A lovable old traveller with a voice that can make stories come alive.
A sage is a well known repository of knowledge, a researcher of ancient lore. But knowledge is power, and a commodity to be brokered and sold to the highest bidder. The meershaum smoking man is such a dealer of antiquities and of lore unknown, but he is wrapped in a shroud of secrecy of his own. Can the PCs divine his ulterior motives, or is he a wizened, albeit elusive, sage?
The PCs find themselves on a diplomatic mission, to return the Statue of Helce to the country from whom it was stolen long ago. They soon find themselves tied up in conspiracy, guerilla warfare and a surprising amount of molten rock…
The ice lands…. A place where the forces of ice and frost hold power eternal over the lands,a place where the life giving rays of the sun are smothered and mocked by an eldritch ice mist.. For these desolate,frozen plains are home to the dread Ice Worshippers,a race of savage and feared nomads who are as merciless and relentless as the sinister ice that dominates their lands,the same ice they revere and hold in awe. Held in terror and loathing by the folk of the fair south,they eagerly await the day the ice sends them forth to unleash upon the civilized lands, a demon winter that yearns to consume all life..
Nadia, a sixteen year-old noble lady, is put up to the challenge of surviving when her panpered lifestyle is abrubtly shattered.
Where many a woman’s heart is filled with longing for love, or the comfort of the hearth and home, this arrogantly beautiful woman is consumed with but one thing. Ambition. Born without a heart, but with the grace and genteel manners of the aristocracy, she is the iron fist in a lace glove.
As High chief and seer of the Bakali, the lizardman Baragh is aware that the vey survival of his doomed race hangs in his claws. Knowing that the odds stacked against him are great, he nevertheless pursuses with great doggedness his goal of finding a hero willing to aid him in his struggle to to restore the land of his ancestors back to its rightful masters. Though a part of him knows that the plight of a primitive race of non humans is unlikely to elicit much sympathy, he clings on to the hope that there will be someone brave and noble enough to share his cause.
When the gods were born, so was Spark ... though of little power, he did not lack drive, and so did not those whom he favored…
Serenity Cove is a picturesque coastal town once thriving and prosperous. Now finds that it is in the grips of a terrible evil.
King Coloman had a problem.King Charles (known as the Fat King behind his back) was coming to take over his kingdom.It was not that Coloman had started any trouble, it was just that the Fat King was as greedy for new lands to add to his over growing empire as he was at the dinner table.Whilst the Fat King was not a good general himself,he had several talented subordinates who were, as well as an army three times the size of Coloman’s.
King Coloman called his Royal Council together to decide what to do.Simply using assassins would not work.There were six decent generals, and at most an assassin might be able to kill two,and that would mean he or she would die in the attempt. Reingold was put to work to create a magical weapon that could kill all six generals,without being so dangerous that it endangered all those who were making it.
He considered golems (too many guards) and various other ideas, and came up with a cloak that had hidden powers.A supposed traitor was the man who gave the Fat King the cloak. The cloak made the Fat King feel wonderful and healed a small wound and some boils that he had, but within an hour, all six generals dropped dead, their strength sucked into the Fat King. Without his generals, the Fat King lost the Battle of Silverock Pass and was killed in the rout that followed. The slightly damaged cloak was recovered and locked for safety in the King’s Treasury, only to be stolen a decade later…
An area known for sweeping mountain vistas, and sleepy alpine hamlets has all but exploded with miners, adventurers, and thieves. Dwarves are showing up in troops, while orcs are churning towards the valley. The reason? Simple…
There’s gold in them thar hills!
Known to the priests of Schiehallion as "The All-Seeing Eye", Watcher is in actuality merely one of the more minor of Corvus’s orbs. Little did Corvus guess that such a mundane tool would one day be revered as a fountain of knowledge.
An escaped goblin who only wants to live his life to help others. Yet humans and other more advanced races push him down and chase him off.
To refer to Rubens a inn is an insult. There are no battered bars, or heaving bosoms, or the scent of stale beer and tobacco smoke. There are no crowded common rooms, or cheap entertainment. The flooring is plush, the rooms are exquisite, and the bill is out of this world…
A potentially devastating foe with arms, and fists of living stone…
For years trading ships have come to the Islands of Teanoi seeking treasures of gold, pua shell, and exotic herbs and spices. Trade has dwindled, and ships vanish without a trace, but the trade is too valuable to give up, and thus the ships still come. The islands also lay close to a shipping lane, and are a regular stop for ships seeking only to take on fresh supplies of foodstuffs and water.
Soon merchants begin seeking outside aid to protect their ships from the unknown menace that the islanders call Teanoi…
It is an long simple key, with a crystal in the turning loop. It seems insignificant, but it is a thing of legend. Every thief in the four realms has heard of it. Scholars and madmen, and those opposing the madmen all quest for it. It is a simple key to lock or unlock anything.
This is a city deep in the hills of old Aviansis. The path to Merideth is magically obscured, so only those with the pathfinder’s gift can find it. The city is still bustling with souls after all these centuries. They trade with each other, make deals, sell things, and even send messages. Unfortunately only a few of them have warm bodies or heartbeats.
A huge castle whose foundations are crumbling…A murderer on the run in the caverns below.
Sometimes a sword’s value is not determined by magical properties, of gilding and jewels. Sometimes it’s value comes from it’s deeds and it’s history
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