Moderators of the wildly popular VORPG, Polyworld, had no idea that one of their most famous cites Edotown had been stolen and for quite some time. No wonder there were so many complaints and bug reports coming in.
In a world where teleportation magic doesn’t exist, the opportunity to travel a few days journey in moments is beyond value. With only a simple toll, you can be practically on the doorstep of Nizul-tibi before you know it.
There are few places more treacherous than pools of quicksand save for a sea of quicksand. Those who tread here quickly find that the lust for adventure or coin might leave them with a sinking feeling of despair.
Efeterthrop is one of those places that may well be a bottomless pit of sin and squalor to most who speak of it, but to those that live and raise their own there they can see no freer place in existence. Ironically, cloaked behind a fierce sense of freedom is a strict social code none break thoughtlessly.
The high society of the city of Efeterthrop is a lively bunch to say the least. Their dedication to chaos and anarchy is unbeatable, so long as they stay in charge.
A place where no one knows about or finds until the Circle chooses a person to discover it. For the Circle of Culthus has a purpose for that person, and letting other people know of it or discover it would hinder that purpose.
Sometimes a roadblock is there for a reason. There are some places you don't want to be after sundown.
The Dragon Mines are a place for a free man to gain riches through a hard life and a place to hide those that defy the King, the laws or the Shan.
The Nobles of Vartanadel play a yearly game of politics that climaxes at the yearly Naming ceremony that changes everything. It is then that the King names his favorite and they all find out if they are still labeled as a King's favorite or if their lives will be forfiet.
The Forgotten Cemetery is famed throughout the world as a monument to the World War. Only the survivors of the Forgotten Battle and the cemetery's caretaker remembers its true purpose.
Triastu. The City of the Three. The Hallowed City. Triastu is the holy city of Trianarianism, and is the home of the Trirex. Many have paid homage to it, and many have gone on pilgrimages to it, and have marveled in its beauty.
The land of Vartanadel is full of twisted and fabricated truths. To stay in power, one must play the game.
An army can be compared to a craftsmen. Both produce for gain. A craftsmen produces a product, a good, for monetary gain. An army, however, produces corpses for resource acquisition. Be it on the battlefield or in the medical tent with the severely wounded being put out of their misery, the fillers of graves are being produced.
Any mind of the modern age has thought about putting those bodies to work. Necromancy has long been socially inacceptable. Besides, no one enjoys seeing a former comrade, a former brother-in-arms, walking around fighting and killing with a spear hole in his gut and a couple arrows hanging from the arms. And the only other way was to throw the dead body into a catapult and throw it at the enemy, in the hopes of giving them plague.
It was Obstarian military who first unleashed the Raveten on their foes during the World War. No one was prepared for it. And so people died.
The eldest civilization in the land with a king that can create and destroy royalty on a whim.ddd
When the barbarian increase their raiding of Tauria, the King of Tauria decides that hiring a couple of lowlife mercenaries (the PCs) is his best option to fix the problem.
There are three ways to live. And living them well, living them with purpose, allows you to die easy.
Found, normally, deep in the swamp, the Friar's Weed's poison is something to be watched for.
Felim collapsed into the snow, exhausted. It felt like it would be the last fall this time, his limbs stiffening and flesh numb. The adventurer had heard of natives that thrived out here, men who slew bears and made coats of seal fur. But who could build anything out here...?
Just as he felt light start to fade, Felim cast his gaze up to see the sky one last time. He was startled - or would have been, if his body had the energy - to see a furred hood and a leathery face with a toothless grin. "Ho there, brother!" it spoke. "You came to just the right place."
A basic history of the continent of Atheus.
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
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Sometimes Utopias should stay as mere legends.