Suffering from an ancient curse, the Medusan race is slowly dying.
They consumed Great G’bod. They partook of the Giant Slug’s flesh.
A social group of women who meet for purposes of ‘knitting’ and sharing gossip.
The Sisters may be found anywhere from street corners, where they offer to tell ones future for a few pennies, to those who appear to be working for the service of a lord. It is said that they go where they will, when they will they work for who they choose, not for who chooses them.
Come ye who HUNGER!
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