We were crossing a ridge when Corgan was lifted off the ground by something. "Shoot it! Shoot the tyrannosaur!" he screamed as blood streamed from the puncture wounds that had opened up in belly. I fired into the empty space above him to no effect. Then Corgan's ragged corpse dropped to the forest floor, and I was alone. Utterly alone. There was no dinosaur. There was nothing.
Watcher comes now. It comes to set me free
Of its curse of dark and emptiness and endless misery.
It is easy to assign Autobot and Decepticon like race or nationality, when it is much more a matter of political pursuasion.
Pets mind you. Not exotic monster companions. No saddled dire-boars to be found here. No purple worm caravans.
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...And 'lo, the days of Bennu drew to a close, and he built himself a pyre from which to be reborn in cleansing fire. But trickery snared his form, blackening radiant feathers to twilight...
Damn 'ol thing it tis. Itches like nuthin I e'er felt. Stupid bugs, your the Poosker ye fool. Help me get rid o' these damnable things.
I hate to tell you this but you have what we liked to call, "Puces Barbe Morts", or undead beard fleas. And the only way to be rid of them is to cut off your beard and then burn the hair.
No! Just kill me it's less painful that way.
Beard grooming is a life-long process divided between two schools of thought: harsh mineral treatments or more the natural approach. The popular naturalist approach requires beard-spiders that live off lice, fleas and other small insects.
He stood before me, a freankenstien of a man beast that towered twenty feet tall or more. Its rigor colored flesh stunk of eons of decay both sickly sweet and of putrescence beyond what the mortal mind could fathom. I tried to gag it from my throat but my stomach refused to relieve its contents and for that made me more uneasy.
Former Cult Leader who outlived his usefulness
Ingo Takamoto was first a foremost a dog lover, but was also a brilliant geneticist
Those attuned with magic and nature can use this plant to quickly identify what might be traveling or living in its area by their footfalls.
"O'er the Wall Mounts there's this race of creatures. They look humanoid, but big. Mebbe 15, 20 feet tall? There all covered in this hair. Most of the species' hair is an auburn, but theres some that are black or blonde or brown. There faces look kinda like a cat face. The eyes are always one solid color, but the colors differ, like with humans. But the thing that makes them special is that they milk our females, like we milk cows. They breed 'em. They treat us like cattle. They even breed out the aggressiveness and intelligence."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub
Clarification and details on the tiers of machine intelligence
Everyone had the nerve to look surprised when the androids starting forming their own society, and started telling humans to stick it, including calling them 'false men'.
A tree that sends roaming fruit on a singular quest.
a.k.a. Mosquito Man, a.k.a. Stirgili, a.k.a. Mansquito.
Prophesies exist for a reason, legends of dragons destroying the lands and violent struggles for survival often have a grain of truth to them. The Plague Dragons grain of truth is large, angry, and due to return sooner than anyone is ready.
"Ye've ne'er heard of the Shnickels? Ye must 'ave not grown up in yonder country. The Shnickels are pests. Varmints. They move in, and you're done, son."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub.
The land of Airithrin is a horrible place, a land of reeking fumes and geysers of flame, lakes of lava and the strange life forms that emerge when elementals breed with mundane creatures
"Aye, lad, the Great Tree- its got a branch in each world, and each branch is a world. If one were to find the place this world, this branch, met the main trunk, like I did, they could go to them other worlds. 'Course, you'd be some kinda poison, or, or, disease to the Tree, and that damn tree got one hell of an immune system. When me an' me buddies entered her trunk, she put up one hell of a fight. We fought for hours through every protection system she had, and all to get lost is this world fulla strange elves who glamoured us, trying to keep us as pets. We barely got back." -Old Gerald, man in the pub
Borrowed shamelessly from Norse mythology (see Yggdrassil, the World Tree), the Great Tree both connects and is worlds.
The massive blade known as Consequences carries several potent enchantments of battle, but also has a frustrating quirk: Its wielder finds himself unable to put it down until he enters the presence of a magistrate or other authority. Even then, it instantly returns to his hands if he has committed murder and fails to confess. Unless he somehow resists the blade's magic, the weilder's hands then run with fresh blood; the judgmental blade fights his every motion until he confesses his crimes.