“ An insidious creature, most likely somehow 'related' to trappers and lurkers, the Dead Leaves (for no other name exists as of yet for this foul thing), hibernates for three of the four year's seasons, deep underground. Its active time is Autumn, when trees shed their leaves, depositing colorful carpets across the ground. The terror then emerges and blends in with the surrounding leaves, perfectly camouflaged, waiting patiently for unsuspecting victims. In appearance it resembles nothing more than a ten foot square, six inch thick, layer of bright yellow, orange, and red leaves. The only hint that someone is walking on top of it, comes in the form of an unusual amplified sound of leaves crunching underfoot. Too late usually, the victims notice this additional 'crunch'. The Dead Leaves will then swirl and 'rise' up to smother and suffocate the victim, like a colorful, malevolent, boa constrictor.
Fire, as can be imagined, is particularly effective against this creature, but one has to *know* it's there before putting it to the torch. And there's the rub. The creature is impossible to 'identify' in a large patch of fallen leaves by eyesight alone.”
“ To become a warrior in a tribe. -no food, drink, or sleep for 4 days and nights. -change into special clothes and painted enter hut -slices of skin carved from their chest and shoulders -wooden skewers through the bleeding flesh behind the chest muscles -stout thongs, secured to rafters were tied to skewers -hoisted from floor by these and weights were attached to their feet -twirled around till fell unconscious -when recovered from this, given a hatchet to cut off their little finger -ropes then tied to wrists and force to run in circle like a horse until he passed out -if survive all this he can return to his family in honor knowing he is now a warrior.”
“ 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...”
