A bloodthirsty band of brutal barbarian brigands, baneful and bleak in bearing. Beware!
Priest of a death goddess
"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.
"Their so-called god, it is claimed, loves, and thus love is their virtue. Foolishness! Love is only fear of loss, and fear is among the keenest of weapons in our arsenal. Let us turn their virtue onto itself, and draw more souls into the Devouring Maw."
- The Paragon, address to his Overlords, in the second year of the Sectarian Wars
"Why’s she want the rings? Heh, ye ain’t the first ta ask. Well, why’s the wind blow? Why’s the shark bite? Trust me, lad, you don’ want ta question her nature, jus’ as ye wouldn’ question mother nature. I say she’s lookin fer somethin’ - gods save me when she finds it."
- Ben "The Biter" Yardrin, sailor
Trouble follows some people wherever they go. I follow that trouble and make sure those people don’t make anymore trouble. It ain’t easy, but someone’s got to do it.
Forsooth! A fair flock of faithful friars, from fanciful to factual.
A minor mess of magnates for myriad monarchies.
Now with Scroll functions! Add your own!
"I have seen the beast, tentacled and cruel. Tore out me eye, it did, like pickin’ a plum. It’s cursed, I tell ye, cursed to its cold heart."
-Jerboam the Sailor
Misunderstood and much maligned, the Hek is a traveller who dreads violence. If it only understood the violence it caused.
Bad luck just seems to follow him everywhere. Some say its a curse, others its just in his head. But there’s one thing everyone can agree about Poor Josias: he is a sad, sad man.
“8 Ortio, 986 - At last, I’ve captured the amulet! I certainly could not have done it without the help of my unusual mercenary companion. He has very much impressed me with his skill. We encamp in Durath Woods for the night and make for Kharath in the morning.
9 Ortio, 986 - Amulet missing. So is Thaxen. No longer impressed with merc.”
-Sir Wardren Lank’s journal
In the dry steppelands, one of their most valuable exports is the dried sap of the Larthorn tree. These ugly plants are covered with vicious thorns, but the locals harvest the golden droplets that ooze from their bark each Autumn. This sap, once dried, is valued for its medicinal properties and as a spice. Since little gold or silver is found in the hinterland, the dried droplets of sap are often used as currency by the locals.