Tales grow in the telling and heroes grow in stature, even the tiniest can stand tall among their own.
The Eldest of the Oraki, and for long their leader, Lifthrasir-1 has helped his children survive the throes of their birth, and has at last stepped aside, so that his waning years do not bring harm to his people.
Hated by humans and other vampires alike, and in his eyes forsaken by the God that he spent his whole mortal life devoted to, Alexis is a self-hating Vampire.
By night this young woman takes the shape of a huge mosquito the size of a dog, and flies around looking for people to feed on. She has the ability to split apart into a cloud of small mosquitoes to fly under doors and through any small cracks and holes in a house, and then reforms and is able to puncture mosquito nets to feed on her victims. If she gets into a fight and starts losing, she will split apart again and fly away to make her escape, and as long as even one of those mosquitoes gets away unharmed, she will turn into her human form at dawn and regain all her strength and vampiric powers by dusk. Those that she bites are likely to come down with disease afterwards.
The hard working, the lazy and the indispensible, 30 Servants to look after the myriad needs of your world's nobles.
The Disgraced & Vanquished
She is the former heiress or countess of a ravaged land, now participating in the once-unthinkable and unimaginable. Often in history, when one group of people conquered another, as an exclamation point, the victors would force or sell the noble wives and daughters into slavery, particularly of the sexual variety. This was a final slap on the face for the vanquished.
Crazy old woman, selling pieces of bone and fake charms. The fact that the villagers even tolerate the old eye-roller hag demonstrates a lack of piety to the Faith.
"I pick your fleas, you pick mine. Well, that would be if either of us had fleas. Haha, right?"
A wanderer of sorts, Brelan is one of the few Kel’Regar men who have chosen to mix freely with the greater galactic society, having found his calling at last behing the bar.
“Behold me the greatest traveler in history, eccentric, irregular, rapid, unaccountable, curious and, without vanity; majestic as a comet.” -John Ledyard
"Attention, Flesh-beings! The time is now Sun-High-point-five, towards dark, 180 Units Past. Curfew in 30 Units. You are welcome."
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.
They had laughed at him in the past, and the press nicknamed him the Admiral, but when the global temperature rose by five degrees, and the waves swept in and drowned the cities, it was his turn to laugh.
"Have you ever felt like there’s a world just beyond ours? Some sort of strange dimension, a light dancing just beyond our fingertips? Well, I’ve touched that ‘sacred’ world, and I know its true face."
30 gangsters of various types, from the boss to the wannabe, the biker gang member to the despised turncoat, and many more.
Belphegor - A demon of Sloth and Greed
What is a forest’s firm support, yet walks ‘round on its own accord?
What’s possessed of a titan’s might, stands before you, yet out of sight?
What soundly spanks with gnarled root a behind that is not good?
Your Ultimate Source for all your Ooze Problems!
A whole company of NPCs that can do the mundane jobs while the PCs do the hero stuff.
Thirty more princesses, this time with an insect/small creature theme.
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