The People of the pocket realm of Brocschtal are simple folk who live as they have for thousands of years. Farming the land, raising sheep, getting in the occasional brawl. And fighting off the infernal attacks of ghouls.
They should have spoken up sooner and saved poor Harold from certain embarrassment.
A 100 word Location
Azaughos was a beautiful city once, a jewel nestled in the mountains. It was a city that was built on an idea, and built with wealth, and great royal pride.
Also called the "Banshee Veins" or "Wailing Digs" the term "Singing Mine" refers to the Vibrosteel mines found predominantly in Sahar and Orientalis.
A man-made bridge between two tall hills that began as a wonder to an ancient empire and now is turned into the final stand of a desperate kingdom.
Three cities that come and go, yet never see the shining sun.
We charged their walls but the defenses held us off, hidden bunkers sprang out of nowhere and turrets wreaked havoc on our forces. Gun pits blasted our army to pieces and we pulled back a shell came out of the sky and destroyed several siege towers, we where finished.
Existing at once in the mortal plane and upon the plane of Fire, the Grand Pyre of the Phoenix is the ultimate testament to the power of the Lord Zevarith.
To be “On the road to Shambala” is a metaphor for seeking redemption, purification of spirit, and seeking The Great Divine. It is found in teachings of several faiths of The Great Divine and in the writings of many prophets and philosophers. It is not just a metaphor. There truly is a road to Shambala.
Deep in the remote Storm Horns lies an ancient and deserted city of giants.
Deep in the rugged Thunderhead mountain range lies the valley of Akelor, once a paradise, now a battleground where reality itself struggles to contain an alien, evil infestation
An adventure, Sourcebook and Monster Compendium set in the Locastus universe
The forgotten realm
Capital city of the Coalition.
The Coalition - An evil realm of goblyns, bandits, ogres and others loosely united under one banner.
Of old, this city was the home of a coven of the Sarkukai, foul devotees of Sarku, Lord of Worms, the God of Rising From The Grave. Though they were driven out, the city remains tainted by the memory of that ghastly cult.
Fewer things under heaven reek
like the lofty spires of Wlatsoom Peak
Vernissage, apprentice bard.
Dal Nastro, little more than a smudged footnote in mankind’s history of expansion.
"The Tower of Ill Omen!" the old gypsy gasped as she glimpsed the shattered structure at the mountain’s peak.
The tiny shrine doesn’t look like much; a tumbledown temple overgrown with weeds, fading quietly into obscurity. But appearances are oftentimes deceiving.