The small planet of XX has constantly puzzled astronomers who are unable to make any sense of its constantly shifting location on the cosmic charts.

Other less lofty minds pay this oddity no heed, choosing instead to focus on the search for more more promising worlds to colonise and tame.

But unknown to the race of men, a ferocious rival lurks in the black depths of space, constantly on the hunt....

Founded on the promise of prophecy, this fiefdom owes it success to its previously worthless amethyst deposits. And its very survival as well.

''A thousand of the vile things we set alight, crying aloud the prayers of the Holy Redeemer as the demonic abombinations screamed in a chorus of almost human agony, utterly helpless against the flames that consumed their monstrous and deformed bodies. Never again will another human grace the banquet of these accursed fiends. But it pleases me even more to say that the gold which is so abundant in this heathen land, is now the sole propety of a nation blessed by the One God. No more will these repellent false deities lay claim to that which we have wrested from their worshippers''. -Corand Rogad, Conquerer of Tahutol

Residing in the core of this giant black megalithic structure built to resemble a crude representation of a lightning bolt, lies a Shard of the Storm.

And a lot else..

''I am so very sorry to interupt your grand schemes for seizing control of the nether-realm, but I am afraid that my master, the Lord of the Desolate Shore, has raised some serious objections..''

Can a demon ever learn what it means to feel pity, grief, fear, despair, joy and the rest of those tangled emotions and feelings that plague humans? Can beings who obtain their deepest satisfaction from the suffering they inflict on others,ever embrace those very things they so passionately despise and hate about the mortal races? Mozrak,wisest of the half-demons and beloved of the Mother Godess, believed it not impossible. The Staff is both his curse and gift to his pureblood cousins.

His breath faltering into a final rasping final gasp as the stone coils crushed his throat, these last words resonated through the fading mind of the would-be grave robber.

''You dared to defile the tombs of the ancient kings, Lusoh scum, but die knowing that I will never allow once inch of this scared land to fall into the hands of those would seek to destroy the nation of my divine fathers. Long live the Shining One, Goya Varman. For I am him..''.

To experience liberation in the arms of Goran, one must first await the coming of the Uroghi..

Poor little Kankos..

Spat upon by his tyrannical superiors, this pathetic little office menial slaved away like a mule for the miserable pittance thrown to him..

Until he met the one that lurked in the shadows..

A well crafted but otherwise ordinary steak knife. It makes the cutting of meat sooooooo easy.

Famed for the dazzling beauty of their shimmering scales, the Yogran are fish that every nobleman or powerful merchant wants to stock his pond with.

Lying forgotten on the ocean floor by the children of Acqua,reposes the very monument that commemorates the passing of the islands from the hands of the Old Ones into those of their ancestors who sailed out of the mists long ago to claim them for their descendents.

But in a twist of extreme irony,others have come to venerate this creation abandoned by the race of man that built it. They are the Old Ones,the very same race whose defeat this statue is supposed to represent.

The Surash are without doubt,the most distrusted and least liked race in existence.

Beware the old woman clutching at the folds of her clothing..

Honored and cherished by the people of the Ragosi mountains, the Osaki have allowed them to retain their freedom in the face of those who would enslave them.

Like the heated embrace of a lover, this singular thing caresses and binds itself around the chest of the wearer, linkings its fate with his to the end of his days...

The frogs are thick and plentiful here. Everywhere you go, you're almost always about to squash one of the slimy things underfoot if you're not careful about what you tread on. And at night, the tiresome din of multitude of the amphibians croaking, fills the air and render sleep all but impossible. Worst of all, the disgusting things are prone to invading one's hut, huddling in dark corners.

In this dank land, the Bombo hold sway. And the frogs thrive, as do their more mysterious cousins...

As the officer strides into the thick and oppresive pitch-black gloom of the jungle, he silently signals to his men to fan out in a classic Quarsooth battle-formation with a nervous hand-gesture. He is very tense, almost afraid. The soothing, omnipresent presence in his mind tells him that he has no reason to worry, assuring him that victory will belong to those noble warriors that carry the standard of the invincible race of Zor-Tanis.

But there is something else cutting through the easy promises offered by that pleasant, gently commanding entity in his mind, as if determined to seize all his attention and use it to torment his imagination until it begins to scream for mercy. This something he cannot define and put words to, but it makes his skin crawl nevertheless. Despite the heat of the jungle, his blazing gold body-armor had suddenly become a chill prison that raises uncomfortable goosebumps along his chest.

Woried muttering from the rear tell him that his men like him, are unsettled. Turning aound in irritation, he begins to hiss at them to remain silent, afraid of alerting the very band of murdering monstrosities they have finally tracked into this eerie wilderness. It would be a rather embarassing matter for their commander if the very quarry they had been relentlessly pursuing for the past week or so, were to suddenly turn around and massacre all of them.

Too late he feels a something slithering around his neck. Fearful that it might be a pyhton, he reackes for his massive ''fire-bow'', determined to incinerate the scaled menace before it can crush his larynx. But before his fingers even have a chance to close around the handle of the weapon hanging from his belt, another coil slithers out of the darkness and out of the darkness and pinions his arm, holding it in a painful crushing crip. As agony swamps him, he can vaguely hear a grim sound of cracking bones through the pain-filled haze that now holds him. His arm is being crushed. And then so quickly that his stunned mind has no time to register this new fact, there is no time left for more thought. The coil looped around his throat begins to squeeze, suffocating him. As the officer's head begins to swim in the final moments of his life, he finally gains an excellent look at the thing that is stealing his life.

It is not a snake, but a vine. As if in response to this discovery, a now terrifyingly familiar roar of bestial fury rings through the gloom of the jungle..

A reclusive race, the Ragori live deep in the heart of the Purvis Swamp.

A highly talented chef, this young man takes great pride in his job.