Crazy old woman, selling pieces of bone and fake charms. The fact that the villagers even tolerate the old eye-roller hag demonstrates a lack of piety to the Faith.
Never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.
The power of the mind and of magic defies your pathetic attempts to understand them, submit and you will be spared
Orn himself was a past peasant hero and champion, in a largely rural and agricultural area, who dared to stand up to a conquering force, and inspire his fellows to do the same.
No high school teens who turn out to be wonder-pilots here.
Look at that, pale as death and she’s got her neck covered, betcha fifty she’s a fang-banger
A vampire Blood Doll, her master, and the workshop they share
We need to gather the cam-droppers and bulldog gears off of number six, yes the wrecked number six. Then, with those pieces and the short drive off of number three we can put number four back into action.
Abelard von Richter
Keep your wits about you man, they are only bullets. Not like we have to brave the damned bird.
Col. Chapman at the Battle of Miner Hill
Get to it, you mealy boned maggots! That stone isn’t going to cut itself!
I’m gonna be somebody, someday!
‘Don’t you go foolin around in the fens buy. Moeder Moeras don’t care none if you mean no offence or just want to fill your wicker creel with fish. She’ll have your guts for fishnets and your bones for soup.’
Paulis the Riverguide
I need the shoe ads put in before the table of contents, and put the perfume ads behind the letters to the editor, don’t make me get the Sanderson data again on ad placement, and where in the blazes is my double-latte?
Ariel Kincaid, VP of Glitter Magazine
The surprising thing about young fools is how many survive to become old fools.
Lithe as a willow and just as flexible
Ever collecting books, knick-knacks, gewgaws and endless heaps of strange oddments and tidbits
Brave Olgiherga Ogerhunch, ogre hunter of the Ostrobogs and fenstalker.
We all go a little mad…sometimes
You’re a mean one Old Crynog
You really are a skug
Halfling children’s rhyme
Life dies in my wake, sacrificing itself to my hunger
The Masque of Hunger
Once every decade on the eve of St. Poskov's Day during mid-winter, the coastal city of Tiyabon experiences a horrific event. Quool's Tide rolls in, depositing hundreds of bloated, fish-eaten corpses upon the pebbly shores of Tiyabon's wide bay. This singularity is to this day unexplained, though countless theories abound. It is said for example, that these corpses are not eaten by the myriad fish of the seas completely, due to the fear all creatures of the seas hold for Quool.
Named for Quool, a terrible, antediluvian god of seas and storms, who no longer exists for he has no worshipers, the Tide chokes the beaches and surf with the countless rotting bodies of those who had perished at sea in a violent way.
Almost immediately, the lifeless corpses are fed upon by crabs, gulls, and worse things that await the horrid feast. The townsfolk let nature take it course with disinterested disgust, though lately some enterprising adventurers have taken to searching along the beaches of flesh for former deceased companions, with intentions of raising them again!
Surprisingly no undead ever rise from among the many corpses. This is also a mystery.