Kisah-kisah yang unik

Admired by many, Marci's origins are known to nameless few. She travels mostly in the company of the Princess Mirana, but the roots of their friendship are entwined in secrets neither would ever needlessly reveal. To allies, she serves as fierce and honest companion. To enemies, she acts as dauntless deterrence against harming any she deems friend. Though unwise opponents may consider her size unremarkable, Marci possesses an inner power that imbues her strikes with incredible might. She'll decimate those who think to test her, but those who earn her favor will have an unflappable confidant for life.

In the aeons after the Keeper's exodus birthed the age of light, some amongst the first sun's lineage began to align against the chaos their ancestor's maker left chasing in his wake. Calling themselves the Children of Light, they saw no one else as worthy of taking up the Keeper's abandoned mantle, and they yearned to beat back the onslaught of darkness, creating glorious armies built to purge the cosmos of all creatures of primordial night. Valora, the Dawnbreaker, most prized warrior amongst the Children's ancient creations, is the shining herald of the majesty of order and light. Molded from the heart of a young metallic star, and charged by golden breath with new life, Valora was called to spread the glow of the Children's wisdom to the darkest reaches of the universe — setting fire to the heavens with each swing of her celestial hammer amidst an endless battle to keep chaos at bay. In time, the Children also revealed another purpose for the Dawnbreaker. Th

Hoodwink's earliest years were spent in the idyllic expanse of green that once filled the edges of Krimwohl. But as that kingdom grew, and the needs of both her citizens and her armies became ravenous, rival ore and timber barons scratched and clawed to outpace each other in devouring the natural beauty of the border forests, gorging themselves to meet the demands of the changing land. To those living in the ancient timberlands, the choice came down to following the line of refugees into the pacified zones, falling to Krimwohl's black powder and steel while defending their homes, or fleeing further north to tempt fate in the haunted glens and groves of the misty Wood Tomo'kan. So it was in those treacherous northern mistwoods that Hoodwink came of age, dodging the horrific predators of the Tomo'kan, ingratiating herself with some of the local banditry whilst antagonizing others, and finding absolutely every which way to be underfoot whenever some interesting mischief ar

Not even the other spirits claim to understand the mind and machinations of the eldest amongst them, Inai the Void Spirit. Privy to secrets that would shatter a mortal mind, the Void Spirit observes the workings of the universe from an unknowable vantage, choosing to let carefully groomed servants do his bidding -- only emerging from his Hidden Temple into the material plane when he deems that he alone can steer the course of reality along its proper path. With an expansive perspective on existence, Inai is focused intently on a point in time beyond which he cannot see, when the fabrics of multiple realities are fated to collide. Now he steps from the aether to personally resolve the battle of the Ancients and prepare his allies for what he views as a greater conflict to come.

Beatrix Snapfire and her dragon toad Mortimer are a welcome sight to the ragged folk who scratch out lives along the desert routes and oases scattered throughout Nanarak, the rain-forsaken gateway to the Outlands. As well known for her unrivaled skills as a weaponsmith as for dispensing wisdom, mirth, and the meanest firesnap cookies the world has ever seen, Beadie's survived to a ripe old age in a young keen's trade by being quick with her wits and even quicker with her guns. Indeed, the Outlands are littered with the bones of bandits and ne'er-do-wells who thought to take advantage of her small stature and propensity for kindness.

Mars, first son of Heaven, spent a long existence waging endless war, and saw countless more crusades waged beneath the banner of his old name. Wars of conquest and of vengeance. Just and unjust... Always cruel. So much like his father, Mars indulged his basest impulses--with inclinations much more monstrous than those of Zeus--and he inflicted suffering untold. But as the epochs vanished behind him, the selfish ways of his father--the ways of many amongst his godly kin, they who judged him despicable--eventually began to ring hollow. War for its own sake was no longer enough to satisfy his desires. For the first time in his ageless days, the god of war began to question to what ends he swung his glorious spear. As the Fates would have it, his solution came easily: he must wage war for a larger purpose, and inspire more than mere savagery and sorrow at the sight of his crest. He must at last lay claim to the mantle of leadership that is his birthright, for the time has come to burn dow

The people of Ashkavor crowded around the temple square, eager to witness the ascension of their new guardian — to stand near the man as he bound their souls to his own. But as his final brush strokes fell against the runestone, and the bond of a new Ascended One was forged, everyone — even those who'd stayed in their homes — could sense that something had gone terribly wrong. He knew the cause instantly. The droplets of ichor he'd procured to amplify the potency of his inkpots had instead contaminated them, and the power of the binding spell he'd cast now threatened to consume him. An inky corruption snaked upward from the runestone, along the handle of his brush, soon overtaking his hands. From there it spread quickly. Once it overcame his face and his mouth, he couldn't have screamed even if he'd wanted to. All of his life he'd calculated on how to attain ever greater powers than the limits presented by his teachers would allow—going so far as to break the sa

The men and women that make up the Nivan Gallants live a life of swordplay, chandelier swinging, and tawdry romance. And while all adhere to their creed that “A life of adventure is the only life worth living,” the exploits of Donté Panlin still manage to raise the eyebrows of even the most hedonistic of swordsmen. There is no monster he won’t slay. No creature he won’t woo. No tyrant he won’t stand against. And no noble immune to his silver tongue.

Children love telling stories about the whimsical adventures of fairies... That’s because children don’t know that most fairies are spiteful jerks. And in the world of spiteful fairies there are few names spoken of with more contempt than Mireska Sunbreeze. Born to a fae merchant king, Mireska grew up in Revtel; a cutthroat nation where manipulation and murder were the norm. But while she was quite adept at navigating the etiquette, unspoken laws, and social rituals that permeated every element of her life, she found the whole thing rather boring. So, Mireska did what most rebellious children do: burn down her family estate and set off with her pet wisp Jex to live the life of a wandering grifter.

