To see one of the wolfkin running is an inspiring sight, they move as if they had wings instead of legs, as if they were not tied to the ground, but could soar among the clouds

Something of a new take on the traditional forest guardian. Like a dryad or a tree nymph but at the same time something completely different.

An aloof race of intelligent amphibians, the S'krae are an honor bound culture who have unusual customs.

A race of little peoples, that have found the key to immortality. Sadly, it has evolved to more of a curse than of a blessing.

The bipedal sentients of the Southern Desert.

Lets face it the Hobbits are dead and gone so if you would like to create a race to ease the pain of their departure or use necromancy to bring them back from the dead then this is the place for you.

Some are called dhampir, others exalt as champions of undeath, and yet neither of these are correct...

There are three types of Ma`no, each one nearly a different race as they have evolved through the years. They were all created by Sethalis for his master idea to take over the civilized races, but it was a failed attempt. These abominations live in multiple parts of the world, and will never be seen allied together as their dislike for each other is stronger than that for anything else.

There are three types of Ma`no, each one nearly a different race as they have evolved through the years. They were all created by Sethalis for his master idea to take over the civilized races, but it was a failed attempt. These abominations live in multiple parts of the world, and will never be seen allied together as their dislike for each other is stronger than that for anything else.

There are three types of Ma`no, each one nearly a different race as they have evolved through the years. They were all created by Sethalis for his master idea to take over the civilized races, but it was a failed attempt. These abominations live in multiple parts of the world, and will never be seen allied together as their dislike for each other is stronger than that for anything else.

Many know the image of the Night-Mare, a sable horse wreathed in a nimbus of hellfire sent from the underworld every night to deliver dreams of terror and fear to the living. While this is not entirely incorrect, the truth is more complicated...

An enormous Angoath was holding a young recruit in his hands, his body broken and blood seeping freely from between the cracks of his banded armour. The dead legionary's head lolled unnaturally; obviously the neck had been crushed. It was amazing how fast these creatures could move and suddenly it lowered its head and charged headlong towards me, no doubt intending to skewer me on that sharp, spiky ridge. All around me I glimpsed similar scenes. The Angoath were washing over us like a wave of black silver, their claws rending us apart, their teeth chewing into our armour.

“Our enemies lie just across the plains brothers, may our God King see it in his wisdom to grant our masters victory at the loss of our blood. But let our enemies pay for that blood with every breath.”

-Ziegtaur Soldier at the Battle of Forgotten Sorrow

Swarming, never-ending, sea of teeth, muscle, and scales. They are all pervasive, all consuming, and they will destroy you. Devouring body and soul. They are hatred and fear incarnate, a punishment from the foul and incomprehensible gods.

The spirit which dies with a murderous rage upon it’s conscience cannot rest, and re-inhabits the corpse it once dwelt in, stalking the earth in search of one thing: revenge.

Brutish masters of the Highlands, the grey-skinned, wolf-riding men of the Flinthill Clan are famed for their ferocity and their savagery.

They come in the night, and they take things. Nothing neccesary. Maybe they’ll take some candle wax, mabe a few sticks, a curtain, anything. But guard all your possesions boy, because if you don’t, they’ll come down on you like a hellbeast in one of their damned machines.

The Poison Eaters Tribe dwells deep in the jungle glades of the Ushaika, in the lowest reaches of the undergrowth where no sunlight pierces through the leaves, and where the marshy ground wells up with tea-colored water at the lightest step.

Below the surface of the Earth, dwelling in darkness and forgotten catacombs, the goat-headed Ghouls, dark spirits of murder, feast on the dead. Ghouls dwell in old, forgotten places, luring others down into the grasping claws of their evil tribes.

They are the menace of the borderlands, travelling with their herds paths they used for millenia, and razing any signs of civilization in the process. When the winter is especially harsh or the summer unusually dry, they descend upon the heartlands of kingdoms like a plague, more a natural disaster than an enemy.