After she ate the middle part of my wife’s body she gestured me out the door. Then she paddled me to the den of the Sage. All the while I stared at her rune marked back, my hand on the hilt of my sword, and I thought of my father and the hens.
30 in progress
What is a forest’s firm support, yet walks ‘round on its own accord?
What’s possessed of a titan’s might, stands before you, yet out of sight?
What soundly spanks with gnarled root a behind that is not good?
This man has a double life. By day he protects the wildlife from poachers. By night he sometimes poaches himself and smuggles the skins, horns, ect, out of the Park in the back of his Ranger Jeep and blames the deaths on poachers. After all,who would suspect a Ranger of poaching?
We all go a little mad…sometimes
The kingdom of Shyvora is known for its inclusion of non-humans. One of their best fighting Dukes is a tree…
Blessed be are those wed beneath apple tree
Common Falk Saying, the Midlands
Endowed with a generous love for the untainted bounty of the natural environment, this enigmatic individual has all but forgotten what it means to be human..
"Thentr was made from moonlight and flame; he has killed one of the mighty rulers of the skies; he has yet to return home".
-Old Cro, the story teller
Man, too, is a primal creature, though he binds himself with the chains named Reason and Law, locked link by link from birth. Yet, those locks can be opened, the links broken, in both the savage world of the street-slum, and in the gilded cages of nobility.
One such creature is the falconer Jon Raptorclaw, once no more than a street urchin, now one of the king’s most valued rangers.. when he can be found.
“Welcome to my place.”
A man of the city in the wild, a man of coin stands at nature’s side? Can this go well, can it bear fruit? Will he be worthy, will duty take root?
Very few carry the griffin tamer bloodline, and those that do, are given a remarkable gift…
Sitri Andromalion has been the local druid of the Vepar Valley as long as anyone can remember. The local populace, long used to the wisdom and experience of the old druid are concerned as his health is failing…
A legendary ranger from the North, all fear or admire, hate or love, but both have respect for him. He has no home nor hideout, a traveler always. His age is undetermined or his name, but he is called Sentinel, silent and deadly always. He is cunning and pragmatic, in quests he is an excellant tracker and has deadly accurcy with his bow. A master of the sword.
...and the crow spoke of an age of eternal night and of the devouring of the sun. The sea will boil the blood of the maker, the sky will flood with a dark pestilence raping the land of all its bounty, and the mounds will break loose what death had acquited… So is the propecy of the end.
“I admit I cannot withstand it’s corruption, I am no goodly man but i do not wish for the end. Too much anger rests in Kadagan as well, who will keep it safe?” Nerrad the Transmuter
After 25 years of the nightmares of the destruction of his village, he is back. Back again to strive for revenge and cleanse the nightmares from his sleep.
This man looks like no one to be trifled with, and that assessment is correct.
Most people think Jade is a child at first, and many more dismiss her as harmless. But apperances can be decieving…
Licarathia was always more at home in the woods than she was at her house. So maybe the secret she had wasn’t all that surprising.
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.