Ostensibly but a rock, a chunk of metal, it has one extraordinary use: randomly, the Igneus Saxum issue flames.
The Fae, they are called, though the reason they are not called by their true name, the Fairies, has been lost to the ages- at least, by the humans. The other races know, the other races know well of the Fae.
Humans have a very short memory. The elves, the dwarves, the goblins, the orcs, they don't. They remember of the interactions between Atheians and the Fae all those years ago in that other age. They know what happened. But the humans... they have forgotten.
This is why they will be the first to die.
Trapped in Atheus, blocked from returning to their home of Congeria, the daimon is (usually) a minor demon- though this does not mean that they are not a highly deadly adversary.
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.
Found, normally, deep in the swamp, the Friar's Weed's poison is something to be watched for.
Also called the Flowers of Childhood, they look like they were taken straight from a fairytale. But they have a darker side.
"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
"O'er the Wall Mounts there's this race of creatures. They look humanoid, but big. Mebbe 15, 20 feet tall? There all covered in this hair. Most of the species' hair is an auburn, but theres some that are black or blonde or brown. There faces look kinda like a cat face. The eyes are always one solid color, but the colors differ, like with humans. But the thing that makes them special is that they milk our females, like we milk cows. They breed 'em. They treat us like cattle. They even breed out the aggressiveness and intelligence."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub
"Ye've ne'er heard of the Shnickels? Ye must 'ave not grown up in yonder country. The Shnickels are pests. Varmints. They move in, and you're done, son."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub.
"Aye, lad, the Great Tree- its got a branch in each world, and each branch is a world. If one were to find the place this world, this branch, met the main trunk, like I did, they could go to them other worlds. 'Course, you'd be some kinda poison, or, or, disease to the Tree, and that damn tree got one hell of an immune system. When me an' me buddies entered her trunk, she put up one hell of a fight. We fought for hours through every protection system she had, and all to get lost is this world fulla strange elves who glamoured us, trying to keep us as pets. We barely got back." -Old Gerald, man in the pub
Borrowed shamelessly from Norse mythology (see Yggdrassil, the World Tree), the Great Tree both connects and is worlds.
The sun rises over the city. The great skyscraper's silhouettes from the fresh beams appear almost golden. The city is waking up, with the morning's half asleep citizens going about their daily routines. Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts open up, and revel in the influx of business. People head to work. The clocktower chimes, signaling the time of 9:00. But then a great shadow blocks out the sun. And the citizens of this metropolis start to scream as they are lifted up bodily by these beasts. An hour full of terror and screams goes by. And then another. And when the clocktower chimes again, signaling the time of 11:00, no one heard it. They had all been carried away. There were no flaming wrecks, nor collapsed buildings, as any other giant monster would leave. Simply empty streets, and a forbidding silence.
Cold Comfort is a long-sword of star-steel, its blade giving off a wan, blueish light. Its grip is wrapped tightly in snow-serpent hide, and its pommel bears a single opalescent gemstone.
This blade is enchanted in such a way, that whoever wields it, begins to fall completely and irrevocably "in love" with the weapon. This love does not manifest itself as the expected reverence and bond formed between any warrior and his weapon, but as a deeper, truer love, one has for a soul-mate of the same species! The longer the wielder carries Cold Comfort the stronger and more disturbing this love becomes, and only the most powerful of magicks can potentially break the sword's insidious spell. The blade's owner will even speak to and coo to the weapon, convinced that the sword understands and returns this epic love.
If the blade's wielder somehow loses the weapon or has it taken away, they will become inconsolable, and will predictably go to "ends of the earth and back" to retrieve it at any cost. Such is the weapon's curse that even separation from it does not damper the feelings the owner has for the sword. Legends tell of several distraught and mind-addled knights who even years after losing the blade, still wander the country-side searching for their lost love. And woe be to the "new lover" if and when they find him or her.