The corrupted god of war, felled by the lost god of vengeance to his present pitiable state.
A contract Made before Durmenthir is a contract kept.
A priestess-turned-bouncer because of her devotion to her faith.
"I am all that’s left of an old, old religion. No one remembers my goddess anymore, except me. Please, do not intrude on my solitude and contemplation."
Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for.
The Book of Hammerskjold
Blessed Yandrick, spare my herd from the Hoof Rot, and let the thieves and bandits seek elsewhere! Let my swine grow fat and strong, that they might be sold at market, so my children will have enough food this winter!
The Patron Saint of Beverages, Hang-Overs, Regrets
Cowardly maggots! Bow your thrice cursed heads and thank the goddess that you still draw unworthy breath!
Age is a terrible weight
They are two sides of the same coin-either one will kill you, they’ll just think about it differently.
In a world where it seems that even the smallest of ideals has a deity to call a patron, even bastards have a patron god to call their own.
Murderous prophet of a depraved cult, Corvius the Death-Haunted cursed the Empire with an ancient evil that has plagued its lands ever since.
Konelis Larach, St. Cornelius of Zarant. 26th Abbot of Zarant; eminence grise to Dominic the Great; author of the Annalia: monk, scholar, saint and martyr.
This naÃƒÂ¯ve young man was fostered among the warlike Knights of the Most Holy Order of Saint Senren. Cloistered most of his life, he knows little of the world.
The Gohhi tribesmen of the Sallvian desert preserve the worship of an ancient goddess…
Driven by a lifetime of anger, Modest Slatterbite and his “Staff of Truth” have come to condemn the “wicked”.
A nearly forgotten god of hatred, vengeance, death, and decay, whose priesthood seeks his violent rebirth.
It is a good sized temple with all the appropriate attendents. Who is in the temple running it?
Ye Olde English
Oblat - A soldier who, grown impotent or maimed in service, hath maintenance or the benefit of a monk’s place assigned him in an abbey
Forsooth! A fair flock of faithful friars, from fanciful to factual.
The Nomin gypsies have a fiddling competition every year, known as the Danse de Velose. Beaters hit out the rhythm on taut drums and the competitors start to play, slowly at first. Youngsters can compete, but are soon pulled away by worried mothers, before the competition becomes too dangerous. After two hours the haunting tune has become dazzlingly fast. You can resign at any time, but the moment you make a mistake you receive an arrow through the neck. Strings may snap, but the players must play on. The whole affair never lasts much longer than three hours, and the last fiddler playing is crowned king of the gypsies.