"I have no love for these aliens."
-Jax the Chronicler
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?
The battle between the Daemon and the Styarm was most bloodthirsty. The Daemon battled with fiery rage against the Styarm's thunder and lightning. They clashed and the heavens shook. It was as if the heavens and the molten rock below clashed and bled.
That is a part of the tale of the Untold War. This is the beginning tale of the Kaur.
30 various vampiric varieties
There are a number of ways to reach The Concave; it seems that falling is one of them, but falling from where?
An attempt to gather my thoughts on the cosmology and history of the Locastus setting.
I´m not quite finished with it, but I´m throwing it out there anyway
The excited, almost frantic sound of a mallet instrument erupts from the forest to your left. Within minutes, your party is confronted by a host of short, sprite-like gnomes clad in vivid greens and earthy browns. Attempts to communicate fall flat. The gnomes seem to ignore your words entirely, and you cannot understand the humming/whistling/snapping that apparently makes up their language. Luckily for you and your fellows, however, they don't seem hostile . . .
"Are you lost in the frost?" A lone giant speaks, a cloud of chill air escaping his blue-lipped mouth.
In the distance, through a thick fog, you can see more of them coming out a cave lit by blue light. Almost like a portal to the netherworld is it’s eerie glow. You can feel fear growing in your belly. These aren’t normal giants. Their skin is blue, their hair and eyes silver. Stone jewelry hangs about their bodies making them look like brickwork monsters.
"Tiny man," The leader speaks, icicles breaking and falling from his jowls. "What brings you so far north?"
Beau yet alien, the soldier-concubines of Aerazad, the Returned King, are a glowing reminder that a new order reigns in Eversea.
The young mountain sheep came charging up the trail and into the Meadow of the Elders, past the startled Elder-Guards, and stopped, panting and half incoherent. “Relax,” came a deep, amused voice in his mind. “Take a deep breath, and then share your thoughts with us.”
“Yes, Revered One.” He took the deep breath advised, then trotted forward and touched his head to that of the Elder.
The Ska'ag warrior lay in his hide, watching the intruders.
“The Makers,” he thought. It had been many generations since the last one had died, but there was no doubt. They were back. “I have to warn the People.”
“So, you want to buy a horse?” the grizzled Catfolk horse-master said.
“Yes. I'd like to buy a battlesteed and I'll pay whatever you ask,” the human replied.
“No. We never sell the Little Brothers of the Clan. Find a regular horse instead.”
“But my Lord wants a battlesteed and ...”
Little imp-like creatures...that eat paper?!
Beautiful, crystalline beings...with an incompleteness inside...
''In a world dominated by savagery and barbarism, we alone represent civilization. Is it any wonder then that we are forced to keep the horrors of the outside world at bay?''
-an anonymous Usholal
Veglins are fungus-goblin hybrids with a unique life cycle, all of whom are inflicted with inescapable racial dreams. Their biology and psychology are product's of an ancient, evil wizard's plan to get someone else to build his hideouts for him.
Swimming with the Great Western Tide that sweeps towards Tarrod from the far west of the Ocean, the mighty and enigmatic Uuluun sing songs that speak of the unfathomable gods of the deep, and wrestle each other in seabed-shaking contests of strength and martial skill.
This just in from the BBC. It seems a number of medieval archers and swordsmen have stopped a Grinch Attack in Nottingham mall. We take you live to....
Have you noticed that The Elves all belong to the same culture, all speak the same langauge, and all seem to be equally good at everything? I have a theory about that.
Jemas Lorne, the most celebrated poet of the age, was found dead, clutching a fragment of verse torn from his journal. The tantalizing fragment spoke of wealth:
Golden sands, empty and cold,
Treasure's crypt, forgotten gold.
Under stone, ancestor's doom,
Noble's prize, troubadour's tomb.
Rumours claim that the poet's father, an eccentric nobleman, had hidden much of his wealth before his death. Perhaps the missing journal has more clues?