Few know of this place, and far fewer know of its location. This is a good thing, for nothing wholesome comes from here.
A statue with the power to fix your mistakes.
A man approaches you with a proposition; a cult that seeks to only protect the weak; plots mingling and causing destruction.
Death, it seems, shall stalk the land of Merthia tonight- unless, of course, the PCs can stop it.
"Protect us, oh holy one,
from the dangers of the night
may your smoke and ashes
to our souls with clarity ignite"
How long they carried him through those back tunnels, illuminated only by the flickering of torchlight, he had no idea. Then light seemed to explode when they reached the massive chamber. All around, unbelievably large red crystals captured the light of the flames and seemed to multiply it.
Trapped in Atheus, blocked from returning to their home of Congeria, the daimon is (usually) a minor demon- though this does not mean that they are not a highly deadly adversary.
At one time it was thought that the substance known as Anagra Estratius, or Devouring Fire, was an alchemical substance, tainted by the infernal components that went into its making.
Mora stepped up to the wicked-looking pipe-organ; the carved demonic head which it was made from leered silently at him. Sweating with anxiety, Mora looked back to his friends before swallowing hard and shakily bringing his fingers to the ivory.
Mora pressed the keys down into several minor chords, and a thunderous peal of music echoed, sounding mockingly similar to a church. Suddenly, the eyes of the carved head lit up with fire, and with a *WHOOSH* a pillar of flames burst into life around Mora. The man's screams were cut short after just a second and the fire disappeared just as quickly. Mora was gone.
After a moment of shocked silence, Mora's friends cheered excitedly.
Sometimes what begins as a Fairy Tale can end in misery. The tale of Celsia Frostblossom is testament to this.
In the place where Atheus lies, there are three separate planes, three realms for the intrepid to explore. One of these is Congeria, land of the demons. The home of darkness, the mount of Chaos, Evil's Playpen, all of these are names drawn up by the Atheian peoples.
As is the norm for cases such as these, they could not be further from the truth.
UAC Scientists have discovered a strange artifact on the surface of Phobos. They wish to transport it to an 'off-the-radar' base above Saturn's moon, Titan, but fear that space pirates may have gained intel on the artifact. Additional protection is needed; this is where you come in!
A Cosmic Era, Event Horizon/Doom-influenced Plot, for the optional Occult Brotherhood quest.
Jacob Latris was a Taurian immigrant to Obstaria. Now he is a man who has severed his connections to sanity long ago, and is searching for something that probably doesn't exist.
Lazarus Lightward waits in the town of Lockmour - he desires the Whitebone tomes to study demons and learn their weaknesses. Will the party help him out?
Six white tomes, Encased in bone.
They shine in light like polished stone.
Trapped deep inside, fel beasts reside.
Dark power; to the holder, the books provide.
In lakes, submersed, and tombs accursed.
Across the land they are disbursed.
This dusty, delapidated building appears to have been abandoned for some time. Within it is a plethora of ancient tomes and ancient knowledge, however rumours of a deadly curse keep curious scholars at bay.
Herein lies the histories of Warpriest Lazarus, righteous fist of Tridoa. Lord Lightward the Lunar Hammer.
Herein lies the birth of Lazarus Lightward the Hellpriest; Trickster of Devils and Master of the Bloodied Moon.
A haunting remnant of the infernal realm, caught and exiled to suffer for eternity in the swamps of the mortal plane. Now it toys with mortals; luring them from their paths into it's light. Once in the boundaries of it's aura, the FlickerWikk will feed.
A Remake of the Will'o'the'Wisp/Jack'o'Lantern
The Nomin gypsies have a fiddling competition every year, known as the Danse de Velose. Beaters hit out the rhythm on taut drums and the competitors start to play, slowly at first. Youngsters can compete, but are soon pulled away by worried mothers, before the competition becomes too dangerous. After two hours the haunting tune has become dazzlingly fast. You can resign at any time, but the moment you make a mistake you receive an arrow through the neck. Strings may snap, but the players must play on. The whole affair never lasts much longer than three hours, and the last fiddler playing is crowned king of the gypsies.