Fearfully nearby the Coast exists a world of blood. A universe of biological plasma. Within this hot, lightless broth exist competing microorganic colonies of incomprehensible scale and ludicrous collective intelligence. #blog #indierpg incunabuli.com/lore/daemoni...

Ælves come from the Otherworld's surreal depths. Their adaption to that misty realm lends them great power in our simple World. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

When traversing the spindly pines at night, mind the treetops. Ragwretches climb pine-boughs like huge, twisted, grinning spiders. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Hundred of statues were dragged roughly from the sea. When one broke, the truth was discovered; each statue had been cast around a corpse. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Tombs were found off Kenset Coast. Divers found figures of shaped marble and folded brass; hundreds of statues, yet not a single corpse. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Atop misty Mount Hellebore, a castle stands. It holds no purpose, as the mountain is of no strategic worth. No human purpose, that is. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Fire is humanity's key to the World. With it, they burn their mark in the pressing gloom of the Wilderness; they press back the Otherworld. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

All who attend the West Garden meetings bear an oath of secrecy. Come day, none speak of the secrets discussed those supernal nights.

Even the areas of the library that are well known and mapped are closed at nightfall.

If a siren can't woo and devour a sailor, she’ll pick oysters from their beds and suck them down with gusto.

By the Winnowing's end, the red sky fades; life resumes. None will speak of those who disappeared under the red aurora.

On some nights, dull pounding echoes from the dry catacombs beneath land. The catacombs were locked from the inside. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

The walls of Hellebore Castle's catacombs are etched with images of tentacled beasts. Things move and slither dryly behind the walls. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Humanity's skill in sorcery swells once again. Without caution, they'll burn to nothing all that remains of their tiny, frayed world.

The ancients built Tombs; resting places for secrets which they'd rather the world forget.

Steel has long been humanity's strongest ally in its long war against the encroaching Otherworld. Its cold weight burns the flesh of ælves.

Iron-clad, fiery industry is the mark of the Coast, the mark of civilization. It is the force by which humans resist the Otherworld.

In the depths of Tombs rest relics of a wicked kind. Secrets too terrible to be told, but too beautiful to be destroyed.

Humanity rarely learns. Just two millennia after burying the Sorceries which would have ended their World, greedy hands unearth them again.

The seeds of giant sunflowers may explode, heated by the heady sun. They burst in a tiny, fluffy eruption, like a bird caught by a cat.

The library's more ancient tomes, bound in human skin and prone to moving, are kept chained in cells. Sorcery has lent them a fierce life. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

For the foolishness of the ancient Nör, Humanity suffers. Their tiny World is beset ceaselessly by the terrible realms which adjoin it. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Humanity's fear of eyes in the dark is nothing irrational. The very real terror of red-eyed ragmen was set in their hearts long ago. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Tombs are repositories for neither the dead nor the buried. They are places for secrets, for things to be forgotten. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Ælves' veins flow with an inky black ichor. In places, traceries of tiny, black-purple lines show under their ashen-pale skin. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Deep in the catacombs, empty coffins surround a yawning pit. Its edges are carved with curling tentacles. It stinks of ancient rot. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Statues stood under the sea. Cold men and women cast from stone; each staring with hard, blind brass eyes crusted with green tarnish. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Students have died during midnight meeting in the West Garden. Such people are allowed to simply disappear. Such is the value of secrecy. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

The Winnowing calls weird, man-faced beasts from beneath dead trees. They hunt, leering through windows, looking for a source of blood. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

The hunched, horned profile of a ragwretch silhouetted in the moonlight is an instinctively repulsive sight, like a putrid wound. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

The Otherworld is terrifyingly real. All one requires to enter its alien depths is a door. A door, or an ælf as a guide. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

It is said the Nôr are extinct; their own sorceries consumed them. They stand as a lesson against the wanton use of magicianry, today.

Scores of burial-statues have been sold to civilized homes. By the time the bones inside are found, it will be too late.

Different personas are worn when visiting the West Garden at midnight. Such guises permit freedom both intellectual and carnal. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

The Academy's library is only partially mapped. Portions of it, hidden behind nooks and secret doors, have long slipped from memory. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Ancient Sorcerers filleted their brains. They pressed these fleshy, living leaves and sewed them into Incunabula. Into books of Sorcery.

Librarians have disappeared within the library's immense halls of stacks. Narry a sign of them, save a bookmark left in remembering.

Their way, it scares you. The raggedy folk; in their vernal parlors under the moonlit boughs with their liquor and their toasted meat and their high-kicking clicking heels on flat barn-doors borrowed from the Granger. You despise them only for their appearance—and for their freedom.

Nailing a horseshoe over one's door is regarded as a silly, traditional deterrence to ælves. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

The Academy's west garden has been locked up for decades. Students meet there at midnight to teach each other what the Magisters won't. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Some say the yearly carnage of the Winnowing is a force of nature. Others say it's Humanity's fault, that we bring it upon ourselves. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

He’d disappeared. The bars unbent. The lock fast. The shackles yet locked. The jailer sound asleep with the keyring. The cellmate: hysterical. Laughing. All questions put to him: unanswerable.

After bleached bones were discovered inside the undersea statues, a cover-up was staged. The statues were sold, despite their grisly nature. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

Mice first crawled into the World from under the roots in elms. They appeared, straightened their waistcoats, and joined society.

An empty throne lies in the heart of abandoned Castle Hellebore. On its arms are carved these words: the king is near; the king is here

The black stain of ælf-blood will never leave one's skin. Even when it fades, any ælf in the world will see it; a stain on the soul.

An alf's touch reacts energetically with the flesh of iron-blooded creatures. The barest touch is like a spark. A kiss, electric—though often fatal for reasons unrelated.

The subarctic Castle Hellebore is meant to be abandoned. Not so, say those who have glimpsed pale faces down every freezing hall.

It is by the fault of Sorcery that the Otherworld predates our own. Sorcery opened the misty gates through which ælves and monsters creep. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg

In their nocturnal moots at the West Garden, students are met by ælves. The Otherworldly creatures whisper secrets over cups of gifted wine. #lore #incunabuli #ttrpg