Lightning elementals are rare, the conditions required for a bolt of lightning to become self sustaining and self aware are very unusual and uncommon. As such, artificial elementals far outnumber wild ones.
A shuddering heap of corpses and rotting soil, Logeko the Vile is a demon of of death and decomposition
Also known as Ghost Wasps
The Regal Tombs of Orbis were the place where the richest of the rich were buried, and Bert was sure that if he could break in to a recent two-month old burial he would be wealthy for at least the rest of the year. Since tomb-robbing could get somebody the gibbet, he had gone alone, and now he cursed as he fought hand to hand with the bulbous, distended, decomposing corpse that had leapt up when he tried to steal the grave goods and now beat and clawed at him and swiped at him with a rapier. Every wound it inflicted on his body, he got a little weaker and to his horror, it grew a little stronger and a little less rotten. Not long afterwards, a seemingly living man left the tomb, leaving the body of a grave robber behind. A body that would soon rise...and walk...
You can't miss it, it's eight feet tall, glows in the dark and breathes ghost flames. Even if you're blind it utters blasphemies and damnations, a black poetry of the underworld. If you're deaf and blind you can feel the cold in the air when they turn up.
Beware, beware, the hidden snare.
Where the shadows linger, and fiends do fare.
Go on, run, hide and pray.
For the elder crow feasts,
on our souls' decay.
The net went down, it went down hard. People got hurt, people died.
Strange creatures, half dreamed half imagined, figments of delerium, wisps of insanity.
Wild beasts of the imagination — untamed spirits of the quick and unfettered waters of this world. These steeds of the fast-flowing rivers are never to be captured, never to be controlled; to stop is to die — to be stopped is to be turned to droplets which return to the fast-flowing waters. Yet, while free they are things of pure beauty; mystical bringers of the gods' good will.
Those sissy boys in the army, they gotta have their 'bots and guns, shiny vehicles and iron suits. Me, I don't need none of that. I've got everything I need on me.
Cagle, Claremont Class Biomod Mercenary
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.
"Do you feel it?"
"Feel... well, never mind, I'm just not feeling well"
In the strangest parts of The Ocean, the Lojcreltians are born. Beings of weirdness and cosmic balance so profound they can alter reality.
So you want to rub a lamp, do you? Here are many mighty Genies, beings of great magic who might turn out to be your greatest boon or your greatest bane.
"How is he? Will my son ever recover from the bugs that turned his brain to mush?"
The doctor pointed to where the thirty-seven year old was playing with toys on the floor. "It's been five years now and he has the brain of a child, give it another five and we can start the basics of teaching him magic again. He knows who you are but...but he will never have the same personality again, and by the time he regains all his magic skills at their former levels he will be in his sixties."
"A little bit of the arcane, hidden within the mundane."
-Victroinox, Archmage of the Circle of Masters
"I saw him! The Sorcerer! His skin cracked and glowed like it was smoldering beneath. His eyes burned like Sol and Radia. He spoke with a voice like a legion of hellspawn, in a strange tongue that parted the skies and reigned fire down upon the earth."
-Excerpt from Mycenae's Dissertation on Sorcerers.
When a life is snuffed out through a cause other than old age and natural ailments, the spirit lingers in the Mortal Realm rather than immediately entering the Spiritual World, as is its due. The incorporeal form attached to such a being is what is commonly referred to as a Ghost.
How much hatred does it take to buy revenge?
They say you give up a few things, chasing a dream. In those mists that's the literal truth, for every dream of yours that comes true, a piece of yourself, mind, body, or soul, gets taken by the mist. Worst part is, you won't even know what the cost of your dreams are until you go to leave, and by then you might not even have a mind left to change...
A fragment of the mists of creation, drawn to those desperate to make their dreams come true. Suitable for any magical fantasy setting.
AutoMedon – A mechanical poet of renown not for his vast catalog of poetry, but for his complete lack of anything written or spoken, having had no output in his programmed profession. His creator is unknown or at least unaccredited, and there are those in great number in the artistic world who wonder and marvel at his inability to produce poetry, crediting that flaw to his creator who is unknown or at least un-credited. There is also a small faction of scholars who believe that when he finally, finally speaks, it will be the most beautiful or sorrowful verse ever spoke or will ever be spoken. Whether his creator is among either group or dead is unknown. AutoMedon sits alone under a tin roofed enclosure, upon a stone chair, with his gaze off in the distant as if thinking.
“It’s strange to look at this mechanical man and think what thoughts are working through its’ workings or even if the damn thing is” – Aralis of Qurim, poet and pottery salesman