Brine S’Vick is the Shark Lord, a giant man amongst the ocean curent.
One of the first prototypes of the Oraki, the red-headed Lilith remains one of the leaders of their race to this day.
The corrupted god of war, felled by the lost god of vengeance to his present pitiable state.
The Lord of Agony, He of Corpulent Pain
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…
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.
As far as everyone knows, the Maze has always been there; the strange pair of gates set in the side of a mountain a common feature in every painting of the area, no matter how ancient. One white, one red, nobody knows what they're made of but they resist any attempt to damage them; they’re always slightly cool to the touch no matter the weather, they have a very reflective surface, and if you look at them in a bright light, sometimes it looks as if they glow on their own.
The important thing is what’s on the other side of them, of course. The Maze itself is a strange place where the normal rules are suspended, and its own set takes their place. It’s a place filled with puzzles and riddles, monsters and traps; it’s always consistent with itself in any single run but is never the same two times around, and sometimes you could swear it has a sadistic streak, delighting in tricking the unwary adventurer.
It is a dangerous place, as so many people will rush to tell you; most people who go in never come out, and even those who do usually end up scarred for life. They also bring out with them enormous piles of riches, which is why people keep going in anyway.