The Eiglophian Mountains seemed to descend like the stabbing fingers of an Hyborean god, thrusting violently into the northern lands, jagged and rough, capped with the crisp clean snows of heaven bleeding into the browns and greens that dominated the valleys.

The battle is long past, but the remnants draw black clouds of flies, an angry buzzing that will not let the memory of the battle fade. It should not fade. It should be remembered.

The Zingaran sellsword thought the pay was easy for the job at hand. Intercept the lone rider and steal some blueprints being transported to a developing city in the plains. He thought wrong.

The barbarian hunched near the fire of a burning hut, sharpening the edge of his greatsword while the smoke wrapped around his form like an extra layer of wolf skin, staving off the cold that descended each twilight from the mountains above the valley.

We gazed upon him, with the fury of the battle wrapping around him like a second layer of armor, and saw not a man with a sword, but rather hell walking. – from the journal of a Nemedian lieutenant.

The atmosphere of the tavern spun in a dark embrace, but even so the half-hooded gray-green eyes of the raven-haired woman tracked all movements. A jug of wine sat on the table before her, but that was merely for show. The half-full cup in front of her had not touched her lips, and – if anyone had cared to notice – the appearance of wine consumed would have been dispelled by the fresh stain on nearby floorboards.

Ainya perched on the edge of a roof, drawing lungfuls of fresh sea air deep into her body. She had to get above the slime, filth, and corruption of Tortage City. It had been an evil night. A night of murder most foul, a night for an assassin, ...

The slavemaster stood in the shadow of the volcano, the angry tongue of lava occasionally throwing up enough light to briefly illuminate his perch and cast it in malevolent tones of orange and golden red. ...

The skies roil black in anger
While chaos churns the seas
Hull and deck scream in protest
Drowning out the slavers’ pleas

Arias’ face was lit with the flickering oranges, yellows and reds of the campfire, but rather than contentedly embracing its warmth, his brow was furrowed in a scowl. His right hand absently rubbed at the soreness of his left shoulder, but that was a pain that was not going away. ...