Mapmaker's bane, a few of these can ruin a decade of cartography!
Teens and Vampires, How to tell if your Son or Daughter has Fallen for One of the Undead
A Temple of the Sun Pamphlet
Being a Decepticon is a deep and personal decision, one not taken lightly.
You came here in that? You are brave
Mind the nettles son, it's wet out.
The Zombie Strain, as the infection was most commonly known, was actually identified as PrP-1174, a prion.
It's just a shoddy old hand bag, pay it no mind.
Tales grow in the telling and heroes grow in stature, even the tiniest can stand tall among their own.
Flame fowl, brightest red chickens you will ever see, nice feathers for fletching arrows, but I'd pass on the omlet.
The villagers are having a fit, they've found something in the woods!
Crazy old woman, selling pieces of bone and fake charms. The fact that the villagers even tolerate the old eye-roller hag demonstrates a lack of piety to the Faith.
"Zutul? You mean someone took time to give it a name?"
Maj. Rielle Law
T'was a great roar, milord, and the ground was rent and the horses took their bits in their teeth and there was much confusion. No magic could reach so far, and none of our magehounds scented wizards. We do not know the deviltry of the enemy, and for this we lost the battle.
No chain is heavier than the one forged by the passage of years.
"For days, we've heard nothing but cricketsong, from the coming of dust to an hour past dawn. Nothing he happened, but I'm sure something will."
last journal entry, Traggion the Explorer
A black sword, blessed with elemental power, and tainted with hatred and rage
It is easy to forget in our fast paced globally connected world what the reality of village life would have been like.
Tucked back in the corner of Kiskedee square, off of Aasvogel, is the Hornless Goat. The tavern is as non-descript and plain as any business can be and still maintain itself in passable fashion. No one notices the patrons of that small overlooked place.
It is unwise to speak the name of the Great Demon of the Ocean if you are close enough to the sea to smell the salt in the air. It is inviting disaster to speak it’s name when you are on the ocean itself.
Never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.
Molk Peruda is encountered by the PCs on the second day of their journey west from the salt-choked port of Quyn, as they prepare to explore the jungle.
He appears a gaunt, wolfish man, with matted, dark hair that sprouts from his head in dreadlocks, contrasting with his well-oiled, blue-black, conical beard. His eyes are hidden ebon shards beneath thick arching brows, his nose, crooked, long, and reminiscent of a snout. His mouth is a thin, dark line, his teeth unseen even when he parts his lips to speak.
His skin is the color of tallow, surprising perhaps for a renowned jungle guide, yet his natural helm of dreads and the jungle's canopy keeps the sun from bronzing his originally pale flesh. On his back are tattooed three women from the waist up, side-by-side, each resembling the other but of different ages. This is a tattoo of Molk's mother, sister, and daughter. His wife (don't bring her up to him!) was killed by marauding Qullan years ago, and appears as her own tattoo on his broad but sunken chest.
His feet shockingly are turned around 180 degrees at the ankle, facing towards his back! A curse from a pernicious shaman. Molk walks feet backwards (he's used to it) and walks backwards, forwards. This can be very disconcerting and outright creepy to the PCs as he guides them through the rainforest.
Slung from his back is an archer's quarrel of treated wood carved to resemble a stalking leopard, in his hand a re-curved composite bow of horn and sinew, with a pair of vivid, red eyes, each one painted on the opposite side of the hand-grip. In a leather sheath at his belt, hangs a falchion, its pommel adorned with a curved bird's head and beak.