Upon the third storm-cracked night, under the light of a bloated blood red moon, the Razor of ManBeasts was crafted. A show of revenge, or the creation of a druid gone mad, no one knows for sure. But the ManBeasts walk the nighted forests now, ever since then, not a coincidence I say.
You felt a slight tingle as the man looked you in the eyes, and he is currently approaching confidently with a look of recognition on his face. He smiles and you know you know him, you just don’t know how.
When you want a horse, but not any horse will do. You don't want a Lord's horse, nor one fit for a King. You want a horse bred for a God.
Be careful of unearthing legends, however.
The 5757h layer of the Infinite Abyss. A land of charred black metal and the stench of ever-burning flesh.
The Sword of Huran is the chosen weapon of The Order of the Spellswords. Each one of them crafts their own Sword of Huran to serve them in their battles for the king.
"They used to be men. Mortal men. But now... I don't know if they are something more... Or something less?"
The poor boy.. Man, I mean. I tend to forget his age, given his appearance...
"Goblin Sorcerery? That's bullcrap. A Goblin couldn't enchant the backside of a sick goat to- Well, you get what I'm saying."
30 Orcish Ornamentations of Outlandish Awesomeness and Some Ordinarily Uninteresting Objects Overcome with Ogreish Opulence!
Relics of an ancient necromantic faith: A few strange charms and a small black book. What power do these odd devices hide?
The Essence of Light, mined from the body of a fallen Star-Child.
Drink deep from the Moon-Cup, let its powers quench your thirst, or even save your marriage.
The Master of Starlight, Player of Games; This Quizzical Fey knows Everyone's Names.
A shaft of golden solid light; a powerful artifact of all that is good and holy. This staff is the bane of evil and the boon of justice.
Dwarven Undead with a hunger that won't be satiated by simply your blood, brains, or flesh.
Unlock your mind. Stand naked in thought and body before your enemy. Move as the breezes that caresses your vessel. Strike as the earth that calls from under your feet.
- Nesu-kitt, Ancient Lockzennite
The follow string of Mirror-folk evolutions, Mihradhz, Mihrral, and Mihradamagus, are collectively known as The Mirr. They are all curious and slightly annoying, each in their own way. They advance through their lives by pestering the rare mortals who visit their plane.
A warped and twisted, low-standing, tree covered in dark bark. It's wild, overgrown tangle of branches creep across the ground in a large circle. The entire thing is covered in a multitude of thorns that shift from a bright acidic green to a deep blood red.
Devjuha backed away from the engaged foe, his opposite wand moving further out. He held the rod sideways, bracing it against his chest. Then ran, full speed, to the right. He caught an unwary opponent, lingering near the edge of the battle, right in the neck with the vicious assault from his Rod of Duality.
A mighty Demon, now trapped and confused, may make for a powerful ally.
A shape-shifter of some sort has taken up a post at the War College of an enemy realm, where he secretly picks off only the most promising officer cadets, arranging bizarre accidents that gradually debase the leadership of the hostile army. In the long run, this will improve his nation's chances when the inevitable conflict comes.
As a shape-shifter he can impersonate superiors and peers alike and send the target candidate to the cleverly-prepared site of his (or her?) execution. As long as he is successful, no-one will ever know about the deception--even necromancy will only implicate the one impersonated...