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…
A contract Made before Durmenthir is a contract kept.
"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."
Be a good little prince and stop throwing tantrums of the Black Jester will get you and eat you up.
Words of many a Nanny and noblewoman
Caution: Graphic Content
"Did you hear that? He speaks to those who would listen. Simply adjust your hearing frequency and you will hear his voice." - Audicus, Disciple of the Sound Mind and Body.
Even the sinister Aelfen lords of the Unseleigh Court knew to fear the eldritch vengeance of the Horned Lord.
The Mughal of the Gremils, the Shah of Lag, the most devoted of Mathom.
The restless shade of a terrible demon of an age long since dust.
Blessed Yandrick, spare my herd from the Hoof Rot, and let the thieves and bandits seek elsewhere! Let my swine grow fat and strong, that they might be sold at market, so my children will have enough food this winter!
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.
The Patron Saint of Beverages, Hang-Overs, Regrets
Cowardly maggots! Bow your thrice cursed heads and thank the goddess that you still draw unworthy breath!
They had thought him a crank, an eccentric, not practicing a real form of magic. How wrong they were.
In a world where it seems that even the smallest of ideals has a deity to call a patron, even bastards have a patron god to call their own.
Last of the Lineage of Senach, young King Nemeroud gave his heart to an Aelfen enchantress and vanished from the lands of men, plunging the land into chaos. If only the tale had ended there
Some people oppose change. Some people cause change. Jaith is the message of change to come.
On moonless nights when ghouls run wild
and ghosties dance and scream and gloat
don’t fret, don’t cry, don’t fear, dear child-
Those ghoulies fear John Bloodycoat
Murderous prophet of a depraved cult, Corvius the Death-Haunted cursed the Empire with an ancient evil that has plagued its lands ever since.
The tragic fate of the legendary beauty has left traces behind until this day.
Molk Peruda is encountered by the PCs on the second day of their journey west from the salt-choked port of Quyn, as they prepare to explore the jungle.
He appears a gaunt, wolfish man, with matted, dark hair that sprouts from his head in dreadlocks, contrasting with his well-oiled, blue-black, conical beard. His eyes are hidden ebon shards beneath thick arching brows, his nose, crooked, long, and reminiscent of a snout. His mouth is a thin, dark line, his teeth unseen even when he parts his lips to speak.
His skin is the color of tallow, surprising perhaps for a renowned jungle guide, yet his natural helm of dreads and the jungle's canopy keeps the sun from bronzing his originally pale flesh. On his back are tattooed three women from the waist up, side-by-side, each resembling the other but of different ages. This is a tattoo of Molk's mother, sister, and daughter. His wife (don't bring her up to him!) was killed by marauding Qullan years ago, and appears as her own tattoo on his broad but sunken chest.
His feet shockingly are turned around 180 degrees at the ankle, facing towards his back! A curse from a pernicious shaman. Molk walks feet backwards (he's used to it) and walks backwards, forwards. This can be very disconcerting and outright creepy to the PCs as he guides them through the rainforest.
Slung from his back is an archer's quarrel of treated wood carved to resemble a stalking leopard, in his hand a re-curved composite bow of horn and sinew, with a pair of vivid, red eyes, each one painted on the opposite side of the hand-grip. In a leather sheath at his belt, hangs a falchion, its pommel adorned with a curved bird's head and beak.