In a land known only as legend, in a tower that could only be myth, beings of immortal evil wait for freedom. The Ones who Hunger for Pain are coming to give it to them.
Intrigues and adventures within the glittering courts of the land’s nobility: A collection of Tales of Adventure
Travel broadens the mind… If you survive the journey. A collection of Tales of Adventure
Among his effects, the highwayman had 24 mysterious vials. What could the strange liquid portend?
A ship, drifting through the mists, with not a soul visible on her deck. Haunted? Yes, but not the way that you might expect…
Two Noble Kinsmen, Two Fair Maidens, Two Mischevious Servants, Two Loyal Handmaids, Two Pompous Dukes, a Clown, a Lion, and a bunch of foolish soldiers, all wandering in the forest. Why, it’s practically Shakespeare!
“Ye’ve ‘eerd th’ one ‘bout th’ king who’ll send 3000 gold royals te th’ lucky man thet sends ‘im a letter back t’ test th’ Royal Mail, an’ ye heerd aboot th’ succubus that makes off wi’ mens’ kitlins after she ‘as ‘er way wi’ em, but ha’ ye heerd aboot th’ beggar lad that wants a stone from ever’ village in th’ kingdom?
In every great film, the seed of a corny adventure can be found…
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.