The Seven Lords of the Peninsulari each wore a magical signet ring identifying them as a sovereign lord.

Arriving in a small village the adventurering party is drawn into a meeting of the Parish Guild...

'Wolf, have you not heard, Red Riding left to college years ago and is married with 2 kids of her own, she has not come to Grandmother's house for 5 years now. What have you done with Grandma, for if it is murder, the axe you will have.'

Dracia Eldren was a sharp featured woman. Her long greying hair was pulled back into a severe coif. Narrowed black eyes studied the potential Princess stand-ins. Darcia was well schooled in the ways of ettiquette. She was a seasoned Mistress. Her name was well known about the different Kingdoms and Queendoms.

She was the woman you contacted when you wanted your daughter to become the well cultured and well taught pillar of nobility. She was the woman who schooled young princesses on the fine art of being noble. Dracia was as strict as they come. Years of practice allowed her to use a switch upon her subject without leaving any marks. Only a sharp stinging pain as a reminder of their failures. She lives for her work.

If you wanted to infiltrate a kingdom with a doppleganger...you needed the help of a professional. One who knew all the ends and outs of Princess behavior.

Her dark grey coat hardly never touched the ground as she walked. Her back arched and her head held up proudly. Darcia fingered the switch at her side as she studied these potentials. These potentials were of poor condition. Some of them were farmer's daughters. Pathetic. She had her work cut out for her. At all times there would need to be at least three princess replacements in training. They would have to learn together. Eat together and train together. Every movement would have to be perfect. And she only tolerated perfection.

Worldly girl from a small northern berg, who likes to get in trouble.

'Odd style, you present yourself with.'
'Yes indeed, it suits me well enough.'
::lunge:: ::parry:: ::cross:: ::reposte:: ::parry::
'Strange you lead with your dagger, yet you attack in defend with your right...'
'I'd honor you with a flourish from my left but that would hardly be fair...'
'First blood it is, on guard!'

Manifold collections of wheels, and gears, springs and coils, all bound by the inexoriable tread of time.

Once trod upon, now brightly shines, a mage fed by what to death declines...

Cold to the core, he is a rather young drow who has no friends and is very quiet and keeps to himself

'Made on a small island in the Black Sea, it has the power to make a person invinsible in magical concerns, but people should be warned, it has never brought luck to it's wielders.' Conan Highblade, High Seer of Abasil

'A brand forged in the dying embers of the old gods, such that a pact was formed in the light of the new era. The birthing gods of the lands would attribute to man his due accord or be unmade from the power that bore them. So it came that man was able to vanquish the tribulations that followed.' ~ Caeracyn folklore.

A Magical Stone, look into it and see what you need to, but beware...

Bromine Lake is a lake that is almost a very small inland sea. It is also special for other reasons. It always has the warmth of a living Human, no matter what the season. It is not a hot spring with its sulfuric chemicals. There are hundreds of theories, but no answers.

Even if they did, they would never believe it, as it has ties to the time of legends, to the time of Corvus.

The Kite Shield of Caladin, passed down to son from father in the Whitewing Family...

The Sword of Anawaith, named where it resides in the Ranger Guild of Anawaith...

Caladin, a country where people hate magic, where the sword is the most reliable weapon and where war and death not a uncommon word

In case you get a sinking feeling, you can use this.

Sir Whitewing, a typical knight, loyal to his lord to his death and couragous as all get out. Currently leading an army of 10,000 soldiers east to battle the swamp ogres that threaten the borders. Charismatic and rash, he will charge recklessly into battle for his friends, without heed for his life. Smart and out-going he isn't what most noble's sons would be.

Saint Duncan is dead, and lies in his tomb, but every year thousands will visit it to lay their hands on the cold stone, and whisper a prayer to the patron saint of exorcism.

The Haven Fortress, the name suggests protection and vacation, but it is far more then that...