Can a demon ever learn what it means to feel pity, grief, fear, despair, joy and the rest of those tangled emotions and feelings that plague humans? Can beings who obtain their deepest satisfaction from the suffering they inflict on others,ever embrace those very things they so passionately despise and hate about the mortal races? Mozrak,wisest of the half-demons and beloved of the Mother Godess, believed it not impossible. The Staff is both his curse and gift to his pureblood cousins.
Thin, tough, gummy almost to a point of rubber, and pitch black in color, it was only by sheer accident that anyone outside the drow race ever learned it was food.
The Road… traverses Time—Time past, Time to come, Time that could have been, and Time that might yet be. Some people have the ability to access the Road and travel it from Time to Time and world to world.
An innocent square of delicate material - barely larger than a handkerchief in size. However, those who’s skin come into contact with this cloth, may find themselves wishing they never handled it.
The PC’s find themselves thrust into a whole new world during what they had thought would be a boring trek through the plains…
Treachery, murder, magic and an army of the dead, all in one rather confusing escapade.
The nutritious fruit of this plant is not unlike a star fruit, with fleshy spindles sticking out in all directions. The leaves, on the other hand, are highly dangerous and have driven many a hungry traveller mad!
Bumbling young wizard, who could link the PC’s to an ancient and reknowned guild…
A once noble man, he was tossed aside and tortured. He is an empty shell of what use to be Human.
These items, potent wards against spirits, were once commonplace. Following the end of the old Empire the methods of their manufacture was lost and none new have been made in the intervening centuries.
A result of the experiments of the world’s first bioengineer, as manifested by a needle and thread and a whole lot of blotting paper.
A wonderer, a warrior. He is both cursed and blessed, he is feared and loved, but always misundestood.
A strong fighter, but an exellent assassin. He is the son of the Bandit Lord, and is the rightful heir to his title.
“Return to me,” she said, and as he died, he said: “I shall return”.
And though the years flew like sparrows from disturbed nest, he did return, year after year…
A reflective sheild, when a weapon intended to harm the wearer of the sheild is seen in its reflection, the weapon will instantly turn to dust.
An ancient sword, corroded yet sharp, which heightens all the worst qualities of its bearer (eg bloodlust, greed, no care for others). [Edited for more detail.]
A small and horrible bundle of needles and dyes with a truly sickening history and unpleasant side effects.
Specially treated troll flesh dried in strips like jerky which heals in small doses.
Thousands of orcs chant in unison as their champion and chieftan raises the black iron morningstar, they chant for the hammer of the underworld, the unbeatable weapon of orcdom.
A small trinket, unseen for centuries. It could be found anywhere: Perhaps lying with another cache of coins in an abandoned monestary. Perhaps behind a glass casing of a coin collectors display. But those who know what this coin represents may be inclined to flip it during times of oppression. Doing so may become their salvation, or the instrument of their demise. So toss the coin if there is nothing to lose, and see if you have The Devils Luck.
Idea from the Aeneid. Could make an intriguing encounter when searching for firewood..."Quite near there happened to be a mound of earth, at the highest part of which were growing thickets of cornel and a dense cluster of spiky myrtle-stems. I went up there and tried to wrench the green growth from the ground to provide a leafy covering for our altar. There I was confronted by a horrible and astounding miracle. For from the first bush which I tried to break off...blood oozed in dark drops, fouling the earth with its spots...A piteous moan came from the base of the mound and I heard a human voice answering me: 'Why, Aeneas, must you rend a poor sufferer? I am buried here...for I am Polydorus. Here death overpowered me in a crop of piercing iron-pointed spears. And so a crop resembling javelins has grown over me...'"