All know that Elves cannot die, and that Men do. All know that Men go unto the Underworld upon their death, and that the Elves retire unto the Spiritual Elysium. Yet in the Great Scheme, where goes the one with one foot in the Underworld, and one foot in the Realm of Spirit?
When one cannot die, obsession with death is such a natural thing.
Magic is a living entity, simple and non-sentient, but reactive to large-scale emotional states. Its name, like we might call a dog, “Dog”, is Garan. It is better to think of it as a huge astreal vine like plant, rather than an animal.
Quote from: “Sir Isaac Newton” Every action has an equal and opposite reaction
One of the common variations on magic is the concept of ‘sword mages’ or ‘knight mages’. We all know and love them as the folks in full plate that split globes in twain with flaming swords, before twirling around to change their flame sword to an ice sword so they can stab the flaming angel of vengeance in the chest to maximum effect.
The young priest had been healing in the market place for free. Someone seeking bounty gold had told someone at the temple. "Hut. Hut. Hut" The Temple Knights in formation came marching down from the temple.
The young priest stood up. He reached into his pouch. With a smile he put the top into the Bey. With a spin, the 1000 prayers to the spirits came forth. The spirit responded. The wind whirled and buffetted the troops. They fell into each other and were having trouble getting due to the wind that only they felt.
The priest picked up his top and ran away. They would not catch him today.
In the words of the Great Bard Taslinus Excellencus . . . yet on entering The Embassy one is conscious of calm and complete beauty echoing the mood of majesty and peace that is the essential quality of The Valley and Greater Elven Kingdom. . . . against a background of forest and precipice the architect has nestled the great structure of granite, scaling his design with sky and space and stone. To the interior all ornamentation has been confined, and therein lies a miracle of color and design. The Ancient Elven motifs, primitive yet timeless, are supreme . . . . The designs are stylized with tasteful sophistication; decidedly Ancient Elven, yet decidedly more than Elf, they epitomize the involved and intricate symbolism of Man . . .
In the center of the plaza is The Bell. The large iron Bell is covered by a small slanted roof held up by four pillars. These pillars rest upon a square raised foundation. There are small stairs that lead up to the level of foundation. The foundation also has four strong iron loops towards the edges. If one does not know the two traditions, this arrangement makes no sense.
This might not be suitable for the squeamish or easily offended.
A new Take on Dwarves should hit the following key points Short (After all Dwarf means a short person), Underground (traditional living arrangements), Artificers (Maker of things, use of forge), and Good Combatant. They don’t have to be short vikings.
When looking for an Orc substitute in a campaign, one should think about just a violent ethnic group of people. Huns, Goths, Visigoths, Franks, and Mongols, have all the same campaign effect of Orcs and other “monster races” that fight in large groups/ hordes. And it has the added bonus of people not being able take the moral high ground when they kill an intelligent being… because it is a people… not just a worthless Orc.
I’m bored of dwarves. So, I’m trying to create my own dwarves. I’ve decided to call them the Duerga. Here’s my basic ideas, and I’ll flesh them out later, hopefully with your help.
Since the New Look At Dwarves was such a success, I decided that I would try an overhaul of another fantasy standard which I find boring, the Orcs. I’m using the Orcs only as a very loose base.
Legends claim that in the far south, men made of ice roam…
The Omen Plague has other names. It is known as The Star Plague and even The Mundane Plague. It is still with us today, now known by the common name of the Shaking Death. To set the stage, the stars were aligned in all the wrong signs. Everyone new something bad was going to happen. When winter set in hard and early, they thought that was it. They were wrong.
Plagues and other great diseases are important parts of history and some settings. They defy man and may even defy God in their swift and terrible punishment upon the body of society.
Music and Gaming, two great things that actually do go together. And movies show us how.
...And then the evil necromancer killed everyone and made them into zombies to do really evil things. I mean really evil, kicking puppies, eating kittens and making lewd sexual gestures at unsuspecting shoppers at Wal-Mart. Yeah and he had a severed head for a hat and was eating a sandwich made out of real lady-fingers…
This is an article about designing and creating new weapons and armaments that are nonetheless realistic. If you’ve ever wanted to make your own unique medieval weapon for a campaign, this will hopefully come in handy.
Do you understand Six Degrees of Seperation?
"There is something about the outside of a horse…that is good for the inside of a man."
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.