gancanagh; passion’s envoy; eladrin patron of romantic disasters that end in poetry, rather than funerals.”
Sira’s eyes narrowed. “Celestial fop,” she hissed, which was probably succubus slang for ‘oh no’.
“Flatterer,” Finn said, preening. “You thought me mortal because I was having fun, which is an error common to bureaucrats and tanar’ri. Mortals are not the only cutters licensed for whimsy.”
She drew herself up, demonic wings unfurling in shadow. “You will regret crossing me.”
“Oh, probably,” Finn said cheerfully. “But I have a short memory.”
She snarled and lunged. Finn pivoted, then tapped her on the shoulder with his rapier, and as she turned he blew a handful of petals in her face.
Sira clenched her jaw, for her mouth was teetering on the edge of a smile she was absolutely not going to have.
“Listen, Sira.” said Finn. “Seduction should be a waltz, not a mugging. Let me propose terms: I walk away with my soul, you walk away with your reputation. Also, the next time you intend to kiss a man to death, consider picking one who does not have a pocket full of Elysian roses.”
Her wings drooped. “I misjudged,” she admitted, which must have tasted like vinegar. “You mask well.”
He winked. “A gentleman has to keep a little mystery. Besides, the hat helps.” He had not been wearing a hat. A trilby spontaneously appeared and tipped itself.
“If I let you go,” the succubus said, “what do I get?”
“A recommendation,” said the eladrin, and handed her a calling card. The embossed script read: ‘Vendor of Joy’. She turned the card over. On the back a scribble appeared as she read: a place and a time. “What is this?”
“A tango class,” Finn said. “Tomorrow night. There is a retired pirate who teaches it. You’ll adore her. She swears magnificently.”
Sira’s mouth did a complicated thing that, on a human, might be called a smile. “You’re insufferable!” she said with hardly any venom.
“True,” Finn said. “And I am also late for a balcony.”
He bowed and turned to leave, but paused at the street corner. “Oh, one more thing.”
She tensed. “Yes?”
“Your left side is stronger,” he said, and mimed a turn.
Then he strolled away, whistling. Behind him, Sira remained, picking the petals from her hair.
The next night, the retired pirate would mutter to herself as a new student entered the dance hall with an air that promised a future great dinner party story. “We’ll see,” the pirate would say, as the music started.
As for Finn, on the balcony he kissed a widower who he’d made laugh for the first time in a long time. In the street below a someone somewhere said, “Who was that charming gentleman?”
Stats: The gancanagh can be found in Bestiary 5 [PF1e] p38; Monster Core [PF2e] p32; Conversion [5e]
Source: Margarita and Jon Winter-Holt. The gancanagh (or Gean Cánach, literally ‘lover-talker’) is a seductive faerie from Celtic mythology, although the Pathfinder version of them is less ethically problematic and more fun than the original mythological version.