The skies tell the tale of the living and the dead. The honored and the worshiped. What do the stars tell in your setting?
Be it a tank, mech, aircraft, or warship, the same basic rules apply for writing speculative fiction about them.
Food of the gods.
After Buddha died, his shadow was still shown for centuries in a cave—a tremendous, gruesome shadow. God is dead; but given the way of man, there may still be caves for thousands of years in which his shadow will be shown. And we—we still have to vanquish his shadow, too.
No nose, hardly any body, a terrible wine, really.
Pocket dimentions for Supers and Modern Horror. With some modification many are useable in other genres
From the shadows sneak thirty secret agents, on the trail of top secret infomation.
30+ Burial Customs for building cultures
Twenty questions to help create a cult.
101 plug and play communities in 10 sub-categories
Spare parts of the Fantasy sort.
Tips on how to create five room dungeons that can be used for any location, are short, are quick to plan, easy to polish and plan, flexible in size and easy to integrate into your campaign.
30 Guards, who in peacetime patrol the Palace and in wartime are the Royal Bodyguards and the King’s last defence.
A list of thirty aristocrats, ready to be dropped in the king’s court, the ball, or what have you.
‘That’s a nice tunic you’ve got there, I think I’ll take it…’
Marv, the Brigand
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.