The scent of magic
A slightly atypical stinking swamp festering with goblins
Canst thou draw out leviathan with an hook?
Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons?
or his head with fish spears?
Curiosity killed the cat…
An offer, a long voyage, a bitter ordeal, and a knife in the back.
Good and evil? I see neither, I only see law and order opposing chaos and anarchy. Anarchy means blood, death, and poverty. I’ll take order and riches over that.
Sokolov the Axiomancer
A fairly average world that happens to be the headquarter site of the Earth Alliance Space Probe Agency (EASPA)
In an age of lawlessness and war, there is one man who stands up against bandits and tyranny. That man is Michael Long, aka…the Gunman
A traveling dungeon of canvas and props…
A small collection of magic items intended to limit or negate the powers of a magic user
Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional.
Ogelend, Border Reiver
A seemingly average industrial world that is the source of 1 out of every 4 guns in current use.
A demon’s kiss burns with lust and with shame. So do their secrets and their magic.
To the winds with memorizing spells and counting mana points.
A piece of crystallized magic.
A compilation of magical staves that summon servants.
Few things attract attention quite like the death of a star.
Conosca abbastanza per essere impaurito, molto impaurito
Motto of Cinque-Parte Polygnostic
Named Timberwings; for the girth and strength of their wings were as elder oaks, thick and tireless
Beringia, the sinking kingdom.
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.