Seemingly cast out of vast sheets of crystal, glass and ice, the Sorcerer’s Palace is a breath taking wonder of the city. Few doubt the benevolence of Emet the White who makes his abode within the palace that is as much a work of art as it is a home.
My dark past will never let me rest, the only solace I find is bathed in the light of the moon. Tell me, have you ever danced with a devil in the pale moonlight?
The Grand Arm is a weapon without peer, there is naught a blade nor shield that can withstand it’s mighty blows. This ornate weapon is surely the divine tool of the god of war…
Cornelia served the Grand Wizard Elkhorne for many years, tending dutifully to his laboratory and making sure his robes were properly cleaned and mended. That was until Cornelia slipped and fell down the spiraling staircase from the orrey and broke her neck…and died.
Sitri Andromalion has been the local druid of the Vepar Valley as long as anyone can remember. The local populace, long used to the wisdom and experience of the old druid are concerned as his health is failing…
Good luck, and good fortune favors those who possess the Pillars of the Alchemist.
Dark eyed and sultry voiced, few men can ignore the words that spill from Malhonne’s full lips. Fewer ever notice their valuables stolen as she whispers obscenity and sweetness in their ears.
The earth is bleached white, and brittle underfoot. Ribs and vertebrae litter the ground like driftwood and in the distance, colossal bones of slain giants rise like hungry fingers clawing at the iron grey sky. The wind rises, howling through the empty eye sockets of hollow skulls. A rain of hail begins, pelting the ground with fingerbones and teeth.
Welcome, ye miserly sinners. Welcome to Hell.
Clef was a regular gnome, just like all of the other gnomes. It just happened that his area of interest was not so agreeable to the other gnomes…
These items, potent wards against spirits, were once commonplace. Following the end of the old Empire the methods of their manufacture was lost and none new have been made in the intervening centuries.
Thousands of orcs chant in unison as their champion and chieftan raises the black iron morningstar, they chant for the hammer of the underworld, the unbeatable weapon of orcdom.
Oft overlooked, and moreso understaffed, the majordomo of Jesolo Manor sought out a sorcerous cousin to craft for him some sort of charm or spell to aid him in the maintainence of the sprawling manor. A six foot staff of twisted oak was his prize.
What is it that hangs from such a fine belt? Tis a sword of Righteous Slaying, and a Mace of Disintegration. A pouch of Perfect Invisibility Dust, and a wand of Endless fireballs?
Good sir, This must be the Belt of Munchkin-kind
Cities are dynaimc organisms, alive in their own right. They grow and develope their own natures and their own cultures that are unique to them. Some are eloquent and grand, while others are slightly dirty, and willing to be bought. But anything alive can die…
Tired of the constant harassment from human hunters, Cobrais took upon him a human form and sought to dissuade the humans from seeking out his people ever again.
With her gray hair in a grandmotherly bun, and wont to wear grey dresses with lace and floral brocade, few would suspect the kindly Mistress of the bakery and part time apothecary of being a child of dark magic…
There are sewers beneath the cobbled stone streets, carrying the filth of society away, rather than letting it pile up into steaming heaps of refuse. Something has moved into the sewers and is now coming to the surface to feed.
Most see the hunch-backed girl with the black hair, and give her a few copper pieces out of pity or mercy. These she spares from her nightly rooftop hauntings, as her hunch holds a darker secret than a deformed spine.
The street is wide, and smoothly paved, with trees planted along the sides. The houses are mansions and palaces, each surrounded by stone and ironwork walls that are as much decorative as they are protective. These are the summer homes of the Princesses, and ladies of privelage.
Flame burns hot, bringing warmth, life, and hope. Anti-Fire burns too, but it devours heat, and saps the will of life. Before the world could be inhabited, all of the coldfire, and anti-fire had to be collected an hidden away safely. The gods did this, placing it in an urn of brass and hiding it away from the world.
There are more ways than one to encounter a dragon. With a low level group it's obviously not feasible to meet one in its lair and fight it. But standing on a bleak moorland, utterly exposed and vulnerable, it can be a chilling experience to see something flying far far overhead. Something that could just be an eagle, but you never know...