The most important horse race of the year is fast approaching, thousands are expected to attend. Too bad that the horse favored to win has gone missing…
A prized possession lost ... easy to hurt, difficult to find, and with a tendency to lose itself again, only a white feather left behind…
The tough, hardy adventurers equip up and go out to kill a pack of goblins terrorising the city. Of course, they succeed without trouble and make their way back but their first encounter with a guard patrol on the way back, tells them something is not right…
The master thief Slith could steal a ring from the finger of an elf or the crown at a king’s coronation. He had stolen the great jewelled idol from the Temple of Imor at the climax of the Festival of Summer. Stealing the Ruby Sceptre from the archmage Bryseis should have posed no trouble to a thief of Slith’s talents. It didn’t: it was only afterwards that the trouble started.
Some things remember well. The stones of the Chambers of Nul soaked up the terror of the encarcerated victims and even now remember it, slowly releasing it like sweat. The buried city of Mastad remembers the cries of its citizens as they were crushed, and still they can be heard on the wind.
So it is with the Bed. Over the centuries it has sat in this room it has been host to some interesting guests, and each has left an…impression. Every sleepless night, every troubled thought: the Bed remembers it all. And if you were to spend a night in its downy pillows, you might remember some of it too…
A druid obsessed with Nature’s cycle of death has created a horrendous spore in a plot to rid the lands of a swiftly growing town that has begun to encroach upon his forest.
On the 6th world, there are a few lands with no dragon-lord to guard them. These lands are called the lost lands and the land and the people within face hard times every day, and winter is no easier…
You awake in a strange city, with no knowledge of how you got there, only to find that you are not the only one with amnesia
An impious old mariner feels the lure of wanderlust. He leaves his family and home, but have the gods forgiven his blasphemy?
The unicorns are missing from the land of ‘Magical Airs’. Are they lost? Strayed, or stolen?
Sometimes, just sometimes, the best response isn’t to go for your sword first and ask questions afterwards.
Most advenurers have been forced to do a stint as caravan guards at some point in their career, just to see them through hard times. One would hope that they’d learned enough from the experience to pull off a successful raid themselves. The only catch - they mustn’t kill anybody.
A powerful wizard comes to a town to uncover treasure he believes is hiddes there. You must protect it.
If a strange dream guided you to a lost valley of wonder, guarding the path to a place of glory, would you be brave enough to go?
There was He, and there was She. And She was shy of men at first, always being told to distrust them. But He taught Her what love is, and promised Her everything he could. And they lived in happiness, and their love was perfect, for the rest of their lives.
What do you do if your employer begins to go mad? Particularly if you’ve managed to build up a long tradition of working for him.
The Crown Princess of Sadaren needs a husband! There’s just a few teeny little problems.
When a mysterious man hires them to slay Baza, the Yellow Priest, will the heroes find more than they bargained for?
A short adventure synopsis for any party which is getting a little too big for it’s boots.
The PCs enter a dilapidated old town where murders occur without provocation by men nearly gone insane, they meet a mysterious stranger, people on watch fall asleep quickly, and for the love of (Insert deity here) can’t get a decent night’s sleep (That is, they sleep, but don’t really feel rested at all).
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.