“ 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”
“ <br />
A plague has hit the local area.<br />
In humans it affects only the most vulnerable, the children and the very old, and even than it's little more than a summer cold. 24 hours of sniffles and then it's gone, barely noticeable really.<br />
To sheep however it is fatal and the whole economy of the area is in serious trouble. If this keeps up the area could well be facing famine.<br />
Somebody (enter the PCs) must find the rare herbs needed to make a cure.”
“ An evil ruler got the idea of mixing a trampoline and a gallows together. As long as the one to be hanged bounces on the rubber trapdoor it won't open, but bouncing gets very tiring after a while.”
