In wonder the adventurers stood awe struck by the beauty and splendour of the surrounding foliage. The great open plain before them transformed from a flat green world into mesmerising colours and movement. The Vissealist stood unmoving, his hands outspread and resting gently on an intricate structure of vines that threaded their way over the wall and into the earth of the plain, spreading outwards from the ramparts of the kings palace.
Like magic Methnik’s sword passed through that of his foes….All too late, the blade was at his neck, it burnt, stinging like acid, it slivered through skin and muscle. Methnik crumpled to his knees, then to the floor, his eyes greyed over and he heard faint words, maybe those of his foe? "Your last lesson in this life. Your teacher? A Serivemn"
A group of humans living in a mountainous area have spent generations mining, drinking home made liquor, and generally not spreading the gene pool around enough. The end result is a sub-race of humans who no longer have necks, rather their heads protrude from the upper portion of the torso between the shoulders. They have beards, and lacking the ability to turn their heads, can only see what they are directly facing. They are simple and to the point, and direct to the point of bluntness.