The street is wide, and smoothly paved, with trees planted along the sides. The houses are mansions and palaces, each surrounded by stone and ironwork walls that are as much decorative as they are protective. These are the summer homes of the Princesses, and ladies of privelage.
Flame burns hot, bringing warmth, life, and hope. Anti-Fire burns too, but it devours heat, and saps the will of life. Before the world could be inhabited, all of the coldfire, and anti-fire had to be collected an hidden away safely. The gods did this, placing it in an urn of brass and hiding it away from the world.
Forced to flee by foes that cannot be defeated,this man will return one day to take back what is his.
He slides down the tower and onto the streets from the princess’s balcony and makes his escape! Oh, but if only he would learn from his philanderous ways! “But I won’t learn,” he thought slighly.
Veng the Manipulator is one of the most hideous enemies to mankind the world has ever known. His unique combination of Psionic abilities and magic items allow him to sneak into his victims dreams, and modify and direct the dreams, as well as “adjust memories”. Over the years, he has ‘programmed’ an insidious network of totally devoted followers. Using his natural ability of ‘Wisdom Drain’, he has created an army of willing slaves.
The evil mage Zarakoth is dead, but with his death the world has gone mad. The aging characters are confronted on all sides by rot, death and decay whilst around them the world regresses rapidly to the stone age. Furthermore, Zarakoth seems to have miraculously not died - and to be more powerful than ever.
A blade of unmatched power. It is desired by many a warrior, and yet, everyone it comes in contact with is destroyed by it.
Shes a vampire out for vengance, she’s smart,strong, witty and quite the seductress.
Far to the west of the mountian town of Walkabout Creek lies the Bushlands, a place of rich game, and beyond, the Dragon’s Hills where all manner of rich treasures are said to lie unlooted…
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?
The queen hired a theif to steal the information for the bodering country she’s at war with, but the thief is having some trouble…
A christmas gift to my fellow citadelians, made in my favourite medium. Of course, you all know what my gifts are like. But hey, Christmas is a time of giving!
The Sea is My Home, and Like All Homes I Will Defend it to My Dying Breath -Benedicte De La Courcel
Even though the Gods struggle so, their achievements are temporary at best.
For all beings must dream, and within those dreams dwell the Dreamer.
Come then and succumb to the lord, come then and enter the realm of sleep.
Come then taste the nectar, made of the tears of the dreamer.
-The 5th verse in the Book of the Dreaming Cult
Harbouring the accumalated memories of generations of the Uluun,it offers either great wisdom or raving insanity.
One of the toys of the ruler of the lost realm, the music box of Mordalin gives great powers at an even greater cost.
Man, too, is a primal creature, though he binds himself with the chains named Reason and Law, locked link by link from birth. Yet, those locks can be opened, the links broken, in both the savage world of the street-slum, and in the gilded cages of nobility.
One such creature is the countess-to-be, Alia duBois, who crouches within her golden jail, a puma waiting paitently to maul her captors…
A white silken mask with burnt edges. A white little mask which eventually led it’s wearer to be burnt at the stake.
The Magenta Rose. A keystone item, its presence defines history. It is a rosebush, an Elven construct, a living reminder, which signifies the relationship between two kingdoms at odds.
An Amber Rose is a very unique flower that only grows every five years. It is amber is color and seems to radiate with a sheen of energy. It’s properties are sought after by anyone who knows of the rare flower.
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