“Masterful Ares, god of war you place me in this dread place far from my home, no friends or family, and only you to talk to. Still even you seem never to answer. I have served you many a century and still you wont answer my prayer, well this last prayer I will send with all the blood of the men of this world if you will send me home.” Paladrim, his final prayer to Ares
And if you win you get this glowing fiddle made of gold, but if you lose, the Devil gets your soul.
Those who want to use this should be very careful indeed.
When L’ruhk was banished to the Nothing Beyond Creation, he returned at the head of a demonic army, wielding a spear black as his corrupted soul.
Sometimes, the simplest things are the ones that get you in trouble…
A crude and appearently worthless trinket, this tawdry bit of finery would attract no notice at all, disregarded as as just foolish vanity on the part of an improvished peasant or labourer.
But mind you don’t lose one of these when you’re on the errand of some powerful guild leader. He’ll be sure to skin you for that.
He was frantically pointing towards the glowing mountain. “We need to cast The Spell!”, Bothar screamed!
I held up the scroll we all had risked our lives to get. “Nobody can cast this spell without a prepared mystic space and ritual equipment. It would be suicide,” I said. “Not even him,” I jerked my thumb towards the Magi who smiled slyly.
Silently, he unstrapped that bolt of cloth he had been carrying since I had known him. He unfurled it, tamped it down, with small spikes, pulled a small apothecary chest out, placed and lit four candles on the cloth, drew some lines with some handy chalk, unpacked his remaining tools, then he held his hand out expectantly for the scroll. It took a fraction of a candle mark.
“Solomontic Rug,” he said quietly. “The key to mastery is knowing and having the right tools, be they physical, mental, or magical, and having them ready when you need them.”
The endless dark of the depths, the strength of the tsunami, the drowning embrace of the cold, these are the
A dark dagger of song, forged for vengance. It shall have that vengance.
The passenger said, “It sounds like your wind chime is broken, or at least out of tune.” The first mate just smiled. “That chime is music to a sailor’s ears, it is,” he said. “We will have smooth sailing this day.”
It was a fine harness and reins. The leather was soft and well tooled. The bit was so shiney one thought it could be silver. It looked like no bit and bridle that he had ever seen. Yet, it seemed familiar, like he had heard stories about this before.
These minor items were developed by a mage tired of the foul odor of the garbage pit behind his home.
The gathered crowd watches with a highly palpable combination of of nervousness and awe, as the Quarsooth steps into the great stone cavern.
They had been summoned here by the dictate of their new overlords to heed their sermon, the vision that the newly arrived saviours of mankind had brough with them from their lengthy, astral passage from the great heavens that formed the very roof of the Heavens. But in their hearts, the people are afraid. The Quarsooth for all the benovalence they have displayed, are still creatures too dangerously akin to the demons or angels of their ancient myths or stories. And all dealings with being of supernatural provenance are fraught with peril, as the old tales warn.
But even as they continue to stare at the Quarsooth, their minds in turmoil, the radiant being reaches into the folds of his robes and withdraws a strange metal rod. Putting this to his lips, he begins to play a tune.
Soon, all fear and suspicion and fear is erased from the minds of the gathered folk, as the haunting and poignant song regals them with tales of the lost glories of Zor-Tanis, all the while reminding them how by particpating in the attempts of the Quarsooth to resuract it on this world, they can bring an end to their own endemic sufering and enjoy absolute power over great stores of knowledge that will enable them to ascend to a position of riches and enlightenment that is rivalled only by Zor-Tanis.
And thus is the conquest of humanity being achieved…
The crowd erupted in a bright flash of multi-colored light, red and green flashing once each blinding those to near. The clash of metal on metal rang over the dinn of the voices of the market place. Cries of a fight swept through the streets ending up at the ears of the city watch.
“Someone broke a seal again. Thats to bad, as I didn’t want to have to kill anyone today.”
- Corporal Watesan, 2nd Shift of the day watch. Cerb City, Cerb.
A mystic, tired of being left behind by his more swifted-footed companions, devised this as a simple solution.
Even at the best of times, goblins and alchemy don’t mix well…
A long sword with a curved light steel-like blade and a ruby inlaid into the pommel of the swords hilt. Used by the greatest of Warriors to vanquish their foes, be them good or evil.
It’s round. It’s silvery. It’s got a handle. It’s been used to make a million excellent meals, and even more dogs. It’s also got a face shaped dent in the bottom.
This scroll contains secrets and conspiricies that would shock the most frequent schemers. Compiled by an order of ‘scholars’ that compiled dirt and furtive information of kings and emperors to use in order to control powerful people. However they eventually paid with the lives of the entire order, but their secrets live on. Secrets that could destroy an empire.
The Broom of the Dai Kiri, while looking like a normal broom, was a deadly weapon in the hands of a Dai Kiri Keeper trained to use it.
The enormous hammer of the Warlord Gyog Ak-Thail, the Ribcage Destroyer. It is said to have slain 3,000 men.
Once every decade on the eve of St. Poskov's Day during mid-winter, the coastal city of Tiyabon experiences a horrific event. Quool's Tide rolls in, depositing hundreds of bloated, fish-eaten corpses upon the pebbly shores of Tiyabon's wide bay. This singularity is to this day unexplained, though countless theories abound. It is said for example, that these corpses are not eaten by the myriad fish of the seas completely, due to the fear all creatures of the seas hold for Quool.
Named for Quool, a terrible, antediluvian god of seas and storms, who no longer exists for he has no worshipers, the Tide chokes the beaches and surf with the countless rotting bodies of those who had perished at sea in a violent way.
Almost immediately, the lifeless corpses are fed upon by crabs, gulls, and worse things that await the horrid feast. The townsfolk let nature take it course with disinterested disgust, though lately some enterprising adventurers have taken to searching along the beaches of flesh for former deceased companions, with intentions of raising them again!
Surprisingly no undead ever rise from among the many corpses. This is also a mystery.