Captain Blackthorn grimaced against the salt air that sandblasted his face. His men were weary, his ship was falling apart and the hold was replete with treasures beyond counting. It was time to head home and enjoy the bounty that years at sea had brought them. As he braced himself against the pressing squall he considered the conundrum of converting said bounty into a transferable asset that could easily be spent without arousing suspicion of the local militia or the jealousy of rival pirates. If only large amounts of wealth could be represented on something as light and unobtrusive as a piece of paper. But then Blackthorn had a idea:

'I know what we'll do! We'll bury it!...'

Not all magic items are for humans. Rewrite of my original and premiere submission, Horse Brass

100 word submission, rumors from the Burning Lands, south of Abodroc

100 word submission. Rumors of the lands sounds of Abodroc

Once upon a time this sword may have been a sight to behold, but no more. Rust and decay now tarnish the metal of this forgotten relic, and those who stumble upon it are more likely to toss it than use it.

The founder of Procrastinamancy was a man called Frederick Johnson. A normal guy who grew up in a place without Mathom, Fred had one 'flaw.' It was procrastination. Fred took the art of Procrastination and turned into magic.

'Alzim, now that's a name! Leader of the Alten Mercenary Corps, master tactician, ex-general of the Cadmury Kingdom's forces, slayer of entire brigades, or perhaps most notable is he is a master Weilder. Sadly many of the young do not remember him.'

Old man at the local pub

'O Divine Broker, merchant of souls, bless our transaction, make it holy and righteous in Your sight. May those that profit from it be ever prosperous, and earn our reward in Your Sacred Market. Release us from our debts, and grant us lucrative exchange now and forever.'

- Prayer before a trade, from Bashad the Spectacular's 'The Handbook of Divine Wealth'

Any number of clergymen might be accused of putting their demands for secular wealth over their spiritual needs. Even these, however, would never claim to worship their prosperity. Yet such is the case with the followers of the Way of Divine Wealth, a religion of uncertain history and unabashed cupidity.

Ghorion was once one of the Three Troll Kings of the Cloudsteeth Mountains. Undeath has only made him crueler, and much, much more powerful.

'We're nothing new. We've always been here. YOU're the newcomers. You're the animal that forgot that it was a man. Stop crying, you animal, you sleepwalker! If you opened your eyes for only an instant you would see that. You're a race of amnesiacs, of dreaming children. I said STOP CRYING! You disgust me. That's why I'm not going to explain anything else. That's why you will die--screaming--without ever having truly woken up. I will paint every inch of this floor with your blood.'

-An Awakened, formerly Ms. Albright, speaking to Albert Frond, immediately before his murder

Session 10 won't get a summary due to lack of action. NOW WITH BONUS SESSION 12 ACTION!

A bloated corpse shows up downriver from a Taoist monastery. Brought to you by the words bloat, corpse, redhead, Tao, monastery, murder, underwater treasure, chains, Wuxia, and romance.

Based off of the Rubik's Cube, the Emote Cube is a banned piece of arcanotechnology

The rain poured down on the city of Grathen in a relentless beat that would marvel the best of drummers. It beat down on the public buildings, with pedestrians streaming in front of, with eyes cast upwards and lips mumbling prayers to Rain Gods. It beat down on the Slums, where thieves were mumbling thanks to their gods for all these people looking up and not at their purses. And it beat down on Ariel Lorette, a girl of 13, escaping from horrors beyond the common person's imagination. Ariel Lorette, with rain streaming down her face and hiding her tears of pain and sorrow and, above all, victory. For Ariel had escaped them. Ariel was free.

'I take it ye've ne'er fought a Semblance. Nasty undead fiends they be. 'course, they don't look undead. They don't have gleamin' bones, or rottin' flesh. No, sir! The Semblance looks just like you or me. Except for when its tryin' ta get you. I take it ye've ne'er fought a Semblance. If you had, you'd be dead.'

-Old Gerald, man in the pub

The Noble Expertise of Creating the Remaining Organism is a gentlemen's club. People who don't belong call it the Noble Expertise, or perhaps the Expertise, but the people in the club call themselves necromancers, and the club itself N.E.C.R.O.

In which more methods are expounded by which one may refine a dungeon to more sublime levels of confusion.

This isn't nonsense--this is logic!

I try to avoid them if I can. I see them sometimes herding their flocks of flabby grey creatures into and out of Boston harbor, and it always gives me the chills. Briano tells me that they brought me back to life, but I can't remember it. I can't remember a lot of stuff. He also tells me that I was good friends with one of them once. One of the ones that begs outside of Grand Island Bank for nickels or blood. I can't tell you why I'm uncomfortable around them. They're just fish.