Small tavern in an out of the way town. Serve a wonderful delicacy that is simply outstanding. It is a creamy white consistancy, sweet, good to eat alone or a sweetener on any dessert.
If the explore or ask they are shown where they get it. They breed a group of large catipillars or some other type of insect that basically spit the product onto a setup that they created for that particular reason. Or maybe the delicacy is the byproduct of feeding them something.
Plant that is likely to produce allergic reactions in almost everybody, even by touch. Usage: medicinal, in very exotic foods, non-lethal traps, disabling opponents (have you ever cut an onion,anyway?), spell components, etc.
A local fungus-breed explodes if hit or fallen upon. If there is any conflict between inteligent enemies,both sides are likely to use it to their advantage.
Elves use nature as strength and borrow from the trees to keep them living. An elf out of the forest for more than a day begins to die and within 3 days is dead without borrowing the strength of nature.
A race that are always born as twins and only one recieves a soul. The other is soulless therefore without pity, shame, or guilt. The evil race. Can't tell them apart by looking at them.
A flower possibly in the plains or maybe all over that is always tilted towards a certain place. Sunflowers. Could possibly follow the sun or could be forever facing a certain position because of something that happened, either the air forcing it that way and it staying, the fire was so strong that the flowers faced away from it. It could be that in one spot a large fire was made or a fire war where many fire elementals were destroyed by the True Gods and radiating out from that point all of this flower is facing away from it so no matter where you are you always know where this place is by seeing which way the flower is facing away from.
Something lives in the fog in a certain region and travels with the fog. Kidnaps or kills, or is simply heard and "felt".
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