"Greetings, Mortal," Said the bubbly, hissing voice in his head… What the hell was that, he thought. "Not hell, the Ocean. Walk into the surf, my child. I will protect you."
God of Strength in the Night, Hiding your Numbers, and The Silent Kill.
The Hunter, with his bow nocked, moved quietly through the underbrush. Not quietly enough. The Elgr spotted him; he had no idea what he was looking at: It was an eight foot tall Elk standing upright, and not only was it standing… it was… dancing? Quickly twirling with ribbons streaming from its antlers, it was coming closer…
Ever wonder what secret a Wizard’s beard holds? How did it get so long? Has this man really not shaved for that long?
Bringing more fantastic elements to the old classic.
You see a glowing figure, four feel tall, it looks like it has been waiting for you. Suddenly, it flies right through you, and it looks like its coming around for another pass…
The Master walked over to the strange symmetrical mechanism. He flipped it over… The sands of the hourglass began to flow and it whirred to life. "One hour," said The Master, "Practice."
Dusk Cheese is a naturally occuring lubricant and potent alchemical ingredient.
The Furry Tree-Zombies were a race of Tribal Jungle Halflings untill an insane Re-Animator discovered their existance.
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.