Built for an assassin, the Devouring hand can pass many an attempt to detect it, yet it demands a terrible price of its wearer…
What weight has legacy, what strength has a name, in an era when the stars themselves bend to the will of man, when the gods have been forgotten?
When man thinks of the wild, he thinks of the lush greenery of the forest, of the majestic plains and the deep mountains. He thinks of the elegant wild deer, of the mighty bear and the stealthy wolf. But there is another side to nature. This is the Legacy of one who learned.
The product of a conjuring gone horribly awry, the Devourer hungers, and it hungers not for anything of this world, nor of the next..
The Great Black Stag of the Southern Forests, Donnerwunsch has drunken deeply of the rivers of the Desert of Divine Despair.
Shirion may have been a human once. That time is long past. Now, it is an ever-shifting being, its form lost to time.
Brendan stared at the creature in the pale moonlight, transfixed by the silvery petals that glistened beneath that perfect purity. It was not until his final breath that he gathered his wits enough to scream after the thing had descended on him, all muscle and thorns and hard, barklike skin. It was too impossible, even the crimson blossoms that shone in the light of the moon.
A single room in the lair of those cast away by the gods, this place of worship is nothing the adventurers are likely to expect here.
This mighty polearm contains the bound and unwilling spirit of a daemon, who’s dearest desire is eternal vengance on the one who bound him.
Sacred tools of protection granted to those who must travel in the name of the One God, these lightly made, weighted gloves are easily overlooked.
A long forgotten city, with surprising inhabitants.
A loose organization of heros who have toppled regimes, the Brothers of Dusk and Dawn have given their lives to the Gods of Chaos, becoming potent agents of change through out the known worlds…
A simple knife, designed to hold its poison far longer than a blade with poison simply smeared over it.
Twin Shards of the Storm reforged to work in concert, the Gauntlets of the Fallen Frost grant the user power over winter’s weather, but at a certain price…
A legendary warrior of Ironspirit, and patron hero of the desperate stand.
Welcome, Gentlemen. I’ll be brief about this. As you already know, as of 07:12 yesterday, we are at war with the bloody granola eaters of West Sylvania. I’m here to tell you how these elves fight.
A dark dagger of song, forged for vengance. It shall have that vengance.
A powerful clan of blacksmiths, Clan Ironspirit is well known as the single best source for forged goods of any metal throughout the world. Many a legendary artifact has been born underneath their hammers, however, their price is almost never something so simple as mere gold.
It’s round. It’s silvery. It’s got a handle. It’s been used to make a million excellent meals, and even more dogs. It’s also got a face shaped dent in the bottom.
The legendary blacksmith, founder of clan Ironspirit, and he whom brought the steel of the Gods themselves to mortal man.
Jemas Lorne, the most celebrated poet of the age, was found dead, clutching a fragment of verse torn from his journal. The tantalizing fragment spoke of wealth:
Golden sands, empty and cold,
Treasure's crypt, forgotten gold.
Under stone, ancestor's doom,
Noble's prize, troubadour's tomb.
Rumours claim that the poet's father, an eccentric nobleman, had hidden much of his wealth before his death. Perhaps the missing journal has more clues?