Gives life to the notion of no good deed goes unpunished.
Nod to Gossomer, for her Solomon Grundy forum post, my inspiration
500 Word NPC challange
A hostile race discovered through dimensional boring. The first encounter with the violent and nomadic Tarxan occurred in Neo-Constantinople of the Eurasian Alliance, hence the Turkish/Central Asian rooted name.
Feet forever on the path; smile forever on it's lips. It walks roads beaten and forgotten alike through day and night. With it's troupe of mindless puppets, it is accosted not by beast nor fiend nor monster. For they know that Terror walks past this night.
Death travels with the Gandacai.
One way of getting here, The Concave, is through conflagration of your Soul. Not a nice way to arrive, but at least you'll have the benefit of a guide, unlike most others.
Death cults, worshipers of dark powers, necromancers, and eaters of the dead. Individually these cults are horrible in society and the repercussions can have lasting effects on those they influence and affect. But what if that not just a small group tried to influence their belief on a people, but an entire people tried to use their belief to take over the world?
There are a number of ways to reach The Concave; it seems that falling is one of them, but falling from where?
The abominable servants of Igg’soteku.
Now was to be the Third such invasion, and who knows who would be writing the records….
The Tsgara, commonly known by non-Rephatians as ‘Shark-Warriors’ carry that name for both skill in battle, and their appearance. They are the dominate member of the Warrior caste in the Tshaal and Tynarma Nations of Rephatia.
The Thoron. The great crystal ones. The Speakers of Lightning. The unstoppable wall. The unmovable force. Many are their names, few are their numbers, even less is the understanding Man has of them.
The screeching and squealing sound pierced our skull like a hot poker edging at the back of our mind and taking over any free thought. We knew what it was that was coming for us and could run no more, trapped like a mouse in a maze we frantically ran in circles trying to get away from the inevitable. It towered over us like a frozen monster . . . wait . . . it was. It ran its limbs against its own body knowing what the sound did to us. We cried in agony and horror; in pain physically and mentally. Knowing the fate that would befall us we cried in tight balls on the floor . . . the sound . . . it stopped. I looked up to see it walking away, its shoulders heaving. If I didn't know better I would think it was laughing at me for my fear of it. I'll never know for sure, I hope against all hope that I never will.
- Srowley, adventurer and historian
“Our enemies lie just across the plains brothers, may our God King see it in his wisdom to grant our masters victory at the loss of our blood. But let our enemies pay for that blood with every breath.”
-Ziegtaur Soldier at the Battle of Forgotten Sorrow
On Zetacron, the nature goddess Gaia did not create the elves, but wished to claim them as Her own (it seemed fitting to her, somehow, that elves should be bound to Nature). Thus, she used her divine powers to create a bond between Herself and the elves.
The Qwards were just another type of goblinoid race -a bit more odd than most- living in the cramped dark spaces. While durrable and intelligent, they could achieve no level of dominance. Upon the advent of Technology, their natural aptitudes came forth. They are born engineers.
These magical boots empower the wearer with several abilities at once. Wondrous leaping, water-walking, and even flying! Yet the boots possess an insidious curse upon them as well. A deep and almost unfathomable (by others) feeling of listlessness, boredom, and even apathy affects the boots' wearer at all times whenever they are donned. Magic will not dispel the effects.
And so while the wearer of the boots can perform great feats of action during combat or at other opportune times and key moments, they'll never really want to do so, complaining "Meh, what's the point of it all anyway?" or "I would fly up and save us all guys, but sigh, maybe uhm, soonish, mkay? Bit bored by this whole burning tower at the moment."
Naturally the boots wearer's fellow PCs will grow quickly frustrated with this arrangement. There have been numerous occasions when one angry PC literally tears off the boots from his companion's feet in anger, and dons them in turn, only to immediately suffer from the same effects.
The solution lies in constantly "motivating" the boots' wearer with successful rolls, involving threats, flattery, fiery speeches, or even bribery.