In the end, death usually has its way.

Mines became common as cities during the days of the artificers.

Everyone roots for the little guy, but nobody bets on him.

Goblins cry, soldiers fly. Stones fly, soldiers die!

For what are leaves but countless blades To fight a countless foe on high.

You must pay for your sin in blood.

Lost to time is the artificer’s art of trapping light from a distant star in a ring of purest gold.

Few who encounter the strange, human-like grove leave once the lilting chorus of the dryads reaches their ears.

Without a connection of mind and body, magic is just an idea stuck in the head, a word on the tip of a tongue.

Trickery can’t defeat raw power.

It is the changing of perception that is important.

Sanctions, mandates, regulations … These things mean nothing to the natural world.