Memory loss is a sort of living death -- and these moths are the Grim Reaper.

Upon the third storm-cracked night, under the light of a bloated blood red moon, the Razor of ManBeasts was crafted. A show of revenge, or the creation of a druid gone mad, no one knows for sure. But the ManBeasts walk the nighted forests now, ever since then, not a coincidence I say.

“The Armored Avenger is dead!"

"Look at him! He looks like hamburger, but his admantium armor is untouched! What could have done that?”

"Hey, Hultz. What are you doing in here?"

"It's gonna move. I don't like it when it moves," the stableboy replied, sitting by the hearth with his arms wrapped around himself.

"What's going to move?"

"The Inn. I don't like it when it moves."

Five minutes later, he gets up and goes back outside.

"What was he talking about?" the newcomer asked a burly fighter.

"Go outside and take a look."

He goes over to the door and flings it wide. "See, it's all still ... Wait! Where did the town go!"

"Welcome to the Brotherhood of the Wild Geese." The fighter comes over with a mug of ale. "Here, you'll probably be needing this. I know I did, when it happened to me."

You felt a slight tingle as the man looked you in the eyes, and he is currently approaching confidently with a look of recognition on his face. He smiles and you know you know him, you just don’t know how.

The young mountain sheep came charging up the trail and into the Meadow of the Elders, past the startled Elder-Guards, and stopped, panting and half incoherent. 'Relax,' came a deep, amused voice in his mind. 'Take a deep breath, and then share your thoughts with us.'

'Yes, Revered One.' He took the deep breath advised, then trotted forward and touched his head to that of the Elder.

Love and the pursuit of love makes up a huge part of a person’s life, but it is often absent from game-play. Love is also often seen as a player‘s choice, but in drama and mythology love is often something that grips a character and can inspire them or cripple them. Perhaps love should affect a character’s dice roles and perception of reality.

Soon after, The Trickster came upon another praying mantis, a female in heat. Unable to resist a female of any race, The Trickster obliged the willing creature, being perfectly able in his present form. At the climactic moment something unexpected occurred. As The Trickster issued forth his Divine Seed, the female turned her head slightly, and with blinding speed bit into The Trickster's head, nearly severing it with her first strike. Her next few bites, finished the job, and as Mokkus' headless body spasmed, she began to eat the rest of The Trickster.
-An Excerpt from 'The Oral Traditions of the P'Cheela' as Transcribed by Gyma, Deputy Explorer of the Thyran College

The Ska'ag warrior lay in his hide, watching the intruders.

“The Makers,” he thought. It had been many generations since the last one had died, but there was no doubt. They were back. “I have to warn the People.”

"Surely, you wouldn't deprive an old man of his walking stick?" Uh, yeah- you probably should.

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!

An annotated play list for Bards, Musical Mages, Sirens, and Supernatural Musicians regardless of time frame or setting.

When you want a horse, but not any horse will do. You don't want a Lord's horse, nor one fit for a King. You want a horse bred for a God.

Be careful of unearthing legends, however.

The beginning of the 21st century was marked by the leading world powers staking their claims to strategic resources. Foremost of the resources was petroleum. Each nation stated that it was willing to go to war to secure these vital resources. This was not an empty claim.

A bare bones dungeon concept, you can add the monsters and the treasure al a cart, but the big bads in this crawl are the puzzles.

A celebration of Strolen's 5555th post.

“So, you want to buy a horse?” the grizzled Catfolk horse-master said.

“Yes. I'd like to buy a battlesteed and I'll pay whatever you ask,” the human replied.

“No. We never sell the Little Brothers of the Clan. Find a regular horse instead.”

“But my Lord wants a battlesteed and ...”

“No.”

The 5757h layer of the Infinite Abyss. A land of charred black metal and the stench of ever-burning flesh.

The hacker had breached the final firewall and was typing code into the command prompt: code/7777SOHAT. Images flashed up on screen and he gazed in terror at what he saw.

Bells tolled continually, announcing new deaths.