Pardon them, they are barbarians, and think that the customs of their tribe and river are the laws of nature.
Lord Bertrand of Shawstrope
A hybrid of man and animal, bred to serve and now free to live.
An odd little cult dedicated to the care and feeding of their ‘god’, the Cabal of Omnomnom is slowly depleting the region of…
In wonder the adventurers stood awe struck by the beauty and splendour of the surrounding foliage. The great open plain before them transformed from a flat green world into mesmerising colours and movement. The Vissealist stood unmoving, his hands outspread and resting gently on an intricate structure of vines that threaded their way over the wall and into the earth of the plain, spreading outwards from the ramparts of the kings palace.
They consumed Great G’bod. They partook of the Giant Slug’s flesh.
Out of simple roots, a deep faith.
motto of the Brotherhood of Orildus
What we need is an alternative to hiring mages that are good enough to deal with the Guild’s mages.
A tactical lay-out for villainous forces inspired by Warhammer 40K
The worst sort of scoundrels and hoodlums. Let down your guard for a even a second and they are on you like Klavadogs.
30 Druids of the Teufel-GrÃƒÂ¼n Forest
None left upon the Mountain, my brothers in arms.
Motto of the Society of the White Azalea
In this place Brother, all flesh must be eaten.
First Precept of Consumption
A social group of women who meet for purposes of ‘knitting’ and sharing gossip.
Before the formation of the Achelandage and its associated merchant and craft guilds there was only the Civic Guild.
‘The bigger the brain, the smaller the heart. What do wizards know of faith?’
A Renaissance dawns. A School of Art emerges.
The Commander sniffed, “They are a motley group.”
The Captain said, “We will get the job done”.
The Sisters may be found anywhere from street corners, where they offer to tell ones future for a few pennies, to those who appear to be working for the service of a lord. It is said that they go where they will, when they will they work for who they choose, not for who chooses them.
If you think the ones with the axes and beards are bad, wait until you stumble across a nest of feral dwarves…
Go forth to war my son, and be absolved of your transgressions.
St. Acre the Just, Confessor General
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