Es war einmal ein Mann, der hatte einen Esel, welcher schon lange Jahre unverdrossen die Säcke in die Mühle getragen hatte. Nun aber gingen die Kräfte des Esels zu Ende, so dass er zur Arbeit nicht mehr taugte. Da dachte der Herr daran, ihn wegzugeben. Aber der Esel merkte, dass sein Herr etwas Böses im Sinn hatte, lief fort und machte sich auf den Weg nach Bremen. Dort, so meinte er, könnte er ja Stadtmusikant werden. Als er schon eine Weile gegangen war, fand er einen Jagdhund am Wege liegen, der jämmerlich heulte. „Warum heulst du denn so, Pack an?“ fragte der Esel. „Ach“, sagte der Hund, „weil ich alt bin, jeden Tag schwächer werde und auch nicht mehr auf die Jagd kann, wollte mich mein Herr totschießen. Da hab ich Reißaus genommen. Aber womit soll ich nun mein Brot verdienen?“ „Weißt du, was“, sprach der Esel, „ich gehe nach Bremen und werde dort Stadtmusikant. Komm mit mir und lass dich auch bei der Musik annehmen. Ich spiele die Laute, und du schlägst die Pauken.“ Der Hund war e

 每个人都会有藏在记忆里的人，也许是因为一段情没有了却，也许是因为一种心思没有说明，也许是一种感觉让人无法忘怀，所以，记忆中总会存在那么个人。 他带给你温暖的回忆，每每想到，仿佛有他的那段日子都会发光，仿佛，能想到的他的每个细节都是完美无暇的。 在我的记忆中，有一位王子，当时，觉得他那么帅，那么优秀，那么幽默，对我那么好，总之就是完美。 不过人生的轨迹让我们分开了，之后的好几年杳无音讯，我并不会总想起他，可是每次想起他，都觉得他是那么完美，那么好，那段有他的日子，一直感觉是人生中的宝藏。 直到前几天，有一个一直跟我和那个人都有联系的同学，把我们三个人加在了一个微信群里，我和我记忆中的人又有了联系，消失了那么多年，他的突然出现确实让我很欢喜，那些美好的记忆瞬间涌上心头，我甚至还幻想电视剧里的那些可爱的桥段，什么久别重逢之后的相知相惜之类的，光是那么想想就觉得莫名地激动。 可是，事实呢，却平淡如水，我们聊天了，开了几句玩笑，寒暄几句，就结束了。他还是挺愿意跟我说话的，但仅限于刚接触上的前两天，我也是，还是挺愿意回他的，但也仅限于我没发现他说话的风格还是那种，总是开别人玩笑那种。 加到他好友的瞬间，迫不及待地看他的朋友圈，想看看他的生活近况什么的，看着看着，发现，没有什么意义，他去念了什么大学，跟谁谁一起去哪哪旅游了，于我，都无所谓，后来自己发现根本看不下去了，因为完全没有什么兴趣了。 记忆里的那么美好的他好像也瞬间不存在了，本来可以偶尔偶尔拿出来缅怀青春的人，现在站在眼前却无论如何也缅怀不起来了。 他最近怎么样了？这只是心中的一个问题，并不是一个需要答案的问题。 最近联系上他之后，先是兴奋，后来就变得失落，到现在就只剩下麻木了，对现在的他麻木了，对记忆中的他也麻木了，一下子，记忆中的他也无法再发光了。 所以， 记忆中的人，不要去见。 就留他在记忆里吧，在那发光。

For 500 years the mountain pressed down upon him, only his head free from the crushing weight of the stonewrought prison the elder gods had summoned to halt his childish rebellion. Moss grew along the lines of his exposed face, tufts of grass sprouted from his ears; his vision was framed in wildflowers reaching from the soil around his cheeks. Most thought him long dead, tormented by the gods for waging war against the heavens until naught but his legend survived. But, as the stories go, the Monkey King cannot die. So he waited. Until the gods came to offer a chance at absolution, he endured. And when they did come to name the price, Sun Wukong accepted their charge: he would accompany a young acolyte on a secret pilgrimage, protect him from demons and dangers of the road, and guide the man home in possession of a coveted relic. Do that, and humbly obey the human's commands in service to their holy mission, and Wukong would prove himself reformed. For a change, Sun Wukong fulfilled

Neither myth nor song exist to tell of their coming. Deep below the surface of the world lay unknown wonders and horrors. Down and down again, well beneath the slithering magma fields and simmering roots of dormant volcanoes stands the obsidian city of Aziyog, its incomparable stonework spanning an endless cavern. Within honeycomb walls mortared with the bones of countless slaves lies the domain of the Abyssal Horde, and their brutal underlord Vrogros. Armed by the monstrous forgemasters of his kind and well-practiced in the arts of the Dark Rift, Vrogros is able to conjure forth flame and crippling malice through the twist between worlds. He seeks always to expand his holdings, destroying or enslaving all he encounters. Yet the lands offered by the subterranean realm are few, and so his sights have turned upward. By his command the first waves of abyssal invaders have already marched through the rift, a few doomed legions meant merely to test the might of nations above. Now, as his fu

Before the beginning of all, there existed a presence: a primordial mind, infinite, awesome, and set to inscrutable purpose. As the universe thundered into being, this mind was fragmented and scattered. Two among its greater fragments—who would come to be named Radiant and Dire—found themselves locked in vicious opposition, and began twisting all of creation to serve their conflict. As war and cataclysm threatened the nascent cosmos, the will of a third fragment made itself known. Naming itself Zet, this intellect sought to resolve the disharmony and return all to perfect unity. Appalled by its kin's conflicting nature, Zet gathered the sum of its power. In a sudden flash, it overwhelmed its siblings, and fused the warring aspects into a stellar sphere before hurling them into the darkness to orbit a nondescript world. Harmony was restored, though only the barest fraction of Zet's strength remained. Setting its gaze on the prison, Zet chose to use its weakened power to serve as

