The silver and gold longsword of a knight of flame.
A graceful servant of the God of Fire, Destruction, and Rebirth, this fanatic warrior is devoted to the ‘cleansing’ of the world with flame.
A set of polished silver and gold tea cups and saucers, and accompanying silver serving plate, that will serve on its own.
A brightly colored ink that hardens the skin.
Once an adventurer, this now disembodied mage is seeking a reason to continue, or a way to die.
The ruins of the lands that bore the confrontation between the Mad God of Avarice and the Storm Queen, this place has been soaked by the divine essence of two of the most chaotic gods.
The shattered remnants of a divine weapon, a certain amount of power remains in these bits of celestial metal.
The Crown Princess of Sadaren needs a husband! There’s just a few teeny little problems.
The less-than-delicate heiress to the land of Sadaren, her battle prowess is as legendary to those people as her lack of education.
Centaur-crafted marching drums, imbued with firey power.
A masterwork katana meant to give souls to the undead.
Ringed round by ancient political foes, this ancient nation finds itself dealing with a powerful foe, one with far more sinister hungers than money or land.
A front-line missionary into the worst of places.
A magical synthetic limb, with the power to call Lightning and Thunder.
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.