Cursed swords that bring bad fortune to whoever wields them. Or are they?

The landscape is a product of nature's own processes and humanoid activities troughout centuries or millenia.
How can we capture this in our stories, and deliver vivid and semi authentic descriptions?

An article that debates the matters of childhood in fantasy RPG's in relation to the Player Characters.

They march, march forever. Eerie chanting fill the air. Death Cometh.

This is where the citadellians share and collect our tales of playtesting each others submissions.

30 villages ready at the disposal of the Gamemaster.

Here is a list of those not-so-attractive treasures that the PC's might find on their quests.

Within this ancient tome are 30 companion spirits for wizards and their ilk.

In the vast Sun-Ocean lies spots of perfect green. The Ankorillian Islands. The 'Jewels of the Blue'.
The natives there are strange and wild looking.
Here is the only existing work on how they live, their customs, beliefs and rituals.

A spear that reflects the life of it's owner trough small Haiku like poems. As the soldier lives his life the spear casts a shadow of his great exploits. Small runes are carefully etched in the ash shaft after a great battle or another important event in the warriors life.

A collection of plants that could present a challenge for the PCs.

When did it all start? He would never know for sure, although he traces it, like a finger on a map following the broad river back to the invisible thread of the beginnings, to one evening early winter.

Deep in the Ankorillian jungles grows the Corpse Flower. A dreaded plant that can entangle and poison you silently.
Hours later your companions notice your absence,
turn and search for you.
As they backtrack they unknowingly pass your last resting place.
A rather smelly, orange plant.

What is required of a weapon before it can be considered magic? This article uses a few "old school" guidelines to hopefully provide us with a fresh look on the question.

From that silent place fear flows in unseen waves, like white fog. The shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. Through it's frowning walls and dark window openings there's a lantern of the spirit which none see by but those who bear it.

It is extremely cold and snow cover the plains as the heroes notice the dead frozen people hanging from the branches of scattered trees along the road. Ahead they see the local Lords soldiers hanging them up, mercilessly throwing buckets of water on their naked unprotected bodies until they freeze.

An article for GM's and players alike upon the matter of the family and friends of the players.

The adventurers are approached in some public yet semi-private place by a lean dwarf, wearing a colorful cape with black feathers rim wrapped tightly around him. What will come of this?

These are not ordinary gems, these are Thrar Stones. They are rocks that have been caught in the trunks of growing trees. Over thousands of years they are forged from stone to gem.

"I hear that he walks the North these days, strides amongst the Silver Firs of those harsh lands. His followers struggling behind in the frost mist. New ones joining the lines everyday the, drawn to him by some mysterious force."