To all space explorers, rogue traders and Federation colonisation and expeditionary force officers!
Thirty new alien species have been discovered. You are well-advised to inform yourselves, as to engage these entities correctly, without risk of harm to yourself or to the interests of Terra.
Ten of the described species are human in origin, yet modified to such a degree that they no longer need to be considered human.
Another ten are civilisation-building aliens competing with Terra for available space.
The final ten entries are remarkable life forms that display sapience, without using it to create civilisations. Caution is advised.
Meles, the eyes in midnight bands
the plagues would see him dead
yet Meles, his brood unchained
they ate the plagues instead
High above the lands of the living, where frost and howling of the wind reign, the morbid monument to a faith long dead calls the deceased on a last pilgrimage.
Beau yet alien, the soldier-concubines of Aerazad, the Returned King, are a glowing reminder that a new order reigns in Eversea.
“Swiftly, repent! The Saintmaker is coming!”
Steel is the herald of dawn. Steel is the slayer of tyrants. Steel is the bringer of liberty. Steel shall prevail.
Alive with emotion -
Constantly in motion -
With inner voice, ‘hind innocent face -
a cunning mind -
Metal fairies in the depths of space?
It is the tortured and imperfect souls who most often cannot find a clear path to the afterlife. Weighted down by sins unforgiven, sins for whose forgiveness they never ask, sins they never regretted.
To be added to Remaking Undead when finished
An exquisite steed, midnight black, treading like a dancer, its step so light that it does not scar the ground, its stride so fluent that you could sit in the saddle all day… if you needed one. Its golden eyes shine with intelligence and spirit, and it seems to know your every wish. Ah, who would not want such a fine beast to carry him?
Sing to me and I shall write, on lilies, poetry of the night.
Known in folk-lore as the Blighted Storm-Serpents, the reclusive Kumbra are far more than any might guess.
They are the menace of the borderlands, travelling with their herds paths they used for millenia, and razing any signs of civilization in the process. When the winter is especially harsh or the summer unusually dry, they descend upon the heartlands of kingdoms like a plague, more a natural disaster than an enemy.
Pride. Strength. Skill.
These are the values of the Monroi, woven into their very being - for them, battle is not just self-preservation, but a need.
Seldom does one see a Dunshar “nude”, as an amorphous masses of jelly. They can animate mud, earth, stone or metal, and use them as a body to shield their fragile self.
There are large and small crickets, each was unique.
In a crowded marketplace, a man is standing on a soapbox, orating. Some of the crowd are cheering, some hissing, some standing around saying "I can't hear a bl**dy word he's saying". It's a hustings for an election. The PCs can either leave, or stay and listen. If they do the latter, then they can vote too, and they might get quite involved in the cheering. Depending on who wins they might get quite involved in the post-election brawl too...
There are numerous possibilities with this encounter: the PCs might end up talking to one of the nervous candidates before their speech, and offer encouragement and support. Of course this candidate may well turn out to be someone with outspokenly unorthodox views, and the crowd don't take kindly to s/his supporters. Or maybe the seemingly innocuous candidate turns out to be a complete racist, and the PCs wander off embarrassedly, pretending they weren't talking to this person five minutes ago.