“ In this culture it is not wise to talk too much good things about anything - especially children,lest some evil spirit steals it. So it is customary to say it is ugly and weak and will surely not survive. Also:
'The man who boasts of his young woman is a fool,
The man who boasts of his wares will get rich.'”
“ Far to the north amidst the endless ice-flows it is rumored that a dwarven Walrus Totem clan exists. These rumors have been unsubstantiated to date, unless the dwarven sage Glurt Goblinguts is to be believed. He claims to once having encountered a troupe of huge dwarves, each standing a beard's length higher than the tallest known dwarf. These dwarven 'giants', their hairy chins crusted with frozen shards of ice and dirt, hauled gargantuan yellowed horns or tusks upon their wide shoulders, and their helms, likewise, sported massive, down-ward pointing tusk-horns. Glurt Goblinguts later speculated that the impressive size of these dwarves was most likely due to their arctic diets, almost exclusively fat-based.”
“ Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the 'Ash-Wind' comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.”
