“If the worms are already on the ceiling, you are late to the killing.”
Snuff your torches. If she sees the flame, she’ll call the storm—and you’ll never see each other again.
Where dawn gilds the ice, a queen of talon and beak keeps court.
A mountain’s shadow unhooks from the peak and takes the wind with it. Then the night screams.
The mountain keeps its dead—and its secrets—in Gralk’s white hands.
Quills like icicles; jokes like knives. He laughs as the snow drinks.
We followed the screaming wind for hours, and when it stopped… that’s when we heard the other thing. Not a roar. Not a beast. A voice. Hollow, wet, and cold like bone marrow.
Along the moonlit forest trails of the Verdant Weald, hunters speak of a flicker in the corner of the eye—a shimmer where something should be, then the sudden flash of claws.
Above the windblown crags of the Shattered Coast, a shadow with three snarling faces sweeps across the rock. Maulwing the Threefold Terror has claimed the highest peaks as its killing grounds.
In the wind-scoured canyons of the Crestview Ridge highlands, the ground trembles before the sound of clanging hooves and the hiss of metal on stone.
In the deepest trenches where sunlight has never reached, something stirs. Sailors speak the name Thalrogg, the Abyssal Crown, only in whispers—an ancient kraken whose mind is as vast as the ocean and whose reach stretches far beyond the sea.
Deep within the half-collapsed mine shafts of Crestview Ridge, there waits a silent horror among the broken statues. Its breath smells of limestone dust, and its gullet grinds stone to meat. Locals call it Stonejaw—a basilisk so old its scales have begun to fossilize.