In the middle of nowhere, followers of nature religions meet for a great festival. Also, the new druid for that region of the world is going to be “elected”. Not all of the 4 contestants are initiates, however…
It can be dangerous trying to send someone a message. Spoken words may be overheard, written correspondence may be intercepted, and body language may be seen. Did you ever wish you could think the words and they would be known?
"When our barbarian ancestors first arrived on the plains of our homeland, they found them covered in dust inches thick. They named them Muranvan, the Dusty Plains and armed with spades they cleared the dust heaving it off the edge of the world. For they had been chasing the Prey for long aeons up the face of the cliffs at the edge of the world, and in the chase had tired of their nomadic ways. They wanted a stable home. So they founded Takvanak, the City on the Plains. In the long silence after they had cleared the dust from Muranvan, rang out the deep and unforgettable tones of the Iron Heart, Saekeri, and the barbarians knelt and felt resounding reverence."
- The Saekeran, book 1 verse 1.
Cities are dynaimc organisms, alive in their own right. They grow and develope their own natures and their own cultures that are unique to them. Some are eloquent and grand, while others are slightly dirty, and willing to be bought. But anything alive can die…
Tired of people that just don’t keep their word? Well, with a Binding Oath Ring, that’ll be next to imposible.
This creation of Necromancy allows a true Necromancer access to certain powers engineered specifically for the spread of the practice. Created in the Forgotten Realms, a mysterious item ideal for the young or old.
Full Powers and the Full History of the item are included.
An item that can be used at any distance when the wielder is in favor with the owner that allows the user to cast spells, even in a null-magic zone.
A powerfull Orb made by Hardom, the Elven god of the crafting of magical items. Its porpose was to stop the constant requests by the Elves.
Tired of the constant harassment from human hunters, Cobrais took upon him a human form and sought to dissuade the humans from seeking out his people ever again.
Gareth turned and squinted uneasily over his shoulder. He could have sworn he heard a high pitched hiss. He turned back to continue through the dim underground passageway. It was then that he saw them. A pair of ruby red eyes, glowing faintly a few feet front of him. He had to look up to see them, and that is saying something, given Gareth’s generous stature. The strike was quick…he had no chance. The last thing he remembered were the eyes hovering above him and the fangs dripping venom. And was that a second set of eyes gleaming beneath the first…?
With her gray hair in a grandmotherly bun, and wont to wear grey dresses with lace and floral brocade, few would suspect the kindly Mistress of the bakery and part time apothecary of being a child of dark magic…
Blackrose Academy was built as a center for anyone wanting to learn. It houses some of the most intelligent and brilliant minds of its time. People would come from all around to study magic, languages, warfare and tactics, among other things. But that has changed.
There are sewers beneath the cobbled stone streets, carrying the filth of society away, rather than letting it pile up into steaming heaps of refuse. Something has moved into the sewers and is now coming to the surface to feed.
Most see the hunch-backed girl with the black hair, and give her a few copper pieces out of pity or mercy. These she spares from her nightly rooftop hauntings, as her hunch holds a darker secret than a deformed spine.
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.
Cold Comfort is a long-sword of star-steel, its blade giving off a wan, blueish light. Its grip is wrapped tightly in snow-serpent hide, and its pommel bears a single opalescent gemstone.
This blade is enchanted in such a way, that whoever wields it, begins to fall completely and irrevocably "in love" with the weapon. This love does not manifest itself as the expected reverence and bond formed between any warrior and his weapon, but as a deeper, truer love, one has for a soul-mate of the same species! The longer the wielder carries Cold Comfort the stronger and more disturbing this love becomes, and only the most powerful of magicks can potentially break the sword's insidious spell. The blade's owner will even speak to and coo to the weapon, convinced that the sword understands and returns this epic love.
If the blade's wielder somehow loses the weapon or has it taken away, they will become inconsolable, and will predictably go to "ends of the earth and back" to retrieve it at any cost. Such is the weapon's curse that even separation from it does not damper the feelings the owner has for the sword. Legends tell of several distraught and mind-addled knights who even years after losing the blade, still wander the country-side searching for their lost love. And woe be to the "new lover" if and when they find him or her.