I try to avoid them if I can. I see them sometimes herding their flocks of flabby grey creatures into and out of Boston harbor, and it always gives me the chills. Briano tells me that they brought me back to life, but I can't remember it. I can't remember a lot of stuff. He also tells me that I was good friends with one of them once. One of the ones that begs outside of Grand Island Bank for nickels or blood. I can't tell you why I'm uncomfortable around them. They're just fish.
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.
Watcher comes now. It comes to set me free
Of its curse of dark and emptiness and endless misery.
It is easy to assign Autobot and Decepticon like race or nationality, when it is much more a matter of political pursuasion.
Pets mind you. Not exotic monster companions. No saddled dire-boars to be found here. No purple worm caravans.
Act now and receive a 0.9% APR for 6 months on any home or personal loan, and walk away with 1000 frequent flyer miles*
*Usage limited to those departing Lagos, Nigeria or Fairbanks, USA.
...And 'lo, the days of Bennu drew to a close, and he built himself a pyre from which to be reborn in cleansing fire. But trickery snared his form, blackening radiant feathers to twilight...
Damn 'ol thing it tis. Itches like nuthin I e'er felt. Stupid bugs, your the Poosker ye fool. Help me get rid o' these damnable things.
I hate to tell you this but you have what we liked to call, "Puces Barbe Morts", or undead beard fleas. And the only way to be rid of them is to cut off your beard and then burn the hair.
No! Just kill me it's less painful that way.
Beard grooming is a life-long process divided between two schools of thought: harsh mineral treatments or more the natural approach. The popular naturalist approach requires beard-spiders that live off lice, fleas and other small insects.
He stood before me, a freankenstien of a man beast that towered twenty feet tall or more. Its rigor colored flesh stunk of eons of decay both sickly sweet and of putrescence beyond what the mortal mind could fathom. I tried to gag it from my throat but my stomach refused to relieve its contents and for that made me more uneasy.
Former Cult Leader who outlived his usefulness
Ingo Takamoto was first a foremost a dog lover, but was also a brilliant geneticist
Those attuned with magic and nature can use this plant to quickly identify what might be traveling or living in its area by their footfalls.
"O'er the Wall Mounts there's this race of creatures. They look humanoid, but big. Mebbe 15, 20 feet tall? There all covered in this hair. Most of the species' hair is an auburn, but theres some that are black or blonde or brown. There faces look kinda like a cat face. The eyes are always one solid color, but the colors differ, like with humans. But the thing that makes them special is that they milk our females, like we milk cows. They breed 'em. They treat us like cattle. They even breed out the aggressiveness and intelligence."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub
Clarification and details on the tiers of machine intelligence
Everyone had the nerve to look surprised when the androids starting forming their own society, and started telling humans to stick it, including calling them 'false men'.
A tree that sends roaming fruit on a singular quest.
a.k.a. Mosquito Man, a.k.a. Stirgili, a.k.a. Mansquito.
Prophesies exist for a reason, legends of dragons destroying the lands and violent struggles for survival often have a grain of truth to them. The Plague Dragons grain of truth is large, angry, and due to return sooner than anyone is ready.
"Ye've ne'er heard of the Shnickels? Ye must 'ave not grown up in yonder country. The Shnickels are pests. Varmints. They move in, and you're done, son."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub.
The PCs encounter a strange set of artistic drawings done on the ground as they pass through a city. It has been done in chalks and no one saw who did it. Wizards might recognize the writing within the colored square as an obscure and dead language with a message stating that a prominent wizard and a retired bard have discovered how to populate Arcadia with the spirits of the dead!
Is it a local hoax, or are the PCs crossing the path of a very deranged and possibly dangerous mage?