There are places, you have to understand, where the dimensions-I'm not talking about that parallel dimension metaphysical stuff, I mean dimensions like length and breadth and time-where they curl into themselves, and begin to fester. Where foul things evolve and spread...
A strange mask containing a merciless demon, a parasite on those around it.
Caution: contains mature content regarding the gruesome ecology of a parasitic beetle.
A terrible monster. A thing of nightmares. Tales of the creature shake the core of the most sturdy and chill the spine of all who hear. They say, "Be careful who your friends are. They may just want you for your body." They were right.
"Greetings travellers! You must have had a harsh journey through the desert."
"We didn't see this city was on the map."
"We're just a few like-minded folks trying to keep the world out."
"How many people live here?"
"Just a few of us, and now you."
A variety of bizarre but otherwise harmless insects.
Ever wonder what secret a Wizard’s beard holds? How did it get so long? Has this man really not shaved for that long?
A vast tome of knowlege that literally gives you the creeps…
Extracts from Alkur’s book of insects.
The best thing that can happen when confronted by a Rhaphi (Rafy) is that it will ignore you and continue on its way…It seems to have no purpose in life but to transport its undercarriage of parasites, which are numerous and not exactly friendly or hygienic, from one place to the next.
A beautiful creature with a deceptive nature, and a very, very odd method of caring for it’s young…
Dragons, being huge and meaty, are the ideal habitat for countless unpleasant parasites.
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