Like many great poets, Auroth just wants time to write, but the Winter Wyvern's life is full of interruptions. The epics of the Eldwurms have a long and colorful history, but some fear that the remaining dragon scholars are not as prolific as they once were, with few lines added to the Eldwurm Eddas since the last age of greatness. Auroth laments: "We forget that there is more to life than triumph and dominion over enemies. We must also live our lives in the pursuit of creative expression." She embarks on research expeditions, collecting books for inspiration. But all this research can be terribly distracting, and she spends less time writing than she should. Although she knows she should be lurking in her lair, adding to the Eddas, she finds herself engaged in epic battles against powerful enemies. She loots castles, raids ancient libraries ... and if she happens to heap glory on herself in the process, she tells herself that it's merely a side effect of her research

From the first, Nerif's prophecies were unusual. They seemed not merely to portend the future, but to shape it. The weird soothsayer croaked out advice no one had requested, and suddenly the Cymurri found themselves immersed in conflicts with newfound enemies. The Advisors, sensing a threat to their power, were quick to pin these unwelcome developments on the latest Oracle. They demanded his removal, petitioning the Sybils to reclaim their defective prophet and replace him with a worthy substitute. But Nerif described an ominous dream of the Incubarium's destruction, and within hours came news of the ancient school's destruction in a catastrophic avalanche. Fearing the same fate as the Pallid Sybils, the Advisors withdrew to their counsel chambers, suddenly anxious to avoid the Oracle's notice. The Graven King, however, was a creature of great practicality. He doubted the commitment of his overprudent Advisors. An Oracle of such rarity, he reasoned, ought be used as a w

In the storied saga of Dredger's Bight, no business has ever been more reviled than Techies Demolitions. Then again, Dredger's Bight no longer exists. Nor does Toterin. Or even Trapper Town. In fact, if one were to track the history of Techies Demolitions they might notice that shortly after Techies appear, towns tend to disappear. Like every inevitable disaster surrounding Techies, the obliteration of Dredger's Bight began with an invention. Tasked with designing a safer way of detonating explosives in the mines beneath the city, pyrotechnic prodigies Squee, Spleen, and Spoon developed their most outlandish creation yet: a button which, when pressed, would trigger a distant device to spark a fuse. Overeager to test their invention, the trio stuffed barrel after barrel with flamesalt explosives, piling every corner of their tiny workshop high with the newly developed remote bombs. From this stockpile they plucked a single payload, burying it in a far away field. As they cow

Terrorblade is the demon marauder—an outlaw hellion whom even other demons fear. A cosmic iconoclast, he stole from the Demon Lords, ignored the codified rites that should have bound his behavior, and broke every law of the seven Infernal Regions. For his crimes, he was taught this lesson: even Hell has a hell. A short, brutal trial ensued, with many dead on all sides, and he was finally incarcerated in Foulfell, a hidden dimension where demonkind imprison their own. But Foulfell is no normal prison. In this dark mirror of reality, demons are sentenced to gaze eternally into the twisted reflection of their own souls. But instead of suffering, Terrorblade made himself master of his own reflected worst self—a raging, thieving demon of unimaginable power. With his inner beast under sway, he destroyed the fractal prison walls and burst free to turn his terror loose upon all creation.

Alone across an untouched darkness gleamed the Keeper's first sun, a singular point of conscious light fated to spread warmth into the empty void. Through aeons beyond count, this blinding beacon set to coalescing its incalculable energy before bursting forth the cataclysmic flare of supernova. From this inferno raced new beacons, star progeny identical to its parent, who journeyed an unlit ocean and settled in constellatory array. In time, they too would be made to propagate through supernova flame. So would this dazzling cycle of birth and rebirth repeat until all skies hewn of Titan toil deigned to twinkle and shine. By this ageless crucible the star that mortals would come to call Phoenix collapsed into being, and like its ancestors was thrust into an endless cosmos to find a place among its stellar brethren. Yet curiosity toward that which the dimming elders comfort in the darkness consumed the fledgling, and so over long cycles it inquired and studied. It learned that among w

They came without warning. Within the city walls of Stonehall there came a rumble and a terrible sound, and from blackness unknown came a force of beasts numbering beyond count, wielding flame and foul sorcery, slaying and snatching mothers and sons to dark purpose. Of once-mighty Stonehall's military strength only the Bronze Legion, led by the indomitable Commander Tresdin, was near enough to answer the call of battle. They rode into their city, fighting through bloodstained alleyways and burning markets, cutting their way through the monstrous throng to the source of the sudden invasion: an ethereal rift within the city square, and at its precipice thundered their dreaded champion. Enwrapped in a corrosive shimmer, the leader of the abyssal horde swung its massive blade, cleaving a legionnaire in two as his flesh began to spoil. Tresdin lifted her blood-stained sword and settled her sights on the beast. It turned, smiling at her through a maze of teeth. Heedless of the battle rag

Deep amid the Upland crags and cliffs there runs a seam of sacred jade long foresworn by highland miners. From this rare material, the likeness of the great general Kaolin was carved and buried at the head of a stone funerary army ten thousand strong—a force of soldiers and holy men, jesters and acrobats, carved by crafstmen and entombed for millennia in the dark embrace of the Earth. What the craftsmen had not known was that within the strange seam of jade flowed the spirit of the Earth itself—an elemental force at one with the planet. When the force within the carved jade found itself cut off from the life's blood of the world, it gathered its strength over the course of a thousand years and dug itself free and into the light. Now the great Kaolin Earth Spirit strides the Upland roads, fighting for the spirit of the Earth; and in times of need calls forth remnants of his buried army still locked in the loving embrace of the soil.

