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.
Lacking in ornamentation, the Black Spear is a relic more than 8000 years old
The darkens as travelers draw near, the wind begins to pick up, to howl. Here, the sun does not shine, the stars and moon are forever hidden by the Stormshroud, the eternal storm…
By Decree of her Royal Majesty, the possession, ownership, or consumption of any alcoholic substance has been henceforth been declared unlawful, and said violators of the Queen’s will shall be subject to punishment.
In the forest, there is a small vale where there are no cats, and only the battered ruins of a long dead mage named Gargamel.
The bell calls from its lonely tower, ringing across the valley. For whom does the bell toll, it tolls for thee…
A tribal society which lives on the harsh Northern Plains consider it dishonourable to slay an enemy without looking it full in the face. Any missile weapon is treated with derision and contempt, while rangers and other archers are denied entrance to the tribal villages.