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.
Half-Man, Half-Bull? Surely you’re joking. But if it’s Dungeon Crawling you need to do there’s nobody better than The Minotaurs.
And Zhardun spoke unto [the corpses], and his rage at their cowardice was plain and open: "Now is thy last chance at redemption." 2:2:3,9
These are the Gods of Food and Eating! Beware their culinary prowess and tremble before the might of their cookery! These are… More Placeholder Gods!
A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world