A vast, intricate complex of kilns and forges where the low-grade ore from the Thunderhead mines are turned into steel of unsurpassed quality. What are the secrets of the Acibus Foundry?
One of the Locastrian Regiments, footsoldiers with a reputation for savagery and a predilection for the meanest, dirtiest assignments…..
Prowling the wild seas of Acqua like the ravenous raiders that they are, these militant priests of Holy Jove are sworn to their sacred mission of destroying the unbelievers and infidels wherever they may be found on the open ocean.
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.
Scents of ages past and scents of the zeitgeist. A guild of perfumers.
Dropped Colonies are the worst kind of colony, one step up from a forced or pirate colony. However, they are the most common.
"Aww, dang, did you fart again?" asked the Jordy, The Knight.
"No, screw you! I didn’t fart in the first place!" replied The Scoundrel, Harris. What they didn’t know was that the Smelbinders could hear their every word.
They consumed Great G’bod. They partook of the Giant Slug’s flesh.
"I walked through the poor’s quarters, and my eye was not harmed. All functional, and simple, and crude, made on the whims of fate and delivered by immediate need.
I walked through the merchant’s quarters, and my eye was bored. Pretensions where nothing backed them, striving for appearance without substance, evidence of changing wealth, too much only began, too much never finished.
I walked through the place where the powerful lived, and my eye was tired. Too much of attempted beauty turned hideous, and a lack of taste was made worse by willing lackeys.
But then I’ve seen the treasure of the city. A cathedral, that was part of the sky, columns, and arches to carry the weight of the world, shapes to let your mind fly along, and ornaments to stop by. A place to ponder, to be pleased to be alive, to accept suffering, and to realize your mistakes. This is a place I could learn from."
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
The heart of Humanity, the Starkin Federation is the largest faction of Man amongst the stars, the mightiest vehicle of his ambition.
Out of simple roots, a deep faith.
motto of the Brotherhood of Orildus
What we need is an alternative to hiring mages that are good enough to deal with the Guild’s mages.
The deployment of the Lord of the Waste’s army.
A tactical lay-out for villainous forces inspired by Warhammer 40K
The Children of the Lord of Black Pleasures were once a cult to be feared. Nothing was too depraved, no torture to extreme. They might come back once more.
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
The worst sort of scoundrels and hoodlums. Let down your guard for a even a second and they are on you like Klavadogs.
The omens read a difficult birth Daughter. Seek the sisters of Lutgardis and they will ease your pain and bring a new life into this world and with a touch of luck keep one in it.
Sister Gwevenese Rabaste
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.