Lost within the Wailing Mountains, the Fortress of Flares lay abandoned, its training halls empty, its courtyard covered in leaves and dust. Upon a dais in its sealed temple rests a topaz cauldron filled with ancient ash, remnants of a pyre for the warrior-poet Xin. For three generations, Xin taught his acolytes the Bonds of the Guardian Flame, a series of mantras to train the mind and body for the harsh realities beyond the fortress walls. However, in teaching a warrior's way he earned a warrior's rivals, and in his autumn Xin was bested and slain. His followers spread to the wind. Yet as years turned to centuries and followers to descendants, his teachings endured by subtle whisper and deed. Touched by the teacher's lasting legacy, the Burning Celestial, inquisitive aspect of fire, cast himself to the Fortress of Flares and reignited the pyre ash. From these glowing embers emerged an image of Xin, wreathed in flame, his thoughtful countenance prepared to train and to teac

The Font of Avernus is the source of a family's strength, a crack in primal stones from which vapors of prophetic power have issued for generations. Each newborn of the cavernous House Avernus is bathed in the black mist, and by this baptism they are given an innate connection to the mystic energies of the land. They grow up believing themselves fierce protectors of their lineal traditions, the customs of the realm—but what they really are protecting is the Font itself. And the motives of the mist are unclear. When the infant Abaddon was bathed in the Font, they say something went awry. In the child's eyes there flared a light of comprehension that startled all present and set the sacerdotes to whispering. He was raised with every expectation of following the path all scions of Avernus took—to train in war, that in times of need he might lead the family's army in defense of the ancestral lands. But Abaddon was always one apart. Where others trained with weapons, he bent him

Well may you ask, "How did this world take its form?" Why of all the worlds in creation, has this one its strange properties, its diverse and motley collection of creatures, cultures and lore? "The answer," One whispers, "lies with the Titans." These original progenitors were there near the Beginning—if not actual witnesses to the creation, then born with it still echoing in their ears. Stamped with the earliest energies of the universe, they wished nothing more than to continue as creators themselves. Thus they bent to the task of shaping matter to their will: hammering and heating, bending and blasting. And when matter proved less challenging than they liked, they turned their tools upon themselves, reshaping their minds and reforging their spirits until they had become beings of great endurance. Reality itself became the ultimate object of their smithing. Yet, along the way, they sometimes erred. In cases of great ambition, mistakes are unavoidable. The

A highly placed mage in the court of the Ghastly Eyrie, Dragonus lives a troubled existence. Sworn by birth to protect whoever sits within the Nest of Thorns, he hates the current Skywrath queen with all his soul. As a youth, high-born, he was a friend and companion to the eldest Skywrath princess, Shendelzare, first in line for the Nest. He had loved her warmly and unshakably, but as his studies took hold, his mind turned to arcane learning and the mastery of Skywrath sorcery. Obsessed with matters aetherial, he missed the mundane signs of courtly treachery that hinted at a plot against Shendelzare, and lost his chance to foil it. When the court was shaken by a swift and violent coup, he emerged from his studies to discover his oldest and dearest friend had been lost to him. The Nest of Thorns now belonged to Shendelzare's ruthless younger sister, and Dragonus could do nothing. The magic of the Skywrath Mage serves only the sworn protector of the Skywrath scion, so to act against

Never one to turn his back on a fight, Rigwarl was known for battling the biggest, meanest scrappers he could get his hands on. Christened Bristleback by the drunken crowds, he waded into backroom brawls in every road tavern between Slom and Elze, until his exploits finally caught the eye of a barkeep in need of an enforcer. For a bit of brew, Bristleback was hired to collect tabs, keep the peace, and break the occasional leg or two (or five, in the case of one unfortunate web-hund). After indulging in a night of merriment during which bodily harm was meted out in equal parts upon both delinquent patrons and his own liver, Bristleback finally met his match. "Your tusks offend me, sir," he was heard to drunkenly slur to one particularly large fellow from the northern wastes whose bill had come due. What followed was a fight for the ages. A dozen fighters jumped in. No stool was left unbroken, and in the end, the impossible happened: the tab went unpaid. Over the weeks that fol

It had been a brawl to remember. There stood Ymir, the Tusk, the Terror from the Barrier, the Snowball from Cobalt, the only fighter to have bested the Bristled Bruiser in a fair fight, and now the last man standing in Wolfsden Tavern. What started as a simple bar bet of supremacy ended with four regulars, a blacksmith, and six of the Frost Brigade's best soldiers writhing against the shards and splinters of almost every bottle, mug, and chair in the building. The Tusk boasted and toasted his victory as he emptied his brew. No sooner had the defeated regained consciousness than the cries for double-or-nothing rang out. The Tusk was pleased at the prospect, but none could think of a bet bigger than the one he just conquered. Horrified at the damage to his tavern and desperate to avoid another brawl, the barkeep had an idea. As skilled as he was, Ymir had never taken part in a real battle, never tested himself against the indiscriminate death and chaos of war. He proposed a wager to

It's an easy thing to offend a troll. A prickly and contentious race, trolls thrive on argument and strife, missing no excuse to raise their voices in dispute. Males grow to maturity in subterranean chambers beneath their matriarch's domicile, feeding and amusing themselves while contributing nothing. Often they stay for years beyond the age of maturity, while the matriarch provides them with sustenance. When young trolls are finally pushed from their sub-chamber, they gather with others of their kind, forming roving gangs of malcontents who complain loudly about all manner of vexation. As much as trolls love to argue, imagine how rare it is for a troll to be driven from his own kind for being too difficult to get along with. Such was Jah'rakal's fate, a monger troll from deep in the Hoven. So deluded was he, so bitter and abrasive, that even other trolls found his company intolerable. After one particularly vitriolic outburst in which he claimed the lion's share of

Beauty is power. This thought comforted Medusa—the youngest and loveliest of three beautiful Gorgon sisters, born to a sea goddess—because she alone of the sisters was mortal. It comforted her, that is, until the day masked assailants invaded the Gorgon realm and tore the two immortal sisters from their home, unmoved by their beauty or by their tears. One of the invaders seized Medusa as well, but then cast her aside with a disgusted look: 'This one has the mortal stink upon her. We have no use for that which dies.' Humiliated, enraged, Medusa fled to the temple of her mother and cast herself before the goddess, crying, 'You denied me eternal life—therefore I beg you, give me power! Power, so I can dedicate what life I have to rescuing my sisters and avenging this injustice!' After long thought, the goddess granted her daughter's request, allowing Medusa to trade her legendary beauty for a face and form of terrifying strength. Never for a moment has Medusa regretted

