To all space explorers, rogue traders and Federation colonisation and expeditionary force officers!
Thirty new alien species have been discovered. You are well-advised to inform yourselves, as to engage these entities correctly, without risk of harm to yourself or to the interests of Terra.
Ten of the described species are human in origin, yet modified to such a degree that they no longer need to be considered human.
Another ten are civilisation-building aliens competing with Terra for available space.
The final ten entries are remarkable life forms that display sapience, without using it to create civilisations. Caution is advised.
You shall carry your sibling, be his support and guide.
He shall be your shelter, guardian, aegis firm.
United you stand, divided you fall.
Meles, the eyes in midnight bands
the plagues would see him dead
yet Meles, his brood unchained
they ate the plagues instead
The blast of charged particles tore into one of the entrenched tanks, then from the 'Mech's other barrel-arm into its mate emerging from behind a corner.
Commander Ratzelle had to admit - letting the rookie ride in the Warhammer was not such a bad choice after all; indeed was he a crack shot.
"Ha! There it goes, blown into pieces! We'll never see their sorry asses again!"
"I wouldn't be so sure about that, greenhorn" the lance leader replied. "Get ready for clean-up! We have to root them out by nightfall!"
Some sovereigns prefer a different sort of tax from their subjects - whether freely given, or taken by force.
High above the lands of the living, where frost and howling of the wind reign, the morbid monument to a faith long dead calls the deceased on a last pilgrimage.
Once one of their number, the eternal outcast wishes to take from the Elves what they hold dearest - their dreams, their past, their future.
Beau yet alien, the soldier-concubines of Aerazad, the Returned King, are a glowing reminder that a new order reigns in Eversea.
“Swiftly, repent! The Saintmaker is coming!”
For your pleasure and entertainment, here we present, thirty fiendlings seasoned with a whiff of brimstone, teasingly clad in shadow, accompanied by tunes played on pipes of angel-bone; likewise do we tell of the gifts they might bestow upon one in their favor.
So get them before Hell freezes over!
From beyond through veils sublime
Pass ghostly, o umbral shine
Illuminate in shadow, fade colors, so fallow
Dark dreaming does bidding thine
In the Time of Dying Stars, countless children warped by the black rain were slain after birth as monsters and hellspawn. A special one lived, to her dismay.
Fiery doom in two handy barrels. Unsurpassed destructive power. Comes with a five shot warranty.
What is a forest’s firm support, yet walks ‘round on its own accord?
What’s possessed of a titan’s might, stands before you, yet out of sight?
What soundly spanks with gnarled root a behind that is not good?
A spell for a penny
The hallmark of a new Alliance; a safe place for the men of words to meet.
A sleek design that fits a considerable punch into a slim package, the Scorpio is a Hovertank hated by both sides of a conflict, for different reasons.
Lithe she was, an elfin maiden, and her blades were like lunes shine
yet her heart was for me barren, she longed for darkness, was not mine
- Alinastro of Skystone
Steel is the herald of dawn. Steel is the slayer of tyrants. Steel is the bringer of liberty. Steel shall prevail.
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.