Scale and bone and tooth and claw,
All are symbols of His law
Mourn not the fallen, sick, or weak,
They are His to claim and His to keep!
Who said Medusa are evil?
"Let death be not only merciful, but elegant."
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.
The PCs have travelled long and far. As nightfall approaches a mighty storm is unleashed. Luckily there is a lush wood nearby the path.
A good shelter for the rage of the unnamed weather gods it seams at first. As the PCs enter under the roof of this dense wood, they are welcomed by only a few drops wich is allowed trough the thick forest crown. A fire is offcourse required to warm the weary bones of the travellers. As one of the party is set to the task of collecting firewood the others settle down at a suitable location. But alas, they did not know the perils of this forest. But it seems clear to the rest of the party that something ill is at work as the woodcutters scream echo from afar.