Some say the blade is cursed and brings despair to any who own it, others believe that it is merely coincidental misfortune.
The bard tuned his lyre for the 5th time. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Ancient eyes greeted him. This would be his last performance, it had to be perfect.
The jaguar stood at the door of the temple. The smell of blood from within assailed his keen senses. He placed one paw, and then another, over the threshold. The priest walked to the door, as the sun’s light faded, and greeted the warrior Tepiltzin.
The party had driven the beasts to the edge of the cliffs, the kill was swift. Tlilpotonqui smiled broad and warm. It had been a fine day. His smile faded as he spied the crescent Moon already hanging delicately in the sky. The west was fading to pinks and golds. In his excitement, he had forgotten the time. He fell back, letting the party get well ahead, and turned towards the cliffs. As the last rays of the Sun faded he dove towards the rocky waters below…
In the dry steppelands, one of their most valuable exports is the dried sap of the Larthorn tree. These ugly plants are covered with vicious thorns, but the locals harvest the golden droplets that ooze from their bark each Autumn. This sap, once dried, is valued for its medicinal properties and as a spice. Since little gold or silver is found in the hinterland, the dried droplets of sap are often used as currency by the locals.