a.k.a. Mosquito Man, a.k.a. Stirgili, a.k.a. Mansquito.
A blue green jewel, Beta Delphini II, home of the turtle like Chelonians. The world is old, and bears many scars, the craters from orbital bombardment and high power explosions, rings of dust and debris that were once starships, habitats, and fighter craft. But the world below remains tranquil, its wounds covered with blue seas and green forests.
Hailing from the giant swamp planet of Acadia, the Leech Lords rule with a mighty will. And slimy green tentacles.
In the dank,dense areas of the world where the vigorous and the decaying are intertwined and indivisable, lives the wise bagabond. But getting him to impart his knowledge is quite a chore.
A reclusive race, the Ragori live deep in the heart of the Purvis Swamp.
The muggers cornered the little goblin against the wall, when with a hissing noise he suddenly grew to double his size. Muscles bulged out from his body and they lokked at each other, then turned and ran. The Sproggan watched them go and grinned at the thought of how well he had fooled them, and when they were gone he deflated back to his normal size and went on his way.
The Broan, an enigmatic, amphibious species of unknown origin, that lives in the salt-water marshes to the east of Locastus.
Deep in the marshes the Tree of Cognizance feeds on whatever living creatures come near it, using very powerful illusions and brute strength. It’s fruits are prized by those that understand the powers they offer.
Swift and deadly as any Dunleoustous, the Anura remain a proud and free people, though outsiders have time and time again, imposed great cruelties on this race.
‘‘By the strength in my sinews, I swear upon the spirits of my ancestors that this Curd will not forget the mate and children he has lost, nor find rest until his jaws have crushed the life out of the scum that dare to call themselves the Brave People!’’
Listen now and hear my words, for they are the words of truth and they are the legacy of our people.
Toltep, the eldest of the Cuada
An enormous Angoath was holding a young recruit in his hands, his body broken and blood seeping freely from between the cracks of his banded armour. The dead legionary’s head lolled unnaturally; obviously the neck had been crushed. It was amazing how fast these creatures could move and suddenly it lowered its head and charged headlong towards me, no doubt intending to skewer me on that sharp, spiky ridge. All around me I glimpsed similar scenes. The Angoath were washing over us like a wave of black silver, their claws rending us apart, their teeth chewing into our armour.
They were born before we were, and they will last, long after we die.
Non-Sslassti are no more then our lower caste. While they may have property in their lands, they are nothing more than the dirt at our feet. Even our lower class can order a human in our lands. One day it will be as such in their lands.
Rsskilarn, High Priest and second hand to Tlatoani
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