Goblins descended on civilised land from the east nearly one thousand years ago. Now, it's time to descend upon them with all the fury they have shown us they are capable of.
The Odaneimo Mountains aren't exactly the sort the bards talk about, they dont tear at the sky or trip the gods. They are still tall enough that you just can't go hiking over them. There are just two passes through them, Oshen Pass down in the south, and Zoran pass, in the north. It would be worth a pretty penny if someone could find a middle pass through.
Diad, Teamsters Guild-boss
Or, 30 Ways for Mad Science to go Delightfully Awry
In the chosen families, the son was always more dangerous than the father.
- "This is train CIV1181, kilometer 15 right after the station. There is a person close to the track on my left side. Could you send somebody to look at it."
- "Understood. Anything suspicious?"
- "He simply lies there. And I think he was there yesterday, too…"
"Did ya hear that? There’s riches found every night, all over the town! No way you can miss that!"
This was such a nice place to spend a good evening. Now, everyone who wins a little money is found dead the other day! I bet the owner is up to something…
"What, never heard of it? I thought a young hacker like you would already know. Well let me tell you…"
A mysterious young nobleman is making quite a stir in the court, and not all are pleased about it…
Among his effects, the highwayman had 24 mysterious vials. What could the strange liquid portend?
The PC’s have to help a disenfranchised young man reclaim his village.
A commoner has run into a LOT of money! Unfortunately, everyone knows it. Good luck getting out of town in one piece!
The local lord has been deprived of his prize family heirloom, the thief isn’t exactly a thief, but rather an absent minded wizard. Get the heirloom from the kindly but absent minded professor. Simple, right? Well, except for the fine print.
Sinister, enganging plot involves a powerful tool fallen into the wrong hands. Only the players can set things right. They have a piece of the tool, but first they have to figure out how the tool works, why two opposing forces are persuing them, whom to trust, and what to do next. Murder, accusation, betrayal, diplomacy, combat, and constant mystique force the players to make incredibly difficult decisions.
Defenceless villagers, highway bandits, and primitive tribesmen.
But who has the magic crystals a young shaman needs?
And how do you get hold of them?
An ancient ruin, a pair of boastful teenagers, and a bunch of indifferent gargoyles - but who let the demonic spirit out
Some legends are history, some are mere stories, and some have a basis in fact. This may not be quite what it seems.
A jolly night with friends turns out to have long-lasting consequences. Can a hardened adventurer handle infinite responsibilities of a single dad - especially when there’s an evil mage out there looking for the adventurer’s child?
Children have been disappearing from a herding village for the past 3 years. The superstitious locals blame it on the “gatha”, a troll living in the woodlands.
Arriving in a small village the adventurering party is drawn into a meeting of the Parish Guild…
AutoMedon – A mechanical poet of renown not for his vast catalog of poetry, but for his complete lack of anything written or spoken, having had no output in his programmed profession. His creator is unknown or at least unaccredited, and there are those in great number in the artistic world who wonder and marvel at his inability to produce poetry, crediting that flaw to his creator who is unknown or at least un-credited. There is also a small faction of scholars who believe that when he finally, finally speaks, it will be the most beautiful or sorrowful verse ever spoke or will ever be spoken. Whether his creator is among either group or dead is unknown. AutoMedon sits alone under a tin roofed enclosure, upon a stone chair, with his gaze off in the distant as if thinking.
“It’s strange to look at this mechanical man and think what thoughts are working through its’ workings or even if the damn thing is” – Aralis of Qurim, poet and pottery salesman