Forget the white mare with swan wings, Spellshaper is a completely different kind of pegasus. He is a hell raising, head tossing, hot blooded beast with one driving passion…to race.
The most important horse race of the year is fast approaching, thousands are expected to attend. Too bad that the horse favored to win has gone missing…
Small bits of precious metal, and flawless jewels woven into the mane of a noble steed
Dark Lands is a dark magical prison/labrynth created by a long dead Dark Mage. His secrets were kept alive by his followers and they sold enchanted artifacts to those with enough riches to purchase them. These artifacts contain the power to spellcast the target into the deadly prison where it’s victims worst nightmares are manifested into reality. Read more in the full version!
A prized possession lost ... easy to hurt, difficult to find, and with a tendency to lose itself again, only a white feather left behind…
Leather gloves that grant one the ability to manipulate metal.
“Bah!” The bowman cried, for his bow had fallen apart in his very hands, after firing but one arrow! “Wait until I get to that weaponsmith. These arrows are obviously cursed!” The bowman discarded the quiver of 200 arrows by the road, where scavengers found it, and each separate arrow went their own ways with different owners, as time passed. Some found them cursed. Others, found that they may not be as cursed as one thinks.
It is a popular view amongst magic-users, that most members of the Cult of Malidon are just bitter people, blaming magic for their private losses and defeats, often seeking to silence some other qualms with burning witches. For one low cultist at least, this view is completely wrong…
A tool to keep body and spirit fit!
Small wooden discs about 2 1/4 inches in diameter and between 5 and 10mm thick (see below). They are rumoured to be made from the roots of the great tree Unity that supports the centre of the world.
Firey food for your favorite feathered friend.
Even some of the most mundane-seeming items may have surprising and useful - or dangerous - qualities about them. This particular item is one of those.
A young lady of common birth, ascended to the heights of society, and then cast down into the despair of unlife, seeking a dead love.
This mace, is the symbol of the kadumish dwarve’s independence. In the days of old, the dwarves were defeated and invaded by the dragon men, who enslaved the dwarves. Dranothoin, stood up to them wit his mighty mace and smote the granite statue of the dragon men god. This inspired the dwarves to revolt.
Within the fragile bounds of this cage of crystalline metal, your will and talent may work wonders…
4 bladed claw weapon, with the fourth blade in a rather unusual place.
It’s a flying city which hosts a school of ancient technology…
A prison ... a sanctuary ... a gateway ... a murderous tool. Grasp the power of a circle of midnight.
The tough, hardy adventurers equip up and go out to kill a pack of goblins terrorising the city. Of course, they succeed without trouble and make their way back but their first encounter with a guard patrol on the way back, tells them something is not right…
A sword that learns and teaches, forever singing of past and present.
Molk Peruda is encountered by the PCs on the second day of their journey west from the salt-choked port of Quyn, as they prepare to explore the jungle.
He appears a gaunt, wolfish man, with matted, dark hair that sprouts from his head in dreadlocks, contrasting with his well-oiled, blue-black, conical beard. His eyes are hidden ebon shards beneath thick arching brows, his nose, crooked, long, and reminiscent of a snout. His mouth is a thin, dark line, his teeth unseen even when he parts his lips to speak.
His skin is the color of tallow, surprising perhaps for a renowned jungle guide, yet his natural helm of dreads and the jungle's canopy keeps the sun from bronzing his originally pale flesh. On his back are tattooed three women from the waist up, side-by-side, each resembling the other but of different ages. This is a tattoo of Molk's mother, sister, and daughter. His wife (don't bring her up to him!) was killed by marauding Qullan years ago, and appears as her own tattoo on his broad but sunken chest.
His feet shockingly are turned around 180 degrees at the ankle, facing towards his back! A curse from a pernicious shaman. Molk walks feet backwards (he's used to it) and walks backwards, forwards. This can be very disconcerting and outright creepy to the PCs as he guides them through the rainforest.
Slung from his back is an archer's quarrel of treated wood carved to resemble a stalking leopard, in his hand a re-curved composite bow of horn and sinew, with a pair of vivid, red eyes, each one painted on the opposite side of the hand-grip. In a leather sheath at his belt, hangs a falchion, its pommel adorned with a curved bird's head and beak.