"There are few things that iconize the Knights of Greatland better than a suit of massive metal plates, and an equally gargantuan weapon."
-Jax the Chronicler
These relatively plain silver rings allow the wearer to go unseen, unheard, and un-smelled and render the wearer completely intangible - but only to others who wear a Ring of Mutual Exclusion.
A longsword that lashes out in the hands of a graceful warrior.
The Forget Me Not is a weapon as beautiful and unique as it is deadly.
Mr James Grimes was a wizard and inventor of some note whose main job was casting small spells to repair things or create minor magical items. On his days off he would sometimes visit the local courts to watch people on trial and thought;what if there was a simple way to tell who was good and who was evil? Would that not save time and money? And so he came up with the idea of the Demon Spectacles to tell the good from the bad.
Coins for those with friends who live far away.
The two gently-humming, crystal-studded blades are semi-transparent and sharpened to a deadly razor edge. The haft between the blades is decorated with brilliant multi-colored crystals. The balance and craftsmanship are perfect. You feel that these trusty blades will never fail you.
"The Sigurdian style Bowgun is the most popular recent take on the common Arbalest. While it has been commonplace in the Sigurdian kingdoms and in Caern for over half a century, it has only recently found use on the continent - but it looks like it's here to stay."
-Daaren Hurst, Imperial Master at Arms
A cornerstone of modern biotechnology, and something that remains in the upper echelons of secrecy.
He struck out hard with the blade, cutting his foe down to the bone in the arm that held the weapon , only to feel agony in his own sword arm as if it too had been cut right down to the bone. As he dropped his blade due to the shock and two more opponents closed in to cut him down, he realised to his horror that his blade was a Feeling Sword and that he was unlikely to survive this fight.
Illusion is the disguise of emptiness
An item revered by the Serenia and reviled by the Fasceti.
The Nekron, also known as Dark Elves, the Drow, and other ruder names are rarely friendly with humans, but on occasion they need their help, and are willing to reward them for a job well done...
“Take it, take it! I’ve had enough of that thing! Maybe you can make head or tail of it, but I certainly don’t want any part of it!”
I had me a dream once. Just after I *acquired* this here knife. Only the knife was a bit shinier and I was in an alley somewhere. I dunno, maybe it was Brie or Holsten, someplace like that. Anyways, I'm walking down this alley when I comes across some dumb bloke trying to shortcut his way to market. Like *my* alley is a god-d**ned thoroughfare for just anyone!
I am the mask that grins and lies
I'll hide your face and shield your eyes....
Even the most despicable and evil Tyrant will be convinced they pale in comparison to this monstrosity.
The curse of poverty is very real, and sometimes you are forced to learn the error of your ways before you can break its shackles.
Some sovereigns prefer a different sort of tax from their subjects - whether freely given, or taken by force.
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.