German zeppelin corps commander Peter Strasser explaining that those who provide the materials of war are just as dangerous as those that fight the wars.
A family of semi-retired doomsday cultists, just trying to live a quiet life while tending an apple orchard in the country. Except with complications.
Driven by the need to keep his descendants fed, Daniel Andersson is one of the more peculiar undead - and gods - one might ever come across.
Thirty farmers, from the happy to the grumpy, the serf to the squire.
Look at that, pale as death and she’s got her neck covered, betcha fifty she’s a fang-banger
‘Don’t you go foolin around in the fens buy. Moeder Moeras don’t care none if you mean no offence or just want to fill your wicker creel with fish. She’ll have your guts for fishnets and your bones for soup.’
Paulis the Riverguide
White Rock is a fishing village just off the main coastal road, not too far from a town and a bit farther from a city. Named for the white boulders that are found around these parts, the village is built on a protected cove that has a small set of streams outletting into it. The weather is a bit cold in the winter, but the summers can be quite pleasant. The fishing is fairly good in these waters. It is on its way to becoming a tiny town.
Come hither peasant!
A farmer, handy with a bow, and if you’re a bird I would advise staying far from his fields
It is a small, peaceful village like so many others. Do you wonder who lives inside?
James Barley is a hard drinking, minimum-effort working hired hand…
The Latrani are elusive as desert ghosts, dangerous as sand scorpions, and as rare as oases in the wastes.
An old, kind apothecary. She is sweet as honey and genuine too.
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