What kind of man orders the death of the King?
"I knew Lwausf would be angry when we banished him, but I didn't see the whole undead-bearman-projectile thing coming. Looking back it was kind of inevitable. "
Prince Gorim, Lord of the Mounatian Hall at Silverspike
The unnatural offspring of a zombie father and a human mother.
All Maire wanted was to give her husband a child. She wasn't about to let death stand in the way.
Once upon a time this sword may have been a sight to behold, but no more. Rust and decay now tarnish the metal of this forgotten relic, and those who stumble upon it are more likely to toss it than use it.
"I take it ye've ne'er fought a Semblance. Nasty undead fiends they be. 'course, they don't look undead. They don't have gleamin' bones, or rottin' flesh. No, sir! The Semblance looks just like you or me. Except for when its tryin' ta get you. I take it ye've ne'er fought a Semblance. If you had, you'd be dead."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub
Ah, you are awake now I see. Wondrous news. I realized that you have no idea what is transpiring so I will be blunt so you may understand it. It is rumored that you are one of the best jewelers and metalsmiths in the region and for that you are lucky enough to have been chosen to create an item that will change the world. And afterwards, you shall be set free. My word on it.
I watched in horror as the final pieces were infused together with dark magics granted to the mighty Kormak by Shivenhusk Himself. The head from Lord King Vyrkril was placed on a base of blacked bone and thrust into the cold burning fire. I swear I hear it scream in agony. Decnus Kormak smiled at his late king and when he pulled the chalice from the blue flame bare handed, he clutched it covetously. That alone made me afraid.
Damn 'ol thing it tis. Itches like nuthin I e'er felt. Stupid bugs, your the Poosker ye fool. Help me get rid o' these damnable things.
I hate to tell you this but you have what we liked to call, "Puces Barbe Morts", or undead beard fleas. And the only way to be rid of them is to cut off your beard and then burn the hair.
No! Just kill me it's less painful that way.
Tis but a scratch, send the guards and make sure they capture that joke of an assassin
He stood before me, a freankenstien of a man beast that towered twenty feet tall or more. Its rigor colored flesh stunk of eons of decay both sickly sweet and of putrescence beyond what the mortal mind could fathom. I tried to gag it from my throat but my stomach refused to relieve its contents and for that made me more uneasy.
Former Cult Leader who outlived his usefulness
The true depths of darkness travel far deeper into the hearts of mortal man than the darkest and deepest cave I have ventured in. What once could have started as an innocent trek into the unknown for the sake of curiosity I have seen lead to the blackening of the soul and the withering of all those around it. All in the name of innocence and knowledge.
The following are my findings on the subject, as horrible as they are. I just hope I can finish this before my mind is lost to me. I feel the ebb and flow pulling inside me, no that is to simple an explanation. I feel my soul losing its hold on me. The more knowledge I gain, the more I know I am lost.
Kormak Cabeaza, Scribe and Scholar to Lord King Vyrkril the Just of Camerial
Nuclear war, zombie outbreaks, meteor strikes, economic collapse, alien invasion, no matter how it happens an apocalypse makes for a unique and engaging setting to run a campaign in, even for a jaded GM.
Here’s a few quick tips that can make a good zombie or other post apocalypse game a great one, and keep the group coming back (from the dead?) for more.
Death is the fate of every birth, and life is only a brief loan of light before the eternal darkness swallows us. The remaining years of life have been stolen from the creatures known as Time Zombies, who stalk the living in the hopes of stealing a few more years of precious life.
I'm different. I have a different constitution, I have a different brain, I have a different heart... Dying's for fools, dying's for amateurs.
Maddoc sat amid a pile of unrecognizable corpses. Men, Dwarves, Orcs, you couldn't tell. He periodically took a stab at one with his new knife and screamed, "STOP LAUGHING AT ME!"
Nightmares upon the battlefield. Once thought defeated, rumors of their return have begun to spread.
High above the lands of the living, where frost and howling of the wind reign, the morbid monument to a faith long dead calls the deceased on a last pilgrimage.