Hathalfar holds the writhing troll down with his gloved fist and sword. The beast squirms at the touch of metal. “How far is Kolm?” he demands for the third time. “I said! A long way away,” replies the troll.
The Carycian calendar has been adopted by many countries since its invention by the Blue Monk, Frezzi Alberto, in the year 1. It evolved from the wonderment Alberto felt for the natural cycles and his attempts to understand and predict them.
A transcription, beyng the seminal introduction by Mr S J Ponsuler to the theory and praxis of Dracapodemy, the studie of Dragons’ migration patterns. This tome ys to be founde in the librarie of Anserne University, alonge with many years of copies of the Dracapodemyst’s Almanac not to mention verious othere tomes on the subjecte.
(Another submission I’m transferring over to the main site from the fora).
This thread is for the development of rangerspeak, the dialect of the mountain rangers who guard the passes, known as munnum to those who hear it, for its resemblance to a mumbling noise…
Following a discussion we had on the site, I thought we could start up a thread to post the pre- and post-apocalyptic effects of a comet/minor planetary impact on a campaign world.
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.