Fire is best kept in the boiler; it's much too dangerous to be using for something as simple as lumination.
Not all hammers are tools of creation. Some are made for destruction, and some rare few truly excel at it.
That Which Kills Without A Touch. The Sorrow of Aler.
The sky is drab and gray, almost completely covered in rainclouds. What gaps there are open up to show yet more gray. Much like mortal demesnes, the weather is unpredictable, but every so often the clouds unleash their burden of water on the residents of this boring land.
Welcome to the Hell of Half-Nothings. Your stay will be boring, we guarantee it.
Once little more than a standard place of higher education, now the University of Firdon sits at the heart of the magidustrial revolution soon to sweep through Ryngard.
"The wind-driven snow parts for the barest of seconds, revealing a glimpse of refuge from the deadly storm. It’s a massive sapphire pyramid. Yet you know of nothing like it in this area…"
The Writer glimpsed it in his journeys through the various hells, but he paid no heed to it. His tale was about the afterlife and the punishments therein, not the arms and armor of the Darkness.
"And 3..2..1..Smile!" *flash* *thump* "Mwahaha."
A few ways to handle PCs navigating a maze within your games.
A flower that blooms in honor of the sun itself.
The followers of the mechanogod Whrrrm, those who could never have come about until the advent of steamtech.
Ether, magical energy condensed into liquid form, is the fuel powering the magidustrial revolution on Ryngard.
In the land of Epoa, Cloud Hoppers are some of the craziest people you’ll meet. Cloud Hopping is their job.
The fey are strange, but occasionally, just occasionally, their actions make sense.
The precepts of the Triguian faith, passed down from generation to generation. What not to do.
Yar…I do indeed know of Crossbones Isle, stranger. But ye’d be better suited to avoid that place like a widowed wench.
The world is populated by people. Hundreds, thousands, millions of people. Of those people, there tend to be the noble families that rise up and rule the ‘common’ person. However, of those noble families, there is a breed that rises up and above even the other nobles. These are the Hereditas, those who have the Blood of Divinity.
The stream of time can suddenly be breached. What happens now?
A random description pulls the players into the dangerous, scheming web of politics…
You can have a world, you can have players. They might have even made characters that were so beautifully crafted that you cried when reviewing them. But if you don’t have a plot, your game ain’t goin’ nowhere.
In a small inn (the more remote the better), a man turns up dead. There are no wounds on his body what-so-ever, and he aboslutely reeks of garlic.
The man died of a curse that forced him to eat a clove of garlic a day or suffer the penalty. This gets really interesting if the body somehow appears on top of a someone the villagers are suspcious of.