A common tool of necromancers, nether mages, and others who are privvy to the arts of the dead and undead
All Maire wanted was to give her husband a child. She wasn't about to let death stand in the way.
The Noble Expertise of Creating the Remaining Organism is a gentlemen's club. People who don't belong call it the Noble Expertise, or perhaps the Expertise, but the people in the club call themselves necromancers, and the club itself N.E.C.R.O.
Tis but a scratch, send the guards and make sure they capture that joke of an assassin
A key tool of the Necromancers of Light, the Soulbinder eases the difficulty of resurrection.
Crazy old woman, selling pieces of bone and fake charms. The fact that the villagers even tolerate the old eye-roller hag demonstrates a lack of piety to the Faith.
Tucked back in the corner of Kiskedee square, off of Aasvogel, is the Hornless Goat. The tavern is as non-descript and plain as any business can be and still maintain itself in passable fashion. No one notices the patrons of that small overlooked place.
A rough town which is haven for outlaws is a staple of all adventuring genres. In the fantasy genre the town of Crueloar provides places in which you can share a dinner table with a vampire or learn the ways of dark magic.
have made thee as no other. All the treasures of the earth shall lie between thy eyes. Thou shalt cast thy enemies between thy hooves, but thou shalt carry my friends upon they back. Thy saddle shall be the seat of prayers to me. And thou fly without any wings, and conquer without any sword.
Beware this wizardly cadaver! His spells might not kill you, but you will wish they had…
This is a wretched tome of oceanic blasphemy; a foul water-stained, bone-white binder of bitter dead-men’s secrets and a guide to Nautical Necromancy useful in the hands of the young sea-faring necromancer or the Great Lich Umeen herself.
Hazenbrazen & Gribaldy: Two Necromancers taking over the world one corpse at a time.
"Hell hath no fury like MY RIGHT FOOT!" Shardath yelled as he stomped upon the holy ground.
The Obtort Ward is all that remains of what was once an ancient battlefield that was afterwards converted into a mass grave.
Can you think while scared out of your wits? Lets hope your adventurers can…
"He’s dead, Sir Paladin." "... What?" "Hens-bane, my Lord, a false tooth. Not even our best interrogators could get an answer from him now." "Bring the corpse to me. The veil of death will be pierced."
The Necronautilus is a huge undead whale used to transport undead and their masters secretly.
Known as the Witch-Queen of Togaille, the White Lady, and the Liche Elfbane.
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