*All that I am saying is, it does not count as murder if it is an Uplited porpoise.*
Oscar, in a drunken bar argument.
'If you see a Rage Mage and he's swearing like an army of pirates, then he is a novice and you might be safe. If you see a Rage Mage and he is not only civil towards you, but even pleasant, then run for your life and pray to whatever gods you hold dear, for he is a master of hatred who has conquered his emotions and can turn all of his negative energies directly at you."
- Unnamed mercenary working with a Rage Mage.
Note: not a PG entry.
"Have you ever felt like there’s a world just beyond ours? Some sort of strange dimension, a light dancing just beyond our fingertips? Well, I’ve touched that ‘sacred’ world, and I know its true face."
30 Guards: 27.) The Conjurer
This guard likes to learn magic in his spare time. Whilst the larger spells are beyond his ability, he knows a surprisingly large number of cantrips, which provide him with amusement or make his life easier. One lets him know if the Captain, Sergeant, or the Snitch are in the area, so that he never gets caught doing anything wrong.
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.