The Liathghorm salmon is prized not only for its flavor, but the unique psychic properties of its flesh.
A common domestic animal in the Siogalish household, the buckfowl isn't much different from a chicken at first. Until you get a look at its head.
A reference guide to the major physical features and settlements of County Siogal.
"I fear, dear Marius, that either you or I have been led astray. The Legends of which you spoke claimed Showgull was a land of great Magick, perhaps even the very Wellspring of the first Magick, with a People whose blood runs with æthereal power. You know how serious I take my work, Marius: is this a jest to you? These are a barbarous People, who know little Writing and fewer Manners. They are hostile to the very Idea learned Magick. That anyone should call this a Nexus of magickal power is risible. No wonder so many Kingdoms have been eager to trade off this Place in their treaties."
- the wizard Abelard Selanius, Esq., letter to his colleague Marius Dubesque
The magical instruments that created the world, long since scattered. Fortunate is the player who finds them, and great is the band that can make them sing again.
Suddenly an east wind blew, and far above the clouds rolled and folded. Where there were once whisps of white there was now a long cloud formed in the shape of a recurved bow. Malakh bowed her head in humility. "That which you have asked is granted you, O Warrior."
...Vaakri reached and stretched, grasping at the sky. At first he seized nothing, but his heart was filled with the Empyrean Emir's winds and light, and finally he grasped the bow from the far sky and drew it to the earth.
- The legend of Vaakri
A bloodthirsty band of brutal barbarian brigands, baneful and bleak in bearing. Beware!
Priest of a death goddess
Maxilan Carth, the Hunter of the Bayous, was the bane of the gatorfolk in life. To those who follow Jampiri, he provides protection from those beasts from beyond the grave.
"Dat woman... She was terrible to behold. Terrible but beautiful. She sat on a great throne, surrounded by her gatorfolk servants. She stood and she looked mighty angry. She look down at me an' Tergryn an' de rest, and she yell in some strange tongue - de elf-folk, I tink. She had a fury in her soul, an' I could feel her evil eye on me. Doric - hui, poor Doric! - she had 'er gatorfolk slash his belly wit' his claws and tore out his entrails. De gobbled dem up... Poor Doric..."
- Jorif Grisold, survivor
She is the high priestess of Jampiri, the outcast of the Kanaar, the guardian of the gatorfolk. Swynmoor's resident witch is powerful and knowledgeable, keeping the natural balance in the swamps.
A series of singers and strummers, summarily simple and sinuous, subsisting with singularly spectacular song-stylings.
I've sat on this one for long enough. Feel free to fill in the gaps.
"De Kanaar folk tink all dere gods and medicines are secret. But I live in dese marshes long enough to hear dere gods, whether pointy-ear folk like it or not. I can hear dere comin's and goin's, an' I can make dem see you or skip you as you like."
- Tonis, hillaq of Rakart Village
"As he said this he blessed them with his amulet that held the Firestone, which is called also Seenu's Eye. Immediately the priestesses began to praise Tinay, and the people were greatly amazed."
- The Gospel of Dorcas, 7:20-21
Felim collapsed into the snow, exhausted. It felt like it would be the last fall this time, his limbs stiffening and flesh numb. The adventurer had heard of natives that thrived out here, men who slew bears and made coats of seal fur. But who could build anything out here...?
Just as he felt light start to fade, Felim cast his gaze up to see the sky one last time. He was startled - or would have been, if his body had the energy - to see a furred hood and a leathery face with a toothless grin. "Ho there, brother!" it spoke. "You came to just the right place."
"Bristlebane ale. Tall."
Mathus looked up. He didn't recognize the man ordering, but he seemed the type: muscles beneath a layer of fat, a snarling expression with most of his teeth missing, fists like summer hams. "You want it in a bottle?"
"From the tap."
Mathus nodded. "This way," he said, stepping from behind the bar and into the back room, the "customer" following.
A fresh-faced young man sitting at the bar looked around, confused. "Bristlebane? Sounds adventurous."
"You couldn't handle it, son," an older man said from across the plank bar with a hint of derision. "It'd right kick your ass."
One of the Cosmic Era's most populous and vibrant cities, Novo São Paulo also has one of the widest economic gaps with an underside illustrating its crushing poverty.
"We came expecting a broken moon or wayward asteroids, but this... I don't think anyone's seen anything of its like. There's an astounding amount of material here. We're looking in the records, trying to match some of the artifacts, but there's nothing like it. I don't know what most of this does, but my God is it complex. We're looking at, at least, what, two decades of potential salvage, maybe more, then the cartography of the local moon for more. We're definitely here to stay."
- Phaeton Venator, recovered personal log
"O Divine Broker, merchant of souls, bless our transaction, make it holy and righteous in Your sight. May those that profit from it be ever prosperous, and earn our reward in Your Sacred Market. Release us from our debts, and grant us lucrative exchange now and forever."
- Prayer before a trade, from Bashad the Spectacular's "The Handbook of Divine Wealth"
Any number of clergymen might be accused of putting their demands for secular wealth over their spiritual needs. Even these, however, would never claim to worship their prosperity. Yet such is the case with the followers of the Way of Divine Wealth, a religion of uncertain history and unabashed cupidity.
"Ve'laan rust!" - Sailor slang, meaning "nonsense"
A metal with unique properties, ve'laan is prized by seafaring folk and admired by jewelers.
The Nomin gypsies have a fiddling competition every year, known as the Danse de Velose. Beaters hit out the rhythm on taut drums and the competitors start to play, slowly at first. Youngsters can compete, but are soon pulled away by worried mothers, before the competition becomes too dangerous. After two hours the haunting tune has become dazzlingly fast. You can resign at any time, but the moment you make a mistake you receive an arrow through the neck. Strings may snap, but the players must play on. The whole affair never lasts much longer than three hours, and the last fiddler playing is crowned king of the gypsies.