“Since the vile Plante’s Deceased Hoste is not technically a Part of its Anatomy, any attemptes to Kill the Monster using regular methods is likely to prove Futile, especially that of Beheading the Creature. It seems to regarde its Head as a most Unnecessary part of its Composition, and thus as it moves its Head exhibits a frightening lacke of Expression, and lolls in a way most Unpleasant to observe.”
Lai-Xeng was a traveling scholar and wise man. There are a hundred tales attributed to him, each one containing a kernal of wisdom.
Operating out of Armudstadt, the notorious city of corruption and deceit and centre of the Kingdom of Dernwich, the Duchampe Society takes its name from its founding father, one Vergrin Duchampe, who lived around the 18th century. Duchampe, an Elvish merchantman - or rather, a leader and “godfather” of a great deal of lower Elvish merchantmen, was notorious for his skill at wagers.
Some people are terrible liars. No matter the size of the falsehood, their manner and tone will infallibly expose them as the fraud they are. Malthis of Woodsman’s Dell was one of these people - until his brilliant mind concieved a solution…
Long sieges can be a trial for both sides. For the beseiged especially, finite ammunition supplies always pose a problem - except when the ammunition can reproduce…
Grappling hooks have a tendency to miss their targets, or to simply give way. Now both of these problems are solved at once, with a hook that can think for itself!
Lying prostrate on the floor, his documents and scrolls strewn beneath him, was Taewoo Kin - clearly dead, with gruesome marks around his neck that suggested strangulation by something of disturbingly inhuman origin…
Deep within the bowels of the perilous labyrinth, the fearless heroes come upon a grand, ornate chest. Eager for more plunder to line their pockets with, they heave up the lid - to find nothing. A red herring? Maybe not.
It’s no secret that Ogres fight dirty. The slobbering hulks will wield anything they can find in their bloodthirsty rage - which often results in very odd weapons indeed!
Life as a street urchin is a pathetic existence indeed - and Me’fiante has it worse than most. In a back-alley underworld filled with trickery and subversion, the ability to sense lies is often more of a curse than a blessing.
Deep in the heart of the primal Slumbering Woods lies a magic-laden swamp, forgotten in the centuries since the first primitive land creatures crawled from its teeming depths.
When one has missed the chance for adventure, one finds it very difficult to get along with one’s heroic peers. Phineas Rowcome, the renowned Halfling scholar, nurses a deep jealousy for those whose lives are filled with excitement…
These magical boots empower the wearer with several abilities at once. Wondrous leaping, water-walking, and even flying! Yet the boots possess an insidious curse upon them as well. A deep and almost unfathomable (by others) feeling of listlessness, boredom, and even apathy affects the boots' wearer at all times whenever they are donned. Magic will not dispel the effects.
And so while the wearer of the boots can perform great feats of action during combat or at other opportune times and key moments, they'll never really want to do so, complaining "Meh, what's the point of it all anyway?" or "I would fly up and save us all guys, but sigh, maybe uhm, soonish, mkay? Bit bored by this whole burning tower at the moment."
Naturally the boots wearer's fellow PCs will grow quickly frustrated with this arrangement. There have been numerous occasions when one angry PC literally tears off the boots from his companion's feet in anger, and dons them in turn, only to immediately suffer from the same effects.
The solution lies in constantly "motivating" the boots' wearer with successful rolls, involving threats, flattery, fiery speeches, or even bribery.