A sword that stores the identity of the wielder. To transfuse the soul to the blade, one must first stab himself through the heart. The person will not die, but lose the freedom of the soul upon real death.

A tree of somewhat macabre aspect - its coconut-sized fruit have hair-like fronds hanging down, suggesting decapitated heads dangling from the tree.

"Yeeah!" the old man shouted as he made a dramatic flurry with his chalk - the mounted knight now bearing a stylized lance as it bore down on the many-headed dragon before it.

These are the various races of humans in Locastus, City of Mirrors.

Farmers believe that once a crop has been harvested the corn spirits are homeless, and will leave the field to search for a new home. The Scarecrow will remain in the fields during winter, providing a refuge for the corn spirit until the new harvest is planted in spring.

Aher Wolfhound, called Wolfhound The Historian, a man crushed by the weight of the world's cruelty

A gigantic insect, native to the arid badlands of northern Aquur, where fierce desert warriors roam the dunes, and the sand storms can flay a man to the bone in minutes.

The Broan, an enigmatic, amphibious species of unknown origin, that lives in the salt-water marshes to the east of Locastus.

A wonderous weapon bearing the power and grace of the elvish people...

Riders of the virtual waves, what is new in your world?

A magical, multi-dimensional crystal that damages all it touches, even reality.

The Obtort Ward is all that remains of what was once an ancient battlefield that was afterwards converted into a mass grave.

Life dies in my wake, sacrificing itself to my hunger

The Masque of Hunger

Perhaps one of the oldest of the humanoid races, the Pelamids are a sort of missing link between terrestrial humans and aquatic merfolk.

A collection of plot hooks for a game on the road, or more precisely, on the route.

30 Rings to rule them all...

Not all magic is pretty, or fair. Some is cold and exploitive. This is that kind of magic.

A quintessential seedy dive, catering to the lowest of the low, but harbouring a few nasty secrets

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

Predator, nightstalker, brother to beasts, call me a monster long enough brother and I very well might become one.

Jaurmes, Augrune woodcutter