Alkisah, di sebuah rumah sederhana di lereng Gunung Bromo, seorang laki-laki setengah baya sedang duduk menunggu istrinya yang akan melahirkan anak kedua mereka. Laki-laki itu adalah Raja Majapahit yang meninggalkan negerinya dan membuat sebuah dusun di lereng Gunung Bromo bersama beberapa orang pengikutnya karena kalah berperang melawan putranya sendiri. Wajah laki-laki itu tampak begitu pucat dan hatinya diselimuti perasaan cemas melihat istrinya terus merintih menahan rasa sakit. Saat tengah malam, buah hati yang mereka nanti-nantikan pun lahir ke dunia. Namun anehnya, bayi yang berjenis kelamin perempuan itu tidak menangis seperti halnya bayi-bayi pada umumnya. “Dinda! Bayi kita seorang perempuan,” kata mantan Raja Majapahit itu. “Tapi Kanda, kenapa Dinda tidak mendengar suara tangis putri kita?” tanya permaisurinya yang masih terbaring lemas. “Jangan khawatir, Dinda! Putri kita lahir dengan normal dan sehat. Lihatlah, wajah putri kita tampak bersinar! Dia bagaikan seorang titisan

Rizzrack could still hear the screams in his mind. He worked, frantically turning wrenches, twisting screws, building and carving and forging. Sleep eluded him; he only built. Months had passed since he had shut himself in his uncle's workshop, and his deliverance was nearly complete. He rubbed his back as his eyes drifted shut, and saw a blanket of flowers floating on the placid waves of Augury Bay before exploding into a cloud of pollen that silenced lives as it seized the lungs. He woke with a choking start. For hours the rhythmic sound of a whetstone filled the shop as he sharpened a set of massive blades, his mind filled with images of strangling vines garroting neighbors, enwrapping homes. The flooding of Augury Bay had been nothing compared to the violent horrors the waters left to take root beyond the city walls. But the saw-suit would make him strong and safe he thought, allowing himself this sliver of hope before the full might of his fear crashed into his fading mind. Br

Little known to the inhabitants of the dry world, Dark Reef is a sunken prison where the worst of the sea-bred are sent for crimes against their fellows. It is a razor barbed warren full of murderous slithereen, treacherous Deep Ones, sociopathic meranths. In this dim labyrinth, patrolled by eels and guarded by enormous anemones, only the vicious survive. Pitched into Dark Reef for crimes unknown, Slark spent half a lifetime without kin or kindness, trusting no one, surviving through a combination of stealth and ruthlessness, keeping his thoughts and his plans to himself. When the infamous Dark Reef Dozen plotted their ill-fated breakout, they kept their plans a perfect secret, murdering anyone who could have put the pieces together—but somehow Slark discovered their scheme and made a place for himself in it. Ten of the Dozen died in the escape attempt, and two were captured, hauled back to Dark Reef, then executed for the entertainment of their fellow inmates. But Slark, the unsung th

It's said that a centaur's road is paved with the corpses of the fallen. For the one called Warrunner, it has been a long road indeed. To outsiders, the four-legged clans of Druud are often mistaken for simple, brutish creatures. Their language has no written form; their culture lacks pictographic traditions, structured music, formalized religion. For centaurs, combat is the perfect articulation of thought, the highest expression of self. If killing is an art among centaurs, then Bradwarden the Warrunner is their greatest artist. He rose to dominance on the proving grounds of Omexe, an ancient arena where centaur clans have for millennia gathered to perform their gladiatorial rites. As his fame spread, spectators came from far and wide to see the great centaur in action. Always the first to step into the arena, and the last to leave, he composes a masterpiece in each guttering spray, each thrust of blood-slickened blade-length. It is the poetry of blood on steel, flung in compl

The master-smiths of Mt. Joerlak agree on only a single point: that the horn of a magnoceros is more precious than any alloy. And of all such horns, the largest and sharpest belongs to the beast they call Magnus. For half a generation, Magnus took easy sport goring hunters come to claim the treasures of his kin. Each time he would return to his cave with hooves and horns stained red, until his Matriarch urged him and all their kin to seek refuge to the north beyond the shadow of the mountain. But Magnus scoffed, having never failed to defend his people. The magnoceroi would stay, he decided, for a magnoceros does not believe in chance... nor does it ever change its mind. But when Mt. Joerlak erupted without warning, and half his kin perished in the fire and ash, Magnus changed his mind after all. The survivors pushed north, until they reached a blockade watched over by a hundred hunters armed with bow and steel. Magnus expected no less. He led his fiercest brothers and sisters in a cha

"If you ask me, life is all about who you know and what you can find. When you live up in the Riftshadow Ruins, just finding food can be tough. So you need to cut corners, you need to scrounge, you need to know your strengths. Some of the beasts up there can kill you, so you need a way to trap the weak and duck the strong. On the upside, the ruins have history, and history is worth a lot to some people. There used to be a palace there, where they had all these dark rituals. Bad stuff. If you survived the ceremony, they would shatter a crystal and split your soul into pieces. They made great art though! Sculptures and such. Let me tell you: sometimes you stumble onto some of those old carvings. Take a pack full of those to town and sell them, then get yourself food for a few weeks. If luck is really on your side, you might find a Riftshadow crystal. Get it appraised and start asking around. Someone always knows some crazy fool looking for this kind of thing. If all else fails, sell

Perched atop the entrance to the Narrow Maze sit the looming shapes of sneering gargoyles, the paths into the hereafter forever in their gaze. Beasts and birds, men and monsters, all creatures that die and choose to travel beyond must someday pass beneath their sight. For an untethered spirit, the decision to journey through the veil of death is irrevocable. When chance comes, and by craft or cunning some restless soul escapes their hells and heavens, it is the dreaded gargoyle Visage, the bound form of the eternal spirit Necro'lic, who is dispatched to reclaim them. Ruthless and efficient, unhindered by the principles of death and fatigue, Visage stalks its prey without mercy or end, willingly destroying all which may give shelter to the fugitive essence. That which flaunts the laws of the afterlife may never rest, for while it is true that the dead may be revived, it is only a matter of time before Visage finds and returns them to their proper place.

