Magic that really gets under your skin.
An ancient shrine of a mischievous goddess. The proper offering will give you her blessing, but 'ware you don't feed her wrong!
A statue with the power to fix your mistakes.
To fly. One of man's oldest and fondest dreams. To soar above like a bird, for the joy of it, to explore, or to strike at one's enemies. It is only natural that magic would be turned towards granting this wish.
A well-loved and somewhat crudely hand-crafted tribal drum owned by the Tribal Half-Orc, Somnak. It is said that Somnak possessed the ability to call upon the spirit of any creature whose skin was pulled over the drum to aid him and his allies in battle, as well as curse his foes.
A polished flake of porous stone, stained a deep, rusted brown, this once-hallowed knife contains traces of the eldest of magics.
An ancient pocket watch grants its possessor sway over time itself, granted, at heavy price.
You find a dusty violin on a stand in the next room. Through the grime of the years, you can tell that it is of excellent make. Perhaps someone can put it to good use? An instrument is meant to be played, after all...
The three sacred relics of Ahkti.
The sound was most troublesome. Long have I been prisoner to Kormack and his evil designs, and the torturous sounds my heart has been cursed to endure has left me cold inside. I endure and ignore. Cold to the pain and the suffering of poor souls around me. Their Fate forsworn as soon as they enter His lair. But this, this atrocity has pierced my now icebound heart and cracked deep into my very soul. The children... The mewling babes that know nothing of their future, nothing of the joys of life. Innocent of horrors of the world and the dread future it holds. How short that future is. I can not get the sound of the mewling infants from my mind, it is seared into memory as a brand on an animals flank forever to remain. Some have even laughed right up till the end and nothing is more damaging to ones sanity than a broken childs laugh.
Master Blacksmith Heaf Astes
Slow and meticulous, Heathen had a great deal to prove to the other witches of her coven. So, she set out to do the impossible: the wand of death.
The grudging gift of thankful mermen, a fine blade with a bit of baggage.
A dwarven masterwork shield, imbued with the power of wind.
"We fought the li'l beasties," the gruff old Dwarf growled, "so where the blazes is their treasure!"
Glacier grinned, "Just give me a second, I know how to find it."
Pretty smoke rings? Naw, I can do a lot more than that.
The cover depicts a stylized rose with one drop of blood dripping from one of its thorns.
(But is there more than meets the eye with this book, of bloody course there is!)
What used to BEE the crown of an old dwarven king has now BEEn made a portable BEE-hive.
Dentures, magic dentures.
Also known as the Equalizer.
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.