Flame fowl, brightest red chickens you will ever see, nice feathers for fletching arrows, but I'd pass on the omlet.
More subtle than artillery, Mul'Tals, the siege-vine of the Kel'Regar, is more than capable of reducing the strongest of defenses to rubble, growing, twisting, and devouring its way through them.
"For days, we've heard nothing but cricketsong, from the coming of dust to an hour past dawn. Nothing he happened, but I'm sure something will."
last journal entry, Traggion the Explorer
Is not disease the rule of existence? There is not a lily pad floating on the river but has been riddled by insects? -Henry David Thoreau
When a mission becomes something more.
The Kir’bret’rasach is the Kel’Regar answer to the question of the main battle tank. More than one foe has been caught unaware by its massive strength and tearing claws.
have made thee as no other. All the treasures of the earth shall lie between thy eyes. Thou shalt cast thy enemies between thy hooves, but thou shalt carry my friends upon they back. Thy saddle shall be the seat of prayers to me. And thou fly without any wings, and conquer without any sword.
Undead abominations born of the Light, the glow of the Accursed’s warped flesh strikes terror into those who behold it.
Beware this wizardly cadaver! His spells might not kill you, but you will wish they had…
"Oh, there goes another make-believe
Therianthropes? Lycanthropes? Animorphs? Homo-Zoological-Hybrid-Sapiens? Manimals? Take your pick.
Fire is the purifier, let it cleanse the taint from the flesh of the mutant
Prelate Deacon Delhomme
A completely average race, similar to humans, but with a few small differences.
A plague in improverished locations, the Rot Beetle is the bane of those who are not careful about where or what they eat.
A flower that blooms in honor of the sun itself.
In the bleak midwinter frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago.
English poet (1830 - 1894)
Electro-Clockwork assassins of the Far East.
The grinding of gears in the dead of night is a precursor of an unforgiving danger. Survivors remember little, save the smell of metal and death.
A magic speaking sword of great power-which is also a racist, obnoxious and unpleasent, so much so that those who carry it often *gag* the hilt of it, the taking part, with cloth to shut it up.