Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Micro Map Monday 2-17-2015

Without further ado for #micromapmonday 's theme of #flowers

Where the dune sea meets the great ravines, the trade highway skirts the edge of the cliffs. In one spot, perhaps above a source of mana or a ley line, a row of unique flower beds appears beside the trail. Within the flowers boom red, orange, blue and purple no matter the time of year. They seem to be unaffected by the blowing sands of the dunes, but one or two of the plots have slid down the side of the ravine to crash into the rocks below.

It is said that the architects of the great Kingdoms, connected by the highway, conceived of this space as a meeting place for envoys and ambassadors. Some number of benches remain along the path, also unaffected by weather. Drovers say storms have unearthed similar structures further east, only to bury them a fortnight later.

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Micro Map Monday 2-4-2015

For #micromapmonday 's theme of #biggame :

Beyond the Abyssal Sea, the dunes swirl about gnarled and worn stone outcroppings clustered in groups of 4 to 10. Appearing ordinary at a distance, the local caravans give the area a wide berth. Why you ask? For in those clusters are the "rocks that sleep" - fierce nigh invulnerable omnivores whose stone fangs can rend anything but each other. 

Fortunately they are rarely awake, but unfortunately when they do stir,  they tend to wake in groups (families? clans?) Menhirrim some call the groups, for some of the hidden horrors have been known to rise  on massive hind-legs before striking.

Micro Map Monday 1-27-2015

For yesterdays #micromapmonday 's themes of #grit and #steel

In the deep of the wastes, the winds are so fierce and laden with magicks that all is ground to dust, shards and pieces. When the storms rage across the dunes, that grinding force can strip an unprotected soul to their bones in seconds and then add their crushed bones to the storm.

How can one cross this land, where the magicks foul teleports and flying is as dangerous as riding? The relics of the fallen empires hold the key. Scattered across the ergs are the hulks of ancient vessels, their hulls made of material proof against the winds. Metal forged in the void between stars.

Caravans race the winds from wreck to wreck, hiding inside the overturned hulls, listening to the music of the vibrating metal, until the storm subsides. Minions and slaves dig clear the entrances and the wagons ride once more.