Beringia, the sinking kingdom.
First, you get the gold. Then you get the power. I could care about the women, I’ve had the men in the palm of my hand since I was 17.
Memoirs of Wealth, excerpt
The Patron Saint of Beverages, Hang-Overs, Regrets
Known as the Witch-Queen of Togaille, the White Lady, and the Liche Elfbane.
If you wake up in a field of green grass, looking at a woman of flesh and steel. Be glad, you are dead. If you wake up covered in blood and shit, be gladder still. For you are alive and your time is not yet come!
Cowardly maggots! Bow your thrice cursed heads and thank the goddess that you still draw unworthy breath!
Many claim him to have been of their own, be they mages or clerics, thieves or warriors. Such was the legacy of Atal, the Wise Councilor.
I walk a lonely road
The only one that I have ever known
Don’t know where it goes
But it’s home to me and I walk alone
Be it salt, wheat, silk or gold, money is money lad.
‘The bigger the brain, the smaller the heart. What do wizards know of faith?’
From this day forth, let this Kingdom be free from the tyranny of the gods and their chosen!
King Mapother IV quoting Provost Layton Frost
A composite calendar devised by magi based on the movement of the stars rather than the movement of the moon or the sun.
Maybe you should go find Outsiders, your kind isn’t welcome around here…
The manor on the hill? No one wants to live there…
The Repository of the victorious dead…
A land of witches and evil magic, a pox on it!
Darak One-Eye, from the Book of the Black Rose
Go forth to war my son, and be absolved of your transgressions.
St. Acre the Just, Confessor General
Born of an age of superstition and ignorance, the Council brought order to life and death.
A wasteland, a vast expanse of ogre infested, nightshade choked swamp…
The Via Mortus is not a faith so much as a collection of superstitions propagated by sorcerers, necromancers and con-men.
Father Pourvoi, Trinitine Priest of Lusankya
The Pcs discover an ancient, dusty oil lamp, somewhere in the bowels of a dungeon. Naturally they "rub it", and out pops a wizened, old djinn. So far so good. Then it speaks...
"Ah at last, at last I am free! Now grant me my wish!"
When the PCs explain that they are the ones that should be granted a wish, the malignant djinn explains to them that his particular oil-lamp has a curse placed upon it. Whomsoever releases the entity inside shall be geased to grant the djinn's wish to the best of their ability.
Groans ensue from the party. The djinn rubs his wrinkled hands, grins, and proceeds to name his wish. What could it be?