Upon a pale horse he rides, this spark of endless suns, this Keeper of the Light. Ezalor long ago escaped the Fundamental plane, separating from the other ancient forces to which he was bound within the great Primordial harmony. He is a power grown sentient in the dawn of the universe, and now rides forth in all planes at once, one step ahead of pursuing chaos, bearing his gift with him at the end of a radiant staff. His majestic truth lies hidden beneath the outward appearance of a slightly doddering old man who barely stays in the saddle. However, when faced with the challenge of chaos, or the forces of darkness, his primordial light bursts forth, and his full power is revealed, transforming him once again into a force to be reckoned with.

Deep in the Archive of Ultimyr, shelved between scholarly treatises on dragon cladistics and books of untranslatable spells, there is an ancient tome of entomological curiosities. Compiled by scholars, the book describes the telepathic talents of the zealot scarab, a strange species of social insect with abilities unique to all the seven planes. Unlike most grubs of his colony, Nyx Assassin did not arise from metamorphosis with the plodding thoughts and blunted appendages common to the worker caste of his kind. For his was a special transformation, guided by the grace of Nyx. He was the chosen one, selected from the many and anointed with an extract of the queen goddess herself. Not all survive the dark blessing of the queen's chamber, but he emerged with a penetrating mind, and dagger-like claws—his razor sharp mandibles raking the air while his thoughts projected directly into the minds of those around him. Of all zealot scarabs, he alone was selected for the highest calling. Aft

Among the high-sworn of the Slithereen Guard there is a solemn vow oft repeated before battle: No Slithereen may fail. In truth, these words are equal parts oath and enforceable covenant, for those who fall short of their duty are banished from the order. To fail is to be other than Slithereen. Once most highly esteemed of her race, Slithice for many years commanded a battalion of her fellows, using her formidable voice as her greatest weapon. Powerful, sinuous, serpentine, she led her deadly Guard in defense of the Deep Ones, and the great wealth of the sunken cities. But in the final battle of Crey, her forces were driven back by a marauding army of levianths intent on finding tribute for their god Maelrawn. After the long and bloody onslaught, as the bodies were cleared from the sunken halls, a single jeweled chalice was found missing from the trove. Of her hundred Guard, only a handful survived, but their bravery and sacrifice were of little consequence. What mattered was that trea

Lanaya, the Templar Assassin, came to her calling by a path of curious inquiry. Possessed of a scientific bent, she spent her early years engaged in meticulous study of nature's laws—peering into grimoires of magic and alchemy, recreating experiments from charred fragments of the Violet Archives, and memorizing observations of the Keen recordkeepers. Already quiet and secretive by nature, the difficulty of acquiring these objects further reinforced her skills of stealth. Had she been less retiring, she might have become notorious among the guilds as a thief-scholar. Instead her investigations led her into far more obscure corners. As she devoted her furtive talents to unlocking the secrets of the universe, she instead unlocked a secret door that exists in nature itself: the entryway to the most Hidden Temple. The intelligences that waited beyond that portal, proved to be expecting her, and whatever mysteries they revealed in the moment of their discovery was nothing compared to the

High on the wind-ravaged steppes of Druud, a gifted young stormcrafter called Disruptor was the first to unlock the secrets of the summer squalls. Constantly under assault from both seasonal storms and encroachment from civilized kingdoms to the South, the upland Oglodi have for centuries struggled to subsist atop the endless tablelands. They are the fractured remnant of a once-great civilization, a fallen tribe, their stormcraft strange and inscrutable, cobbled together from scraps of lost knowledge which even they no longer fully understand. For those on the high plain, weather has become a kind of religion, worshiped as both the giver and taker of life. But the electrical storms that bring life-sustaining rains arrive at a cost, and many are the charred and smoking corpses left in their wake. Although small for his kind, Disruptor is fearless, and driven by an insatiable curiosity. As a youth, while still unblooded and without a stryder, he explored the ruins of the ancestral cities

How long has it been since he lost his name? The torn ruin of his mind no longer knows. Dimly he recalls armor and banners and grim-faced kin riding at his side. He remembers a battle: pain and fear as pale hands ripped him from his saddle. He remembers terror as they threw him into the yawning pit of the Dead God alongside his brothers, to hear the Dirge and be consumed into nothingness. In the darkness below, time left them. Thought left them. Sanity left them. Hunger, however, did not. They turned on each other with split fingernails and shattered teeth. Then it came: distant at first, a fragile note at the edge of perception, joined by another, then another, inescapable and unending. The chorus grew into a living wall of sound pulsing in his mind until no other thought survived. With the Dirge consuming him, he opened his arms to the Dead God and welcomed his obliteration. Yet destruction was not what he'd been chosen for. The Dead God demanded war. In the belly of the great no

Io is everywhere, and in all things. Denounced by enemies as the great unmaker, worshiped by scholars as the twinkling of a divine eye, this strange Wisp of life-force occupies all planes at once, the merest fraction of its being crossing into physical existence at any one moment. Like the great twin riders Dark and Light, and yet another ancient traveler whose true history is lost to the ages, Io the Wisp is a Fundamental of the universe, a force older than time, a wanderer from realms far beyond mortal understanding. Io is nothing less than the sum of all attractive and repulsive forces within the material field, a sentient manifestation of the charge that bind existence together. It is only in the controlled warping of these electrical waylines that Io's presence can be experienced on the physical plane. A benevolent, cooperative force, Io bonds its strange magnetism to others so that the power of allies might be enhanced. Its motives inscrutable, its strength unimaginable, Io m

How had she been reduced to this? She was once the Scourge of the Plains, a merciless leader of men and beasts, and able to sow terror wherever she dared. Now she was far from her homeland, driven half mad from starvation and months of wandering, her army long dead or worse. As she stood at the edge of an ancient forest, a pair of glowing eyes spied on from an elder branch. Something beautiful and deadly sought a meal in the wilting dusk. Without a sound, it turned and left. Fury overtook her. Clutching a rust-eaten dagger, she charged after the beast determined to reclaim even a shred of her past glory, but her quarry would not be caught. Three times she cornered the creature among the rocks and trees, and three times she pounced only to witness its fading shadow darting further into the woods. Yet the full moon shone brightly, and the creature's trail was easy to follow. Arriving in a clearing atop a high hill, the beast's massive feline form sat in the open, attentive and wa

