Pitiable creatures, wandering forever in search of that denied them, unable to rest even as they crumble away to little more than crawling wrecks of bones.

"My god, what is that?"
"Orcweed, sir. Never need a wall with this growing."

The races of Kuramen are a strange lot, descending down a long lineage from the First Race; prone to dramatic evolutions and born to a world divided, each does the best it can to survive.

Who would want to make food you can’t eat? What purpose does this insane oven exist for?

Generic usage military and nobility titles from China.

The standard system of ranking within a Yakuza syndicate.

"Humans think of plants as food and decoration, but they are living creatures in their own right."

'Did ya hear that? There's riches found every night, all over the town! No way you can miss that!'

Of old, this city was the home of a coven of the Sarkukai, foul devotees of Sarku, Lord of Worms, the God of Rising From The Grave. Though they were driven out, the city remains tainted by the memory of that ghastly cult.

We were quite the motley band, even for adventuresome sorts. Yet being in a party can bring even the oddest people close. Let me tell you a story.

We were on the road to Maltrell and had been for a week. Tempers were short. We had been thrown together by various guilds, temples, and noble houses, and few of us wanted to be here. We had not come to know each other at this point, let alone trust each other. I personally was thinking about breaking my contract. Then I saw it.

Sitting on a log by the side of the quick camp we had for a break were our two of our oddest members. Ton was a bald holy man of the Ancient Dragon Temple. His ways were odd and nobody truly understood him. He was the only man who could act like a servant, yet still have an imperious superior than thou attitude. Sitting with him was good old Darren. Darren was his opposite. He was a cat folk, and very city, very Parisian, if you know what I mean. He was a total dandy, with tons of clothes, foppish snobby attitude, and pretenses to nobility, honor, and station beyond his station. Gods know, I miss that cat.

Anyways, the two were sitting together, had been for a bit I guess. They seemed to be hitting it off, smiling and talking. I could not see what those two could have in common, the most austere and the most...umm worldly.. of our party. When I came up to ask, "What was so funny"? They both leaned back and showed me their feet, wiggling their toes, though they were wearing something shoe-ish. When I looked at them perplexed like, they both burst into genuine laughter. Darren made some comment about only they wore the finest footwear. There was some joke that I did not know. It annoyed me at the time, but to be honest... it was that laughter that held us together. It showed that even though we did come from different places and had different positions, we had things in common - even if they be shoes- and could be as one. One by one, we came to know each other and realized that, as a party, we could complete our mission.

Burninating the countryside,
Burninating the peasants
Burninating all the peoples
And their thatched-roof COTTAGES!
TROGDOR!

'I wish ‘ere were some way a bloke could pick up business in dis dreary ol town…Oh wait!

The leftover remnants of Mind can sometimes cling to existence when the Body fails and the Spirit departs...

Some of the more bizarre cults which could conceivably be found in a post apocalyptic setting

Some guidelines on making workable martial art styles within a game.

White Rock is a fishing village just off the main coastal road, not too far from a town and a bit farther from a city. Named for the white boulders that are found around these parts, the village is built on a protected cove that has a small set of streams outletting into it. The weather is a bit cold in the winter, but the summers can be quite pleasant. The fishing is fairly good in these waters. It is on its way to becoming a tiny town.

Twenty questions to help create a cult.

Stand out in the wind on a hilltop where the grass is stirred by a starry sky and gaze into the black vault for long enough to witness Helda sow her seed.

The genesis of Gurgustius and Gorboduc and the curse upon their father Brutus is a terrible legend. Who knows if it is true? But it is the only way to account for the hideous sutured spawn of the King who is hidden.

Do not gather and heap up and store for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust and worm consume and destroy, and where thieves break through and steal. Matthew 6:19 KJV