Take a moment to brush off the dust from your coat and take a seat next to the fire.

Your journey has been long and to stumble upon this place is no easy task.

Have no fear, for you've come here to find answers and answer you shall have.

For I have many tales to weave for you, tales of ghouls and banshees that shriek in the night.


Are you prepared for what secrets these halls keep?


Welcome home.

Thursday, 2 November 2017

Mordrin, the City of Ash

Before there were beasts that went bump in the night
Before there were screams and howls
There was but a humble land with humble farms
Magic was but a legend in lands most distant
That was until Mordrin arrived.
A city of ash
A city of ruin
It's arrival was marked with praise, at first
For when the people saw its gleaming white bricks, they took it as a sign of god
Yet the praise faltered to hushed murmurs of concern
For when the City of Mordrin arrived, the land beneath turned to soot
Farming turned to mining and the land began to die
Soon children disappeared, and the glimmering beacon that was Mordrin vanished
The smog of industry hid the city from those below, but the churning of machines could still be heard
The land below became a blackened district of factories and misery
A mill for flesh and metal

It wasn't long since Mordrin arrived that the beasts began to show
through the cracks of the earth down below
The people became fractured like the land itself
Monsters causing them strife
Yet in these times of darkness hope still shines
Be it from the silver blades of Potter's fields
Or the shimmering lights from the Redwood forest
There is still light, in the dark.

Saturday, 16 September 2017

The Huntsman's Jackal


When the crooked horn bellows
Close your doors
Pull down the shutters
Hide your children 
And you best pray
for the Hunstman's Jackal is on the prowl

She is swift
She is cunning
She will hunt you down
And your flesh she will take
For the Huntsman's Jackal never tires
She always hungers

When the crooked horn bellows
Her howl will follow
like thunder after lightning
Her claws are felt 
before your screams are heard


The tale of the Huntsman's Jackal is a tragic one.
For the Jackal was but a simple farmer's wife before the call took her.
She had a bright eyed son of six winters and she was proud of him.
Yet one fateful evening while her husband and son played, she decided to take a walk alone.
It had been decades since the last "spirit" had roamed and many in the Heartland believed that spirits and the supernatural had long since departed or were entirely made up.
As she traveled their fields of corn, she was ambushed by an unseen force.

Her mind was consumed before she could even scream, and what remained of her was shucked like a cob of corn.
She writhed and growled on the ground before getting up, her beauty already altered and deformed,
Her movements grew inhuman as she crawled on all fours, sniffing the air. 
When she caught scent of her son, she howled and returned home.

Neither her son nor husband stood a chance, what remained of them was said to be just bones and a blood soaked house.
It was that fateful evening the Jackal was born, and it was that evening the Wendigos began their massacre.
It wasn't long before the Heartlands was void of life, and the savage howls of the Jackal and her bands moved on, seeking new prey, to satiate their everlasting hunger.

Should you see the Huntsman's Jackal you could not tell she was human, her face is hidden beneath the skull of an unknown creature with antlers raised in pride.
Her body grew long and thin and her hands bore claws.
She moved like a spider, scuttling across the ground.
Whatever was left of Sybil, was long dead and forgotten.

Friday, 15 September 2017

The Straw King


Hail to the King 
The Lord of Straw
The Master of Corn
The Heartland Guardian

His titles are many 
His enemies are few
His vassals, countless

While hunched over, he stands twelve feet tall
His crown tied together by cornstalks 
His face unseen beneath a burlap mask
His eyes glow a darkened orange
His limbs nothing but bones tied by twine and straw
Each stride he takes is the length of a grown man from head to toe
In his hand a scythe big enough to take down a horse but wielded like a dagger 

He hums as he roams his fields, his domain
Should you be there without permission he will cut you down just like a ripened crop
Your body then will be used as host to one of his many vassals
For the Lost souls of the Heartland are always seeking to live again 
Their offer their fealty in exchange to roam the earth
Their bodies covered in the crops of the land, they are known as the Corn-Walkers 
The King puts them to work, cultivating the land and protecting it.
Those crops not used to expand their ever growing legions are traded to a nearby town
An uneasy truce, but one that must be maintained
The living shall stay off his land and the dead shan't walk in theirs
For those who "live" in the Heartland, life is good


Hail to the King
The Lord of Straw 
The Master of Corn 
The Heartland Guardian 

Tuesday, 12 September 2017

Beware the Grinning Man

Beware the Grinning Man
who stalks the woods at night

Beware the Grinning Man
who hunts with great delight

Beware the Grinning Man
for you are his prey

Beware the Grinning Man
for meeting him is your unlucky day