Any mage can cast a spell or two, and a few may even study long enough to become a wizard, but only the most talented are allowed to be recognized as a Magus. Yet as with any sorcerer's circle, a sense of community has never guaranteed competitive courtesy. Already a renowned duelist and scholar of the grander world of sorcery, it had never occurred to Rubick that he might perhaps be Magus material until he was in the midst of his seventh assassination attempt. As he casually tossed the twelfth of a string of would-be killers from a high balcony, it dawned on him how utterly unimaginative the attempts on his life had become. Where once the interruption of a fingersnap or firehand might have put a cheerful spring in his step, it had all become so very predictable. He craved greater competition. Therefore, donning his combat mask, he did what any wizard seeking to ascend the ranks would do: he announced his intention to kill a Magus. Rubick quickly discovered that to threaten one Mag

Through a process of divination, children are selected for upbringing by the Sisters of the Veil, an order that considers assassination a sacred part of the natural order. The Veiled Sisters identify targets through meditation and oracular utterances. They accept no contracts, and never seem to pursue targets for political or mercenary reasons. Their killings bear no relation to any recognizable agenda, and can seem to be completely random: A figure of great power is no more likely to be eliminated than a peasant or a well digger. Whatever pattern the killings may contain, it is known only to them. They treat their victims as sacrifices, and death at their hand is considered an honor. Raised with no identity except that of their order, any Phantom Assassin can take the place of any other; their number is not known. Perhaps there are many, perhaps there are few. Nothing is known of what lies under the Phantom Veil. Except that this one, from time to time, when none are near enough to he

The veteran of countless battles on a thousand worlds, Chaos Knight hails from a far upstream plane where the fundamental laws of the universe have found sentient expression. Of all the ancient Fundamentals, he is the oldest and most tireless, endlessly searching out a being he knows only as "The Light." Long ago the Light ventured out from the progenitor realm, in defiance of the first covenant. Now Chaos Knight shifts from plane to plane, always on the hunt to extinguish the Light wherever he finds it. A thousand times he has snuffed out the source, and always he slides into another plane to continue his search anew. Upon his steed Armageddon he rides, wading into battle with maniacal frenzy, drawing strength from the disorder of the universe. A physical manifestation of chaos itself, in times of need he calls upon other versions of himself from other planes, and together these dark horsemen ride into battle, as unstoppable as any force of nature. Only when the last Light o

After serving through a lifetime of wars, upheaval, riots, and revolutions, the brass figured Aurel had seen enough. But in addition to a few trinkets and his considerable pension, the erstwhile engineer left with something far more interesting: a long-forgotten, incomplete schematic for a Gyrocopter, the world's first manned, non-magical flying device. Retiring to the tropical obscurity of the Ash Archipelago with little else but time and money, he set to work building the device. As the years wore on and the remains of failed prototypes began to pile up, he began to wonder if mechanical flight was even possible. A decade and a day after his retirement, on a sunny afternoon with a southerly breeze, Aurel sat in his latest attempt bristling with indignation and expectant failure. With a grunt of effort he pulled the ignition cord and covered his head, waiting for the inevitable explosion. However to his great surprise he began to lift and, following a few panicked adjustments, stab

The ordinary ogre is the creature for whom the phrase 'As dumb as a bag of rock hammers' was coined. In his natural state, an ogre is supremely incapable of doing or deciding anything. Clothed in dirt, he sometimes finds himself accidentally draped in animal skins after eating lanekill. Not an especially social creature, he is most often found affectionately consorting with the boulders or tree-stumps he has mistaken for kin (a factor that may explain the ogre's low rate of reproduction). However, once every generation or so, the ogre race is blessed with the birth of a two-headed Ogre Magi, who is immediately given the traditional name of Aggron Stonebreak, the name of the first and perhaps only wise ogre in their line's history. With two heads, Ogre Magi finds it possible to function at a level most other creatures manage with one. And while the Ogre Magi will win no debates (even with itself), it is graced with a divine quality known as Dumb Luck—a propensity for ser

Far to the west, in the mountains beyond the Vale of Augury, lie the remains of an ancient power, a fount of eldritch energy nestled deep in the high woods. It is said that the things that grow here, grow strangely. To the forces of nature this is a sacred place, made to stay hidden and unknown. Many are the traps and dangers of this land. There are all-consuming grasses, crossbred fauna and poisonous flowers, but none are so fierce as the mighty Treant Protectors. These ageless, titanic beings, charged with keeping the peace in this dangerous land, ensure that none within encroach without reason, and none without poach their secrets. For time untold they tended to their holy ground, uninterrupted, only dimly aware of the changing world beyond. Yet inevitably the wider world grew aware of this untamed land, and with each passing winter the outsiders grew bolder. Soon they arrived with tools to cut and with flames to burn, and often the Treants would ponder: who are these fragile, indus

The remote village of Pole had no knowledge of the wars raging in the heart of the kingdom. For them, the quiet of spear fishing, and a family meal were all that a full life required. Yet war came for them nonetheless. Joining the able-bodied conscripts as they filed passed their homes, the humble lancer Azwraith vowed to bring peace to his kingdom, and in so doing, his people. Placed with his kin in the vanguard of the final assault against the Dread Magus Vorn, the cost to his fellows was absolute. As the charging force battled toward the fortress, Azwraith alone among his kind remained standing, and he alone was able to infiltrate the keep. Focused and infuriated by the slaughter of his brothers, Azwraith bested each of the wizard's deadly traps and conjured guardians. Soon the simple fisherman arrived at Vorn's tower sanctum. The pair dueled through the night, pike to staff, as chaos raged below, and with a deafening cry Azwraith pierced his enemy. But the wizard did not si

Deep in the Wailing Mountains, in a valley beneath the Ruined City, the ancient Order of the Oyo has for centuries practiced its rites of holy reverie, communing with the spirit realm in grand festivals of drink. Born to a mother's flesh by a Celestial father, the youth known as Mangix was the first to grow up with the talents of both lineages. He trained with the greatest aesthetes of the Order, eventually earning, through diligent drunkenness, the right to challenge for the title of Brewmaster, that appellation most honored among the contemplative malt-brewing sect. As much drinking competition as mortal combat, Mangix for nine days drank and fought the elder master. For nine nights they stumbled and whirled, chugged and struck, until at last the elder warrior collapsed into a drunken stupor, and a new Brewmaster was named. Now the new, young Brewmaster calls upon the strength of his Oyo forebears to speed his staff. When using magic, it is to his spirit ancestors that he turns.

