Priest of a death goddess
Fifteen men on a dead man's chest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Drink and the devil had done for the rest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
The mate was fixed by the bosun's pike
The bosun brained with a marlinspike
And cookey's throat was marked belike
It had been gripped by fingers ten;
And there they lay, all good dead men
Like break o'day in a boozing ken
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
"Cities in the deep? I've never heard such foolishness. A talking lobster? Rubbish!"
''I stand before you now to tell you that the gods have spoken to me! Obey not the strictures of the Church! They seek only to deprive us of the very same pleasures that they enjoy themselves''.
One day a man named Koret claimed to realize what was wrong with humanity. Shortly after that he claimed to have figured out how to fix all the world problems, and he wrote down a series of commandments aimed at saving humanity from themselves. Over 500 years after his teachings were literally set into stone people are still talking about what he wrote, and some are even trying to follow it.
A cool, Northern land, populated by the strange Maskenfolk
After she ate the middle part of my wife’s body she gestured me out the door. Then she paddled me to the den of the Sage. All the while I stared at her rune marked back, my hand on the hilt of my sword, and I thought of my father and the hens.
Maxilan Carth, the Hunter of the Bayous, was the bane of the gatorfolk in life. To those who follow Jampiri, he provides protection from those beasts from beyond the grave.
"Dat woman... She was terrible to behold. Terrible but beautiful. She sat on a great throne, surrounded by her gatorfolk servants. She stood and she looked mighty angry. She look down at me an' Tergryn an' de rest, and she yell in some strange tongue - de elf-folk, I tink. She had a fury in her soul, an' I could feel her evil eye on me. Doric - hui, poor Doric! - she had 'er gatorfolk slash his belly wit' his claws and tore out his entrails. De gobbled dem up... Poor Doric..."
- Jorif Grisold, survivor
She is the high priestess of Jampiri, the outcast of the Kanaar, the guardian of the gatorfolk. Swynmoor's resident witch is powerful and knowledgeable, keeping the natural balance in the swamps.
"De Kanaar folk tink all dere gods and medicines are secret. But I live in dese marshes long enough to hear dere gods, whether pointy-ear folk like it or not. I can hear dere comin's and goin's, an' I can make dem see you or skip you as you like."
- Tonis, hillaq of Rakart Village
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 land of Vartanadel is full of twisted and fabricated truths. To stay in power, one must play the game.
The eldest civilization in the land with a king that can create and destroy royalty on a whim.ddd
Changing the Maddux is a difficult as changing the weather. And like the storm on the horizon, all one can do when Maddux sings is to prepare yourself as best you can.
If you were to wander the Spiked Sea today this is one of the movers and shakers you might meet.
The food of the Gods: specifically a bitter sappy God.
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