Before there was the National Enquirer, there was Kaboo.
The legendary blacksmith, founder of clan Ironspirit, and he whom brought the steel of the Gods themselves to mortal man.
Though he like a bit of the drink, he is the proper organizer for the district.
On the surface, Sir Edmund Verney is a very good man, deeply loved by most citizens of Karnivhal. He is a war hero, knighted on the battlefield,a curer of diseases, and one of those who purged the country of evil mages. However, he himself has a deeply hidden secret life, that he wants very much to keep hidden by any means nesscessary…
A freed air elemental, with a reason to stick around.
Most Dragons live to accumulate wealth and crouch upon heaps of gold, content to slag troublesome heroes into cinders and distaining the company of men to absolute solitude. Vychan is not such a dragon.
James Barley is a hard drinking, minimum-effort working hired hand…
“8 Ortio, 986 - At last, I’ve captured the amulet! I certainly could not have done it without the help of my unusual mercenary companion. He has very much impressed me with his skill. We encamp in Durath Woods for the night and make for Kharath in the morning.
9 Ortio, 986 - Amulet missing. So is Thaxen. No longer impressed with merc.”
-Sir Wardren Lank’s journal
A dashing Bard, who also happens to be a shared drug experience.
From the age of 15 he was trained to be a gladiator and for the next seven years he was, until he broke free in order to fight and defeat his capturers. For the past several years he has been waiting for that moment.
Need a mercenary, or two, or fifty? Don’t know whether to hire the Crimson Brigade or the Azure Legion? Unsure of Tim the Dragon-slayer’s effectiveness? Don’t know how to contact a group to set up a contract? Then come see Arkath, the man who can answer all those questions and more.
A voice as supple as silk, a face hidden in the shadows of a hood, yet the words she speaks are colder than the grave and burn more furiously than any inferno.
Thoral’s grim brigade is a mercenary unit under curse. They are led by Thoral, a half-undead half-realdead reanimated barbarian who negotiates the brigades affairs in a terse and direct whisper.
I don’t know what it was that set Shoutin’ Sam off, but when he left, it was like goddamned Apaches had busted in here and had a scalpin’ party in the saloon…
Failure. For most, it is an occasional streak of bad luck to be suffered. For others… well, it’s a living.
The saloon was smokey on the hot prairie night. She looked over her fan at her fellow players. The fan hid her smile, but not the smile in her eyes. “Well Gentlemen, I think I won’t call you on that.” Her dollars hit the table. “I think I’ll raise.”
Once noble and proud, the Cyclopes of the desert are now all but dust on the wind…
The Latrani are elusive as desert ghosts, dangerous as sand scorpions, and as rare as oases in the wastes.
Brutal are the Seitch raids that come up out of the vast waste of the Calcobrinan desert. They come clad in dusky browns, bearing black iron weapons, raiding for food, water, gold, and women.
He is fat, kind, witty and against violence. The last person you would expect to be a vampire
Moonlight shines down on the tranquil scene of a slumbering inn along one of the many roads that cross the land. Trees sway gently in the night air, and the stars twinkle brightly. All is quiet as the PCs snore away, a fine tendril of smoke curlsrnunder their door. The tavern is on fire! This is particularly bad news if the PCs own any horses - the screaming they hear is probably from their mounts! Panicky people are rushing about with buckets of water, trying to tame the flames. The fire fighting effort is not very coordinated as everybody is either hungover or still drunk, including the PCs. Hurry!