"Where do you come from?" asked Clovis.
"Well, this I do not remember," said the man. "And also, I am not sure where I am going. But one thing I do know is that I am very hungry, so I am happy that you have come along!"
"By the Winter of 182 AR, Emperor Vezimmir's rule in Tiberia was almost complete. With shrewd diplomacy and ruthless military insight, he had decimated the Eturian Empire by first breaking a deal with Rollo, Warlord of the Vesi, to invade Datia. Most of Eturia's armies were off West fighting the Adamantians alongside the Drysians. However, to ensure that Datia never received aid from Eturia, Vezimmir orchestrated with the Reavers of Oskaria to descend upon Eturia's poorly defended coastal cities. It comes as no surprise that, with the fall of the Eturian Empire, her lands were in no shape to deny the Emperor's rule."
"Who would expect a commoner from a land that had once rejected the Son of the Light and the Holy Empire to become the next heir to the draconic essence of Traghen?"
William Dashaw, Lord Scribe to the Illyrian Court.
"I watched my family burn. I kill men with the tools of my father's trade. He created. I destroy. That is a gift the Light chose me to bear. Think well you before you pray to the Light for gifts."
Chosen of the Essence of Traghen, High Lord of Barbarus, Keeper of Sentinel, Wielder of the Soulhammer.
"Would you prefer I run my sword through your spine and leave you laying here for the wolves to gnaw upon or to just burn you alive with my magic? I would prefer to collect what I am after without the use of violence, but make no mistake I will kill you to remove this trinket from the hands of humanity."
~Halimath the Wanderer~
In the modern age a persona is indistinguishable from a person. They magnify what is within us, and what we bring out within others. It is a shared delusion powerful enough to claim a life of its own.
A goddess with a holy object of veneration in every pocket, wallet and bank; as well as down the sides of the big comfy chair in the inn.
The confessions of an unlucky A.I.
A dwarf's fear of the ocean is not baseless. In the unknowable depths lurks an evil that will punish any dwarf arrogant enough to be on anything less than solid land, and unfortunate enough to die.
"Who would make such a thing?"
A demon unleashed... to make the world a better place.
The Prophet John's life and, indeed, death was a mystery. Some say that the gods placed him on this earth for his purpose without a past, and others, a rare few, claim that he was a god himself.
"Magic is like telling a lie," Calypso told his latest bunch of would-be apprentices. "It doesn't matter if it's real or not as long as everyone believes it."
Help wanted, needs more events. No voting yet please.
Slumbering within a prison of ice and snow, adrift in the oceans of the north, Gundrak dreams without end.
Those who turn from the light and find themselves entranced by the lure of necromantic power would heed well the tale of Ilken Lillett; A testament to the sacrifices which must be made to attain such power.
A spirit of judgement and punishment
The story of an old gnome who makes an exceptional living off of designing and building unique strongholds.
A new story is frequently being whispered in the dark corners of taverns across the country, telling of a traveler that occasionally appears in quiet, rural towns; that draws with him a plague worse than any other: a dragon's wrath.
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.