More correctly known as the Imperial National Bank of Nippon and the Pacific Rim Coalition (INBNPRC)
Melpomene's Espers? Ha! Let me know how that goes, and after that let me know when you find Atlantis and Jimmy Hoffa!
Entering a new city there are street urchins, hustlers, con men, kidnappers, thieves and burglars looking to make their day’s prophet. The victim, in many cases the PC, is known as the mark and is the target of whatever kind of hustle they have planned. These hustlers are always on the lookout for easy pickings.
You felt a slight tingle as the man looked you in the eyes, and he is currently approaching confidently with a look of recognition on his face. He smiles and you know you know him, you just don’t know how.
The Spies of Lindor is a large connection of people, who could show up at your doorstep, store, or right behind you at this very moment…
How a disgruntled con man managed to kill hundreds, become a saint among death cults, and create plagues of monsters. All by writing a pamphlet.
Various entities in the Starkin Universe to support the ongoing forum game.
"Liberty is every human’s right, and we fight for it, no matter how much the government doesn’t want us to. You are no longer civilians, humanitarians, or even Americans: you are Freedom’s shadow; you are Justice’s cloak; you are Liberty’s Call."rnrn-Sergeant Jacob O’Mallory addressing new recruits at Liberty’s Call training facility near Portland, Oregon.
"Was it… just a dream?"
An order stretching back to the first days of the Plague, the Knights Medicus are starting to die out as the Plague deteriorates their numbers.
No, not a LOTR knock-off
These groups were originally for use with the Project Underworld PBP game, to which I contributed the minor covens.
From the outlook of my new and inexpensive flat, I could see her. She was kneeling in the graveyard across the cobblestoned way in front of a fresh grave. She was in dark mourning gear, complete with those large black hats that were the fashion. A lost lamb I supposed, recently wed, recently widowed, crying for the loss of a loved one. She had been there two days that I noticed, as well as their nights. She never seemed to move, so locked she was in her grief. As I drank a lonely nightcap, I caught the glimpse that changed me. In the pale moon light, I saw the grave buckle. In a foul corruption of Athenean birth, some spawn sprang forth. Not taking my eyes off the horrid scene, I reached over to the weapon I had been cleaning. Before I could grasp it fully, the petite young widow of my imagination cleared a saber concealed under her over cape and removed its loathsome head. After checking her kill, she looked up at me; backlit I assumed by the lamp in the room. She was not just a simple widow, she was Mourner. I held up my glass in a true salute from one professional to another. At that point I knew two new things: That the Unnatural truly had become more active as I had been hearing in the back alleys and I needed to move far from that graveyard.
Give me your greenskins, your mobz, and your grunts
These Trolls travel land and sea in an eternal search for their next war. The Host of Battle—for they have no other name for themselves—is part mercenary army, part ethnicity.