Not quite a race of its own, not quite the mortals they are so close to.
An ancient yew tree, touched by Death himself and chosen to be his witness throughout time.
Lutazum is an immense (32’ at the top of it’s shell) tortoise which walks on huge 2’ thick legs. It is dark green with speckles and looks about with suprising intelligance. On top of its shell are strapped leather containers of all description.
Demontrumpets, as illuded to by the name, are not normal plants, but are plants who hold their origin in the Abyss. Perhaps brought by summoned demons, perhaps created by a dark god for some purpose, perhaps simple plants mutated by an artifact of great evil.
The Great Black Stag of the Southern Forests, Donnerwunsch has drunken deeply of the rivers of the Desert of Divine Despair.
“You know that saying that man made god? No, of course you don’t. But we didn’t make god. We made the Devil, and god is just a word the frightened cling to, to protect them from their own creation. And you? You are my creation. You are my devil.
Sleep with a cloth wrapped around your face or you’ll be a frungy garden in the morning…
Regional insult for someone considered stubborn, or gullible.
Beneath crumbling towers wait
Ishafel’s Horror and Hate
A monster grim and bleak
Go to it if death you seek
A brief summary of the Pessimal Beast as revealed by the Pessimal Manuscript and other anecdotal evidence.
Shirion may have been a human once. That time is long past. Now, it is an ever-shifting being, its form lost to time.
Brendan stared at the creature in the pale moonlight, transfixed by the silvery petals that glistened beneath that perfect purity. It was not until his final breath that he gathered his wits enough to scream after the thing had descended on him, all muscle and thorns and hard, barklike skin. It was too impossible, even the crimson blossoms that shone in the light of the moon.
Fiendish of appearance, beware these black kine…
An offshoot of humanity arises from its underground home due to a massive civil war and other ancient fueds…
The current state of the mythical elder race who once ruled the world known as the Sorcen.
[Pariah] 4:20 pm: OMFG!!! It’s a gremil swarm.
Twisted and cave-filled are many of the coastlines of Acqua, scoured by the mighty waves and sucking currants and tides. If you are not careful when approaching one of these caves, you might well not be able to dodge in time as one or more spines spring out at you.
“Careful where you step. There’re grassbiters ‘round here.”
These are an Old Peoples, the original occupants of Daletal. They have been displaced by the Humans into the back corners of The Six Lands and the Badlands. For generations they waited for a sign so they could take their revenge against the Humans. The Great One came and led them. They swarmed across The Six Lands and ruled! Then The Fall occured. Their numbers have been greatly reduced since the time of their vengence, the Time of Merideth. They have returned to their back corners of The Six Lands. They wait for the Return of the Great One.
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