I believe I need to contemplate this further. However, I know that I can reach a proper solution that will resolve the issue. It will take a little time. Not too much mind you. But every piece must be contemplated in turn. Now if you would excuse me. Oh and if you could allow my Man to look around, I would greatly appreciate it.
Honor beyond death, duty beyond the grave. An eternity of damnation for an eternity of servitude.
Many who see him think he is a powerful, scary, and undead. Two out of three are correct.
The elven race epitomizes the most noble traits to be found among the children of the gods, in keeping with their mythic status as the first-born and most beloved of the creative forces that gave rise to our world.
So we poor benighted mortals guilessly believe,subjugated by the awe that holds us in thrall of these dazzling beings that exude perfection. But rob an elf of his exquisite beauty,and what do you see in the depths of his soul? Does the inside reflect the unflawed sublimity of the surface? Perhaps not…
“Where do they get those marvelous toys” you ask. The other hero smiles, “I guess you have not been hooked up.” He hands you a card.
Maker of Devices for the Discriminating Operative
Some cities have more spirit than others.
Psychic on Duty is all the aged red neon sign says in the storefront window. It is a small storefront and in a less than great section of town. You don’t expect much.
A mad doctor who dared defy the laws of the natural order, to transcend death itself, and the creature he created.
“Come in, come in. I knew you were coming.
How did I know? Your brother told me.
Yes, yes I know your brother died in the war several years ago, he has told me all about it.”
All know that Elves cannot die, and that Men do. All know that Men go unto the Underworld upon their death, and that the Elves retire unto the Spiritual Elysium. Yet in the Great Scheme, where goes the one with one foot in the Underworld, and one foot in the Realm of Spirit?
When one cannot die, obsession with death is such a natural thing.
...And then the evil necromancer killed everyone and made them into zombies to do really evil things. I mean really evil, kicking puppies, eating kittens and making lewd sexual gestures at unsuspecting shoppers at Wal-Mart. Yeah and he had a severed head for a hat and was eating a sandwich made out of real lady-fingers…
A healer of great power and kindness, she is rumored to even be able to heal the dead, if you can find her.
In my setting that is posted here called “The Kingdom of Orentia” the appointed ruler of the town of Thorpe is Griffin Orent. Griffin is actually the leader of a rather large group of bandits operating all over the kingdom. However, these are not your normal bandits…
All the good ones break off from the the guild.
Most established villages have their neighborhood hermit and Enders is no exception. If only the folks of Enders knew who they harbored, it may have been a very different story for old Noam.
Dalme is one of the various travelling Tinkers plying their trade in the villages along the back roads. One can hear his cart from a arrow shot away, clanking and clinking, his wares: pans, pots, utensils, plow shares, cow bells, and other metal bits, banging against the side of his cart. The rest of his goods are kept inside his house cart (mugs, plates, fabric, ribbon, and other things) along with his anvil and fire bellows. He tells news, shares jokes, and does a bit of trading. He is everything a tinker is expected to be…. and unfortunately much more.
Human in a previous existence,one thing about this former Captain’s life has been left unchanged by its brush with the Black Tide.
A burned and withered female elven ranger, with a hatred of giants, a love for animals, and a desire to seek out and thank the man who saved her life and disappeared just as quickly.
Larkin thought that she was just like the other girls in her village. Her mother was a local crofter, but her father was an incredibly wealthy man who was seldom around but cared very deeply for her mother. Now her mother has passed away, her father hasnt come back, and things are starting to happen to her, things that are neither natural or explainable…
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.