Why is magic used by so few when it is so much use?
The fort seemed like every small boys dream, but in fact it was a very well made magical prison, and the young prince only learned the truth when it was too late and the magic sucked him inside, his cries from his now inch high body too quiet to be heard.
Since magic can be used so powerfully for evil, why are there not a lot more evil and/or deranged wizards around in the world?
An ancient relic from a bird worshiping time.
Science has many answers, and with the advent of hypertechnology and arcanotechnology it seemed that there were no questions left to be conquered. But the manifestation of parapsychic abilities, wastelands, and the 'Storm' left many questions and no answers.
The land of Airithrin is a horrible place, a land of reeking fumes and geysers of flame, lakes of lava and the strange life forms that emerge when elementals breed with mundane creatures
More than just ink and dedication, these tats pack some serious power.
Few things shine as bright as the jewels of Hell
"How is he? Will my son ever recover from the bugs that turned his brain to mush?"
The doctor pointed to where the thirty-seven year old was playing with toys on the floor. "It's been five years now and he has the brain of a child, give it another five and we can start the basics of teaching him magic again. He knows who you are but...but he will never have the same personality again, and by the time he regains all his magic skills at their former levels he will be in his sixties."
"Anyone can draw a map, boy - there's no more difficulty in that than laying brick. What makes maps useful is when they are so proper, so precise, that they are living images of the places they represent. Encompassing knowledge of the geography, and mastery of the very space itself - that, child, is cartogramancy."
- Sage Pakpao Sasithorn, Chief Lecturer, the Ezagun-Darkbolt College of Cartogramancy
I am the mask that grins and lies
I'll hide your face and shield your eyes....
In the small town of Silver Oak rests a towering Oak flush with silver metallic leaves that chime in the breeze, even during the heart of winter. Its story, and its secrets lie within this humble text...
A magical tree, suitable for any fantasy campaign.
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?