The Mines are quite old, but even after 700 years, they still produce the Queen’s best iron ore…
In too many games, role-playing takes a back seat to Kewl Powerz, a tag given to the multitude of spell lists, special abilities, and innate powers claimed by a character. Many times this is a problem of munchkins, or blowing up stuff becoming more important in a game than role-playing though alternate personas.
The Land of 1,000 gods, Calcobrina burns under the gaze of the Lion’s Eye.
Most Dragons live to accumulate wealth and crouch upon heaps of gold, content to slag troublesome heroes into cinders and distaining the company of men to absolute solitude. Vychan is not such a dragon.
James Barley is a hard drinking, minimum-effort working hired hand…
I’ll tell you something, there was a demon in Widow Suvar’s Wine cellar. How do I know, ‘cuz I seen it that’s how I know.
The Trollshaw Staff is roughly six feet tall, though if the bends in the wood were pulled out straight, the staff would easily be eight or nine feet tall. As it is, it is twisted as a troll itself.
Quietly situated between chic salons of the nobility and the grand halls of the great guilds is the Tabernacle of Discrete Amusements.
The House of the Duck is a well visited establishment, known for the quality of it’s wine and the clean and friendly vivaciousness of its workin’ gals.
Water drips from the ceiling in a steady rhythm. Water refracts torchlight, illuminating the depths of the pools with reflected torchlight.
Some are called dhampir, others exalt as champions of undeath, and yet neither of these are correct…
A voice as supple as silk, a face hidden in the shadows of a hood, yet the words she speaks are colder than the grave and burn more furiously than any inferno.
There are certain things that need not be said, and events best left in the past, to be forgotten. Be careful what you wish for.
Also known as the Oathbreakers Legion, or the Forsaken, this company is often the last stop for criminals, vagabonds and vagrants before the headsman’s ax.
It is quoted in the Canon of St. Mancel that once in his life, that every devout soul should make pilgrimage to the holy city of Sangreal.
The Sea of Sand is one of the most treacherous and deceitful tracts of waste in the heart of the Djaraha desert.
Once noble and proud, the Cyclopes of the desert are now all but dust on the wind…
Many know the image of the Night-Mare, a sable horse wreathed in a nimbus of hellfire sent from the underworld every night to deliver dreams of terror and fear to the living. While this is not entirely incorrect, the truth is more complicated…
The Latrani are elusive as desert ghosts, dangerous as sand scorpions, and as rare as oases in the wastes.
Brutal are the Seitch raids that come up out of the vast waste of the Calcobrinan desert. They come clad in dusky browns, bearing black iron weapons, raiding for food, water, gold, and women.
AutoMedon – A mechanical poet of renown not for his vast catalog of poetry, but for his complete lack of anything written or spoken, having had no output in his programmed profession. His creator is unknown or at least unaccredited, and there are those in great number in the artistic world who wonder and marvel at his inability to produce poetry, crediting that flaw to his creator who is unknown or at least un-credited. There is also a small faction of scholars who believe that when he finally, finally speaks, it will be the most beautiful or sorrowful verse ever spoke or will ever be spoken. Whether his creator is among either group or dead is unknown. AutoMedon sits alone under a tin roofed enclosure, upon a stone chair, with his gaze off in the distant as if thinking.
“It’s strange to look at this mechanical man and think what thoughts are working through its’ workings or even if the damn thing is” – Aralis of Qurim, poet and pottery salesman