The undisputed head of the Trinity, and the story of Falhath’s oldest folk hero.
Clad in a rainment of silver scale and chain armor, Ixia is the second member of the Trinity
Creator of the Black Book, the primogen tome of necromancy, few names are as feared or reviled as that of Mastere.
The sun has set upon the Kingdoms of Men, may night have mercy on us…
Opening Quote of the Book of the Black Rose
Herein are listed 30 Barkeeps, Bartenders, or proprietary owners of the drinking and sleeping establishments so frequented by adventurers and their loyal henchmen.
A little snug for me, but you…a perfect fit.
Clad in black armor, perched atop a black destrier, Ourange is the image of the mercenary-lord…
The object of many a sensual fantasy, few thieves garner as much attention as this leather-clad halfling
Magic has brought us to this point of self-destruction,” the Captain said. “It’s the dichotomy of our curiosity and greed, which are ingrained—greed, because we had to survive because we were always hungry, so we had to gather things, and curiosity, which brought us out of the trees
Few would guess that this kindly old man with the uncombed hair was the willing accomplice in many of the assassinations in the last two decades.
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…
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.
Once noble and proud, the Cyclopes of the desert are now all but dust on the wind…
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.
Old man Hardnan had a farm E-I-E-I-O
And on this farm there was a dragon E-I-E-I-O
Bwah! What kinda farmer has dragons on his farm!
“Come in, come in. I knew you were coming.
How did I know? Your brother told me.
Yes, yes I know your brother died in the war several years ago, he has told me all about it.”
This might not be suitable for the squeamish or easily offended.
...And then the evil necromancer killed everyone and made them into zombies to do really evil things. I mean really evil, kicking puppies, eating kittens and making lewd sexual gestures at unsuspecting shoppers at Wal-Mart. Yeah and he had a severed head for a hat and was eating a sandwich made out of real lady-fingers…
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.