A thin, dainty old woman with a love of both gardening and the physical suffering of others.
Like the mythical hydra, the Illuminati have many heads and even more hands. The minions of the Illuminati might work to their hidden master's ends without ever knowing the design of their work, or for whom they indeed work for.
Herein lies the histories of Warpriest Lazarus, righteous fist of Tridoa. Lord Lightward the Lunar Hammer.
Herein lies the birth of Lazarus Lightward the Hellpriest; Trickster of Devils and Master of the Bloodied Moon.
Sometimes the old ways are best. A pivotal undead sorcerer.
There are some types of evil that are not easily recognizable as such. Much like the mountain-top ascetic or the cloistered saint, there is no obvious sign of the darkness that lurks inside Vodai.
All Maire wanted was to give her husband a child. She wasn't about to let death stand in the way.
"Alzim, now that's a name! Leader of the Alten Mercenary Corps, master tactician, ex-general of the Cadmury Kingdom's forces, slayer of entire brigades, or perhaps most notable is he is a master Weilder. Sadly many of the young do not remember him."
Old man at the local pub
The rain poured down on the city of Grathen in a relentless beat that would marvel the best of drummers. It beat down on the public buildings, with pedestrians streaming in front of, with eyes cast upwards and lips mumbling prayers to Rain Gods. It beat down on the Slums, where thieves were mumbling thanks to their gods for all these people looking up and not at their purses. And it beat down on Ariel Lorette, a girl of 13, escaping from horrors beyond the common person's imagination. Ariel Lorette, with rain streaming down her face and hiding her tears of pain and sorrow and, above all, victory. For Ariel had escaped them. Ariel was free.
"I will give man his threescore and ten, and then give him more. Death himself will fall before me."
The heir to the throne is hiding more than a few secrets...
Behind every great man is an astonished woman. Or the woman who did it for him.
A sadistic murderer.
More than one convoy crossing the Southwest, traveling through the Republic of Texas and Rocky Mountain Republic has found themselves in the crosshairs of a heavy black transfer truck and it's deranged driver.
The massive computers of the future don't always communicate with the puny humans through soft chimes and a soothing voice over the PA/intercom. Sometimes they have a special android body that serves as their own super surrogate
Man, machine, ghost, myth, legend, hero, and villain. No one is really sure who, or even what the Iron Ghost is.
A burned out cop with very little to live for finds that you can't take the fight out of the dog. (NSFW language.)
M12 denotes the twelve sintelligences that operate the CogNet
The Tlu ‘che a Naust lu’ Phlithus a Jal is not an easy path to walk, and none take it lightly, or willingly.rnrn~ Faerlani lu’Noamuth Che’el
A family of semi-retired doomsday cultists, just trying to live a quiet life while tending an apple orchard in the country. Except with complications.
The Sogans were a mystically aware technological society. Queen Stavarang is the last surviving Sogan in the galaxy
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.