Found, normally, deep in the swamp, the Friar's Weed's poison is something to be watched for.
An army can be compared to a craftsmen. Both produce for gain. A craftsmen produces a product, a good, for monetary gain. An army, however, produces corpses for resource acquisition. Be it on the battlefield or in the medical tent with the severely wounded being put out of their misery, the fillers of graves are being produced.
Any mind of the modern age has thought about putting those bodies to work. Necromancy has long been socially inacceptable. Besides, no one enjoys seeing a former comrade, a former brother-in-arms, walking around fighting and killing with a spear hole in his gut and a couple arrows hanging from the arms. And the only other way was to throw the dead body into a catapult and throw it at the enemy, in the hopes of giving them plague.
It was Obstarian military who first unleashed the Raveten on their foes during the World War. No one was prepared for it. And so people died.
Also called the Flowers of Childhood, they look like they were taken straight from a fairytale. But they have a darker side.
Wilhelm the Courageus they used to call him. He used to have it all. People would cheer as he rode down the street, clad in the specialized full-plate armor that the Knights of Trul wore. But no this is no more. Now Wilhelm is a nothing. People would jeer if he walked down the street, which is why Wilhelm waits in the background- until, that is, the day of his plot comes to fruition and his revenge is gained. For Wilhelm has launched a conspiracy to gain the thing that matters most to him, has brought to bear a plot through all of his means, and is a man with a plan.
He grew up to be a powerful Knight, a force to be reckoned with. That is, before his fall. Before the Kingdom he protected, the Knighthood he served, and a Knight he fought with betrayed him.
"Death. What happens when one dies? A question that all civilized peoples have tried to answer. Some claim you go to a place where you are rewarded or punished based on what you do when you're alive. Some claim that you a simply reincarnated.
"They are all wrong. The truth is that we are in a state of transformation. Humans are simply in a complicated version of a caterpillar in a chrysalis. We started as mere animi. Now we are humans. And just like the caterpillar turns into something grander after its time in a chrysalis, we become something grander when we die.
"You see, we become gods."
Born to King John XVII, Hope did not get standard princess treatment. Yes, she was locked away in a tower, and yes, there was the standard moat of flaming lava, but unlike all the other spoiled brats, she didn't get a dragon. Hope Rexian had to make do with a demon. And this particular demon couldn't even breathe fire! Simply pathetic job done by the cosmos. Hope may have gotten the valiant-knight-who-happens-to-be-called-Prince-Charming-riding-in-and-killing-guardian-on-noble-steed treatment, but some things just won't do. You can't just mess with tradition like that!
A basic history of the continent of Atheus.
A description of the geography of Atreus. This sub will also be an umbrella sub for all the coming Atreus subs.
An explorer gone missing. A king in panic. A treasure to find.
Welcome to the Craggy Peaks. We hope you don't freeze to death.
That would mean we couldn't... play.
"And Arathinos brandished the Foe-Reaper, and let loose a battle cry. He stood, with rain pouring out of the heavens, on a mountain of bodies. The rain washed the blood through channels in the corpses. Arathinos raised the Foe-Reaper and saluted the fleeing enemies before him, as lightning crashed around him.
The Foe-Reaper is a great blade. With the years spent in Arathinos's hands, it has taken up a myriad of powers. And most prominent among those powers is dramatic effect. What is more morale-sapping than seeing your enemy with a backdrop of lightning, as if the arrows of the heavens stand with your foe?"
The founder of Procrastinamancy was a man called Frederick Johnson. A normal guy who grew up in a place without Mathom, Fred had one "flaw." It was procrastination. Fred took the art of Procrastination and turned into magic.
The rain poured down on the city of Grathen in a relentless beat that would marvel the best of drummers. It beat down on the public buildings, with pedestrians streaming in front of, with eyes cast upwards and lips mumbling prayers to Rain Gods. It beat down on the Slums, where thieves were mumbling thanks to their gods for all these people looking up and not at their purses. And it beat down on Ariel Lorette, a girl of 13, escaping from horrors beyond the common person's imagination. Ariel Lorette, with rain streaming down her face and hiding her tears of pain and sorrow and, above all, victory. For Ariel had escaped them. Ariel was free.
"I take it ye've ne'er fought a Semblance. Nasty undead fiends they be. 'course, they don't look undead. They don't have gleamin' bones, or rottin' flesh. No, sir! The Semblance looks just like you or me. Except for when its tryin' ta get you. I take it ye've ne'er fought a Semblance. If you had, you'd be dead."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub
The Noble Expertise of Creating the Remaining Organism is a gentlemen's club. People who don't belong call it the Noble Expertise, or perhaps the Expertise, but the people in the club call themselves necromancers, and the club itself N.E.C.R.O.
Troth Glenbeard was a dwarf with a mission. And that was destruction.
From there, things happened. And the Irondeeps got a Subterranean-Transport-System-That-Moves-Things-Around-Faster-Than-Equine-Means (aka, in modern-speak, a subway).
"She sails up'n'down the Tristis River. All them river folk see her an' give her a wide berth. Superstitious lot, them river folk. 'Course, we adventurers kill of monstrous superstitions of the rich type on a daily basis! Who're we ta judge? So's anyways, she is said to only appear when the moon is full and the werewolves howl. And though she's ne'er violent, you can always 'ear a moanin' sound. I got no idea what's aboard that ship, but whate'er it is, I want nothin' to do with it."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub
The swirling snow fell on the soldier's shield,
covering the symbol of Hrothen's Hope.
The swirling snow fell on the dwarf's black beard,
and melted into the darkness.
-opening poem of Hrothen's Curse, a dwarven tale