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.
These small, luminescent creatures are a distant relative of the willowisp, little bits of orangish light that are attracted by the flames of a fire. When enough of them have gathered around a fire, the fire appears to take on a fuzzy indistinctness.
On a world made entirely of molten rock, there is still life.
The ancient Empire of the Golden Crystal fell so long ago that little is known of them besides their legendary magical power. Supposedly, in the Golden Age of the Crystal Empire, cities were filled with enchantment, spells far beyong the ability of modern magi.
A tomb robber has returned to civilization with something never seen before: Ceramic vials of reddish dust that supposedly enhance a magician's power tremendously when the dust is sprinkled upon the floor of his workroom. The rogue selling the vials claims that they were recovered from a ruin of the Crystal Empire, but can he be believed?