"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~
"Who would make such a thing?"
"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."
I'm different. I have a different constitution, I have a different brain, I have a different heart... Dying's for fools, dying's for amateurs.
Welcome to my humble home. Feel free to stay as long as you like, if you remain at all. Do be warned, though, the place is a bit... unstable...
I once sought vengeance, I have since been consumed by vengeance and that is that is left of who I was
Bells tolled continually, announcing new deaths.
The Voice of Time
Tales grow in the telling and heroes grow in stature, even the tiniest can stand tall among their own.
"I hear that he walks the North these days, strides amongst the Silver Firs of those harsh lands. His followers struggling behind in the frost mist. New ones joining the lines everyday the, drawn to him by some mysterious force."
"In all my years of research, perhaps the best way I have found to summarize the Hermit of Wither Tor is the name given to him by the inhabitants of the Grassdancer ghettoes. These unfortunates call him, in their own tounge, AnÃ‚Â´rah GrunÃ‚Â´dar Ahr, which roughly translates into He-Who-Speaks-With-His-Fists....."
From "Locastus and beyond", by Darius Moak
I have lost everything which is dear to me… I am… Lacrimosa.
The dark wizard of Locastus, now long dead and gone….. Or is he?
Life dies in my wake, sacrificing itself to my hunger
The Masque of Hunger
Sha’Dann, equine God of shadows, father of the vile Sasheem and his brother, Merindel, the fair unicorn.
The father of the Hanaset society, who to this day watches his people through reptilian eyes…
"Hail! You there, farmer. We are in need of aid; do you have a temple or a priest? We ran into some bandits up the road there and are injured. Jonst won’t last much longer." A large man bellowed from the broken roadside.
"Of course stranger. You can find Luayas in the center of the village proper continue on until you see a large apple tree; she can aid your wounded. Please be gentle and offer tithes for her generosity." A gentle eyed man in homespun clothing, simple yet comfortable in the heat.
"Thank you farmer, we are in your debt. What does Luayas look like so that we might find her quickly? Does she stay by the tree often?" saying over his shoulder in thanks as he half pushed, half carried his companion along.
"No stranger." The farmer laughed, "She is the tree."
The restless shade of a terrible demon of an age long since dust.
The body is a temporary host for a transcendental creature, though most of these creatures fail to transcend before the death of the host. I shall not fail.
They had thought him a crank, an eccentric, not practicing a real form of magic. How wrong they were.
A military organization, the Stalkers are a hunting/mining militia that are known for wearing full body shrouds that easily hide them in snow and other slushy terrain. The lightly armored warriors are known for the speed, stealth, and the vicious wounds inflicted by their hunting hatchets. Many of the Stalkers keep crop-eared warhounds with them, both for hunting, companionship, and in war.