Long before the first words of the first histories there rose the druidic Bear Clan. Wise and just they were, and focused in their ways to seek an understanding of the natural order. The arch forces of nature saw this, and so sought the most learned among them. Wise old Sylla, clan justiciar and seer, stepped forward for his kin, and to him was given the Seed with these words: 'When all of the world has dimmed, when civilization has left these lands, when the world is slain and wracked by the endless deserts at the end of ages, plant the Seed.' As he grasped his trust, Sylla felt his years recede and his vitality returned. Vast knowledge burst into his mind. He found himself able to project his very will into reality and, with some concentration, alter his own physical form as well. Yet subtle whispers and cruel ears brought word of the Seed and its power to other peoples, and a terrible war crashed upon the Bear Clan. As his ancestral home burned, Sylla took his burden and fle

Banehallow was noble-born to the house of Ambry, the greatest of the landed castes in the old kingdom of Slom. Before the Fall, as the King's wants grew strange, and his court grew crowded with sorcerers and charlatans, the house of Ambry was the first to rise against the avarice of the throne. No longer willing to pay homage and fealty, they instead sent six-thousand swords into the capital, where they were wiped out in the Massacre of the Apostates. And then came the teeth behind the old truth: When you strike a king's neck, you had better take his head. Enraged by the betrayal, the king exterminated the vast Ambry bloodline, sparing only the lord of the house and his youngest son, Banehallow. Before all the royal court, with the disgraced lord chained to the ornate marble floor, the King bade his magicians transform the boy into a wolf so that he might tear out his own father's throat. "Do this," the king said, "so that Lord Ambry will understand the bite

Among the sovereign Demons with explicit access to this world, Doom scarcely bothers with the affairs of Noninfernals and Lesser Spectral Consorts, while Shadow Fiend passes through almost exclusively on collecting expeditions. The Shadow Demon, however, has always taken a deep and abiding interest in the material plane, as if sensing that mastery of this gritty dimensional nexus might be the key to total domination of all realities. Summoned first by minor wizards, the Shadow Demon granted every wish and put on increasingly impressive displays of power until he had the full attention of the greatest demonologists, and through them the various lords, tyrants, autarchs and heirophants who depended on sorcery to buttress their mundane power. So great was his deception that all his summoners considered themselves the master and Shadow Demon the servant; meanwhile, he eroded their identities and made their minds his own. In the end, most members of the cult were hollow puppets, extensions

When the gods have nightmares, it is Bane Elemental who brings them. Also known as Atropos, Bane was born from the midnight terrors of the goddess Nyctasha. A force of terror too powerful to be contained by sleep, he surfaced from her slumbers, fed upon her immortality, and stole his vaporous form from her inky blood. He is the essence of fear. Mortals who hear his voice hear their darkest secrets whispered in their ear. He calls to the hidden fear in every Hero's heart. Wakefulness is no protection, for Bane's black blood, continuously dripping, is a tar that traps his enemies in nightmare. In the presence of Bane, every Hero remembers to fear the dark.

One of a lordly and magisterial race, Harbinger prowls the edge of the Void, sole surviving sentry of an outpost on the world at the rim of the abyss. From this jagged crystalline Outworld, forever on guard, he has gazed for eternities into the heavens, alert for any stirring in the bottomless night beyond the stars. Imprinted deep in the shining lattices of his intellect lies a resonant pattern akin to prophecy, a dark music implying that eventually some evil will wake out there, beyond the edges of creation, and turn its attention to our world. With his whole being focused on his vigil, Outworld Devourer paid little attention to events closer in to the sun. But at last the clamor of the Ancients, and a sense of growing threat from within as well as without, sent him winging sunward to visit the plains of war. Harbinger's place in our own prophecies is unambiguous: he must be considered an omen of worse things to come. But his arrival in itself is bad enough.

At the base of the Bleeding Hills stretches a thousand-league wood, a place called The Hoven, where black pools gather the tarry blood of the uplands, and the king-mage Sutherex sits in benevolent rule. Once a sworn protector of the Hoven lands, Clinkz earned a reputation for his skill with a bow. In the three-hundredth year of the king-mage, the demon Maraxiform rose from sixth hell to lay claim to the forest. In response, the king-mage decreed an unbreakable spell: to any who slew the demon would be granted Life Without End. Unaware of the spell, Clinkz waded into battle, defending his lands against the demon's fiery onslaught. Clinkz drove Maraxiform back to the gates of sixth-hell itself, where on that fiery threshold the two locked in a mortal conflict. Grievously wounded, the demon let out a blast of hellfire as Clinkz loosed his final arrow. The arrow struck the demon true as hellfire poured out across the land, lighting the black pools and burning Clinkz alive at the instan

In its earliest, and some would say most potent form, magic was primarily the art of memory. It required no technology, no wands or appurtenances other than the mind of the magician. All the trappings of ritual were merely mnemonic devices, meant to allow the practitioner to recall in rich detail the specific mental formulae that unlocked a spell's power. The greatest mages in those days were the ones blessed with the greatest memories, and yet so complex were the invocations that all wizards were forced to specialize. The most devoted might hope in a lifetime to have adequate recollection of three spells—four at most. Ordinary wizards were content to know two, and it was not uncommon for a village mage to know only one—with even that requiring him to consult grimoires as an aid against forgetfulness on the rare occasions when he might be called to use it. But among these early practitioners there was one exception, a genius of vast intellect and prodigious memory who came to be kn