Be wary, adventurer, of the smoke of Mal’Mennoth, that dread, choking cloud that blots out the very sun! Be wary, adventurer, of the demon’s dread shadow, of the things that prey on your mind!
Destroyer of Dynasties, Killer of Kings, Bane of Broods, Curse of the Ruling Elite!
An (un)holy book written in ink created from a Shard of the Storm.
Griffin is the brother of the King. He used to live in the royal court at the capital city, but that all changed when his wife was called to testify before the court against a friend of Griffins. She lied under oath to protect her husband about a hidden issue. Her lie was discovered. She was summarily executed and her husband was reprimanded not punished, being the brother to the King. His offense was very minor even in this kingdom, but this opened his eyes to the fact that his family’s kingdom despite being lawful and protective of all its subjects, it was not as good as it portrayed.
The eyes of the all seeing are never ending. The truth can only be revealed to those willing to bear the burden.
His eyes opened in disbelief, the battered spectacles rising slightly on his brow. To everyone around him, everything was normal. As it should be. To his eyes, the light was nearly unbearable. An aura of energy filled his vision completely. He knew what it was he saw, what the others could not. He knew he saw the impossible, and he wanted it all for himself.
You should feel proud today, knowing that you will be the reason why another person will live. Why they will escape the brink of death and be able to heal all injuries. This is a great thing and you should feel elation knowing because of you, they will live. Unfortunately you must die for them to live; such is the way of the world.
-Inganno - Follower of Caedmon, Alchemist of Shadow
These simple ribbons caused the near destruction of an entire town. And, the ribbons did nothing wrong.
At the estate sale of one wealthy merchant, a seamstress found several lengths of black silk cord, the kind that is used for trim and piping. A local seamstress purchased those odd lengths and the remaining bolt cheap and turned out two or three cloaks using the thin black silk cord as trim. An evil seems to follow them, though nobody knows it.
It is a personal journal tucked away in an library. It appears as an ordinary journal or diary from the outside and inside. In the spine or binding there is always a tiny strip of metal that other components and symbols are attached. Yet there is more, if you read carefully.
It is a box of fairly standard children’s toys. There are dolls, blocks, carved knights and animals. Everyone will think, “Oh I had one of those when I was young.”
Exerpt from the Introduction:
I know the ultimate weapon. Humans commit folly after folly because they are afraid. Fear was once Humankind’s most powerful ally, giving enormous potency to the instinct for suvival. Now, fear has become Humankind’s greatest enemy, and such is the obtusemenss of my species that is members do not realize it is the most powerful element of Human existance.
It is just a tube of make up. Why is it in a locked chest?
“It is your move.”
It appears to be a very nice holy book of the dominant good faith, the kind that his passed down from generation to generation. The binding is leather and quite plain, but the inside is nicely scribed and occasionally illuminated. A pity that it will lead you down the Path of Darkness the moment you understand its secret.
“It is just a locket for portraits of loved ones. It is quite old, but I will sell it to you for cheap. ”
Will the mask smile for you or frown? Do you know who you are? Do you really?
Being alligned with Evil does tend to make the afterlife a little less appealing. Unless one can somehow claw their way up the heirarchy immediately, one should be looking towards a long, long, long, time of torture and servitude to greater spirits, before any chance of reincarnation will occur. One of the first things Smart Evil Cultists and Priests learn is how to avoid final death.
“Heel!” “Roll over!” “Sit!” “Sit Up!” “Beg!” “Speak!” Cue Evil Laugh.
“He looks so regal in his riding gear, carrying his riding crop.” “He looks good without it. He always carries his crop too. He just loves riding.”
“This? It is pretty isn’t it? No it is not new. My mother had it.”
(Post zombie apocalypse)-a tribe of humans
Culture: Drumming circles daily around an arena for their bravest brutes to slaughter their accepted foe, the zombie. Feasts of overcooked zombie flesh (to kill all of the zombie virus present). Wooden fortress that make this tribe in the far future look several millennium behind in technology. Instead of becoming a troublesome and unnatural foe that they seek to cure, this tribe has accepted that Zombies will continue to roam their land and, if the undead were to perish (be cured), this tribe would suffer as well.