The dual, muted voice called out it’s siren wail across the dunes, “...Of course, no one as brilliant as yourself would ever enter the deeper desert without one of my extra light canteens. Why, I haven’t seen anyone come out alive without them! If you act now I can give you the reduced price…”
Her lips pressed against the soaking flesh of the toad, and Viova’s words entered her mind…
“...And you, Human, must follow our words, lest we summon up every curse that lies buried beneath these sands and pour them upon you and your children, and their children, and in turn their children, for so many generations that your blood will surely never survive.”
Swarming, never-ending, sea of teeth, muscle, and scales. They are all pervasive, all consuming, and they will destroy you. Devouring body and soul. They are hatred and fear incarnate, a punishment from the foul and incomprehensible gods.
They come in the night, and they take things. Nothing neccesary. Maybe they’ll take some candle wax, mabe a few sticks, a curtain, anything. But guard all your possesions boy, because if you don’t, they’ll come down on you like a hellbeast in one of their damned machines.
An influential fungus among us!
In Gaeaioa’s wings, inspiration is physical.
Legends claim that in the far south, men made of ice roam…
The majestic, draconian riding beasts of Tarran.
Jemas Lorne, the most celebrated poet of the age, was found dead, clutching a fragment of verse torn from his journal. The tantalizing fragment spoke of wealth:
Golden sands, empty and cold,
Treasure's crypt, forgotten gold.
Under stone, ancestor's doom,
Noble's prize, troubadour's tomb.
Rumours claim that the poet's father, an eccentric nobleman, had hidden much of his wealth before his death. Perhaps the missing journal has more clues?