“ The accepted mode of getting otherwise unobtainable information is to go visit the cranky old hermit living in the mountains. It's just the sensible thing to do. So, naturally, everyone takes their monthly excursion to the hermit's hovel to consult him on everything, from lock-jaw to lovesickness, necromancers to nasal viruses.
Now, if everyone's always visiting the poor old hermit, there's going to be an enormous queue... 'Wellcome to the Hermitt's Hovele, Please Take Ye a Number and Have Ye a Seate' reads the sign outside the packed dwelling.
Imagine the poor hermit, having retreated into the mountains to escape this precise situation...”
“ Hungry Tumbleweeds
It is almost impossible to believe. Simply mind bending. These carnivores are actually the strangest undead you can meet! With ac as plate and 2HD, these animated plants are found in desert and grass lands. They are effected by anything that harms undead, hiding among ordinary tumbleweeds. Whats next Killer Tomatoes!?!?
Ever wonder where minor evil souls go that are unclaimed. Wonder no more. Minor evil souls wander unclaimed throughout the worlds.ordinary tumbleweeds attract them for unknown reasons. These souls also tend to group and somehow find the weeds. When the weeds are disposed of there is a 50% chance that the souls will survive and go into another weed.”
“ 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”
