‘My skin is pallid. My soles are worn. Buboes burst as I sojourn. In foetid rivers, my skin is torn. May your child grant my immortal form! Rusting metal, rotting horns, take me to your Neverborn!’ Burghott sang from the centre of the viscous Nurgle sigil atop the craggy plateau.
Created by potrace 1.16, written by Peter Selinger 2001-2019 'Kill-kill the interlopers!' Ghree screeched and fired his fusil until his digits had gone numb. The cacophony of chaotic combat surrounded…
Created by potrace 1.16, written by Peter Selinger 2001-2019 Silver-paved queues, divided across three ornate wooden stands by Nightweave silk, covered the hall and filtered us all through. I was…
Created by potrace 1.16, written by Peter Selinger 2001-2019 As the morning sun warmed the broad leaves of the Concordia’s jungles, the forest began to awaken. Wrapped around a thick…