the Bog Hag
A cackling swamp-witch, mud to the elbows, bartering in stolen years.
Letters, briefs and reports can be shown with their own typography. Automatic keeps that only while none of your settings above ask otherwise.
Everything the game knows, written down: commands and systems, the places in the world, and what there is to do in them.
A cackling swamp-witch, mud to the elbows, bartering in stolen years.
A giant who bathed too long in the deep fire and came out burning under the skin.
A drowned titan of green bronze, weed-hung and barnacled, still walking a patrol nobody set.
A desert scorpion the size of a wagon, tail arched and poised to strike.
A young dragon of living coals, wreathed in its own smoke, scales glowing at the seams.
An ancient tree-lord roused and furious, axe-scars open down its trunk.
A colossus of fused basalt slabs with lava running bright in every seam, fire guttering from its head and hands where the crust has…
The eldest of dragons: a mountain of red scale with fire moving visibly beneath it, horns worn blunt by age.
Lion, goat and serpent fused into one roaring nightmare, all three heads awake.
A war-titan of black iron plate over a caged and flickering storm, sorcerous script worn almost smooth across its chest.