The immortal dwarfs of Damor
The young mountain sheep came charging up the trail and into the Meadow of the Elders, past the startled Elder-Guards, and stopped, panting and half incoherent. “Relax,” came a deep, amused voice in his mind. “Take a deep breath, and then share your thoughts with us.”
“Yes, Revered One.” He took the deep breath advised, then trotted forward and touched his head to that of the Elder.
The genesis of Gurgustius and Gorboduc and the curse upon their father Brutus is a terrible legend. Who knows if it is true? But it is the only way to account for the hideous sutured spawn of the King who is hidden.
The giants of the Thunderheads
Few even know of the existence of the DarnunÃƒÂ©.
They were formidable even before they learned how to use weapons.
Nahactl, the Wanderer
The Great White Dragon is rarely seen. Nobody knows where he slumbers, but they do know his cave is on one of the highest peaks in the world. Only few stories have made it to be Known about across the lands. Few ever made it back to there home villages to tell the story.
The camp was eerily quiet this evening. The fire itself seemed nervous enough not to crackle; the wind seemed too scared to whistle. These treks into the Blade Peaks always worry me, what am I doing here? I find myself asking that very questions even during the day time now, not just during the night. Tales of rangers heading into the peaks and not returning were always common, what worries me is that myself and the group of rangers are heading into these blasted mountains in search for one such group. How my life would be much better had I not learned the truth. The Oricks are here, small brutish little bastards for true, but ruthless and uncaring. I just want to return home. Wait, a sound in the darkness. A scrap? A grunt? oh no they are here!
- Ranger Arkisa, Last journal entry,
They come in the night, and they take things. Nothing neccesary. Maybe they’ll take some candle wax, mabe a few sticks, a curtain, anything. But guard all your possesions boy, because if you don’t, they’ll come down on you like a hellbeast in one of their damned machines.
Deep in the mountains, beyond where the trails end, one can find collossal stairways and long, cliffside roads, massive arched bridges and huge vaulted tunnels, spanning thousands of miles. These roads, though seemingly deserted, are closely watched by their creators, the reclusive and strange Iothun (“yoh-thoon”).
Ru-Men are an old race who dwell throughout the area encompassed by the Hundred, but are most plentiful in their traditional homeland on the Andraverly Mountains on the west coast of the Heavy Sea (northward of Peklichr). They live in small “nests” of 10-20 individuals which generally lie in the mountains or cliffs. Many call them the Crow Men or the Jackdaw Men, while others refer to them as the Black Mountain Bastards.
It is interesting to realize that in the scheme of the world we are but one oddity. But we are an oddity that the humans and other smaller pitiful races take for the corrupted races of Sethalis. That we are not. I would say they hate us for our superior mentality and superior quality weaponry. As is with all children who can’t have what is out of their reach.
-Synn the Undying - Troll Cheiftan and Mastersmith
The wait shall be over soon infidel. Soon we shall come from our darkened homes and sally forth on the Plains of Redemption and wipe the blight of our anscestors from our history. Our counsins will tremble at our approach, the humans will run from our strength and the Gison will board themselves in the mountain citadels giving the land beneth them to us. Oh yes, weakling. We are coming.
-Shieox Chief-priest of the Night Eyes Clan
The children of stone care little for the others who are not of our kind. Ours is a kinship with the world around us, while the others destroy and pollute. It will be only a matter of time before the world itself fights back against those atrocities. Before the mother world rights herself. I feel no pity for them, only outrage.
Gundarg - Gison Philosopher
Sages and naturalists frown at the common name given to these strange creatures by the small folk, but sometimes the silliest nicknames for creatures, places and people persevere in the minds of many. “Purifiers”, “Pond Jellies”, “Breath-Stealers”, “Lung-Ticklers” and “River Butterflies” are much less commonly heard appellations for these life forms. Wet Faeries are basically (and simply) a species of fist-sized, fresh-water jellyfish. Several traits steer them toward the peculiar category however. Firstly, Wet Faeries are nearly invisible in the water, much like their marine cousins but even more so. One can swim in a river swarming with these critters and not even notice their presence. Secondly, they possess the unique ability to clean and purify whatever body of water they inhabit. They do this via some sort of biological filtration process, sucking in all toxins present in the water, and releasing it back in its purest form. Needless to say, they are both a blessing and a curse to whichever folk dwell beside the rivers and lakes Wet Faeries inhabit. On one hand, no purer water can be found anywhere than a Wet Faerie lake or pond, and yet, in “pure” water “life” tends in fact to die out, lacking the needed nutrients to prosper. Thirdly, their “sting” is (unfortunately) virulently poisonous to all mammalians. Wet Faeries are loathe to sting anyone or anything, using their barbed fronds as a last line of defense, but if stung, most swimmers will suffer respiratory arrest, and die within minutes, usually drowning before they can make it back to shore.
Alchemists, druids, and less savory characters have studied these creatures over the years, and have predictably found all the ways Wet Faeries could be exploited. Morbidly humorous, some bards find it, that the Poisoners and Assassins Guilds as well as the Healer’s Union, all prize these creatures. The assassins use the extracted venom in obvious fashion, while the priests and healers use the still-living jelly-fish to sterilize other poison potions and to cure those already poisoned on death’s door.
It is known that a certain Earl Von Trumble keeps his vast castle moat stocked with Wet Faeries, the waters so clear that every bone of every one of his past enemies can be clearly seen on the bottom, twenty two feet below.