Priests of the god of agriculture.
The sum of all spellcasting traditions of one world - or most of them - in one place.
Not quite a race of its own, not quite the mortals they are so close to.
What is the worship of knowledge for some, can be revenge for a few, and unwanted revelations for others.
The Pelezians, or “clay people” were strongly bound to the earth. In fertile plains and valleys they lived their happy existence, peaceful, yet ever on their guard. Many nomadic attackers they defeated, until a different enemy came; their advanced technology and weapons (and magic) were beyond the skills of defenders. One-by-one their settlements fell, until the clay people were not more.
To the greedy students of the past, their heritage is but not forgotten.
Those who have created the world. Those who are few but seem like many. Those who will be worshipped forever, if but in a different guise.
Graves of a small, little known folk, exotic as dangerous.
The simple graves of a folk long gone, these are still favoured by graverobbers.
Smeer was dragging a cart full of strings. Another cart of another strings, it was heavy, but probably the best job in these works for a weak boy. He brought it to the machine that weawed the ropes; the hands of older boys powered it. They were paid a few coppers more, but could barely move after a whole day of work. Smeer hoped to get older and stronger one day, to help his family out of poverty. Pulling the cart back through the yard, he suddenly noticed something. Does not that pebble look like… a coin? A glistening silver coin?! That would help for a few days! Looking around, he carefully picked it up, and hurried to work to stay unnoticed.
But something has noticed him.
Invented by the Pelezians, the ceremonial bowl became a part of the holy tradition, coupled with a most practical purpose.
(Made for religions of agriculture.)
After long pondering and some testing, the Asakran army has finally allowed the use of advanced magic on the battlefield. This is the prototype of intense research.
It is a popular view amongst magic-users, that most members of the Cult of Malidon are just bitter people, blaming magic for their private losses and defeats, often seeking to silence some other qualms with burning witches. For one low cultist at least, this view is completely wrong…
It is said that there is always night, even during the day it is dark. Undead prowl around freely, and pity to those living that end up there. Still, lucky are those eaten by the hordes, some fools get deeper and their very souls are consumed by the nameless horrors that lurk in some hidden spots. And still more serve as new material for the Necromancers, the only living creatures there, as they say at least…
To help someone is a good deed. Will you still help, if, well, it is a tribe of Orcs that asks for your help?
The pride of this tribe has led it to ruin. The only thing that remains is to die with pride.
A less-traditional NPC, a magical creature, formerly a tree. Might function as a druid or hermit.
A mighty tree it was, giving shelter to wanderers and many birds, until one night two dragons battled on the sky, right over him. Their motives are unknown, but the loser fell to his death on the tree, and that, broken and burned with the acidic blood of one and the fiery breath of other become what it is now.
The village sits on the edge of the deep fjord, often engulfed in mist or rain. Its people are fishermen, who work even through the sea-ravaging winter. And they pray to the gods of the deep.
At the beginning of every winter they hold a summoning ceremony. Three boats are taken out into the fjord, a hornsman on each. The mournful horns are blown in the language of the whales, the gods of the deep. The whales sometimes appear in answer to these calls, and it is taken as a good omen when they do.
To a party of PCs wandering the misty hills and valleys nearby however, the doleful whalesong of the horns can be disturbing and misinterpreted...