Lavish glade and lush green field,
Wizen'd oaks; to the blight all yield.
Weeping trees of crimson blood,
the Fields of Flesh turn life to mud.
Will you tread and smile and sleep
where devils dance and angels weep?
Captain Blackthorn grimaced against the salt air that sandblasted his face. His men were weary, his ship was falling apart and the hold was replete with treasures beyond counting. It was time to head home and enjoy the bounty that years at sea had brought them. As he braced himself against the pressing squall he considered the conundrum of converting said bounty into a transferable asset that could easily be spent without arousing suspicion of the local militia or the jealousy of rival pirates. If only large amounts of wealth could be represented on something as light and unobtrusive as a piece of paper. But then Blackthorn had a idea:
"I know what we'll do! We'll bury it!…"
Not all magic items are for humans. Rewrite of my original and premiere submission, Horse Brass
"We're nothing new. We've always been here. YOU're the newcomers. You're the animal that forgot that it was a man. Stop crying, you animal, you sleepwalker! If you opened your eyes for only an instant you would see that. You're a race of amnesiacs, of dreaming children. I said STOP CRYING! You disgust me. That's why I'm not going to explain anything else. That's why you will die--screaming--without ever having truly woken up. I will paint every inch of this floor with your blood."
-An Awakened, formerly Ms. Albright, speaking to Albert Frond, immediately before his murder
"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
In which more methods are expounded by which one may refine a dungeon to more sublime levels of confusion.
This isn't nonsense--this is logic!
We were crossing a ridge when Corgan was lifted off the ground by something. "Shoot it! Shoot the tyrannosaur!" he screamed as blood streamed from the puncture wounds that had opened up in belly. I fired into the empty space above him to no effect. Then Corgan's ragged corpse dropped to the forest floor, and I was alone. Utterly alone. There was no dinosaur. There was nothing.
Dwarven beards are rich habitats for the enterprising critter.
You need a job, you need to find someone or something, or you need to lay low or need to sell something, you need a good fixer.
"I will give man his threescore and ten, and then give him more. Death himself will fall before me."
Patron deity of the Cult of Done, Othamm is always working to counter Mathom's influence.
Not a racially segregated hospital, but rather the Private Medical Complex
A story about a young Dwarf, the girl he met and the Goddess he insulted.
Pets mind you. Not exotic monster companions. No saddled dire-boars to be found here. No purple worm caravans.
A set of 30 Dwarven Treasures, for finding, or stealing.
A certain tribe in a valley believes that the soul remains trapped in the body after death and is aware of it. So they treat their dead as if they are alive, talking to them and keeping them at home. They are used to the stink and for some reason are also immune to the diseases that this practise causes but outsiders are not so lucky.
3xp
New Submissions
Programs, HoloFeeds, and S3 Sims from the Cosmic Era