Deep within the labyrinthine twists of metaspace, there is an immense sphere of crystallized needles which represents the idealized platonic form of physical suffering. This sphere is several hundred miles in diameter and floats in the space between realities. As you get closer and closer to the crystal, you begin to feel pain. This pain increases exponentially the closer and closer you get to the epicenter of the crystal. There is no physical damage dealt, but the effect is still immense. No one has ever managed to touch the crystal, as no one has ever gotten within a mile of its surface without turning back, dying of shock, or committing suicide. There are several religions and philosophical doctrines which prominently feature the crystal, and their outposts circle it from a safe distance.
One of these groups is known as the Contentment Relativists. They are not masochists, though this is a common assumption. They wear simple robes and eat simple fare. They accept all peoples from all walks of life, and conversion is not required to make a pilgrimage towards the crystal. They do not worship the crystal, but they do make use of it as a physical proof-of-concept for their specific worldview. According to them, the key to happiness is context. By framing everything in the perspective of the worst thing you have ever experienced, you will find yourself able to remain upbeat in even the lowest of valleys. No matter how awful your current situation, you can find some small amount of solace in the fact that things are not as bad as they once were.
Far off in the Elysian Plains, where the green hills roll peacefully and small streams babble between them, there is an old millhouse. It has weathered stone walls which warm easily in the sun, and keep out the damp when it rains. Inside, it smells like cut wood and old books. All the furniture in the house is handmade. It sits squat next to a shallow creek, where small shining fish jump out of the water and feast upon the pollinating insects which lazily drift over the adjacent meadow. There is a garden out back, lovingly tended. There are stone steps out front, well-worn.
Inside this house lives a man. He could be anyone’s grandfather, or perhaps a favorite great-uncle. He is just starting to move into old age, and his eyes crinkle kindly around the edges when he smiles, which is often. His beard is snow-white and smartly cut, and his hands are strong and calloused. He owns a fine black cat named Bartholomew. He is quite a talented painter, as well as an excellent craftsman. For all intents and purposes, his existence is idyllic, and he is content. He spends his days tending his garden, reading his books, and painting the fields which surround him. He is perhaps the most powerful antimage in existence, and the eighth-most dangerous man on the continent.
Summon Moss Golem - The swamp boils beneath you, and a humanoid mass of rotting vegetable matter rises to your aid.
Combine Frogs - Combine two or more frogs into a single Multitoad with the same number of legs, eyes, and mouths as the component frogs. Roll 1d8 to determine the maximum number of frogs you can combine without loosing control of the Multitoad.
Lungs of Axolotl - Grow feathery frills around your neck which allow you to breathe underwater for 1d4 hours.
Turn Wood to Mud - One touch turns a wooden object of any size to rich black mud. Wood must be unvarnished for spell to take effect.
As any ectobiologist worth their salt circle knows, ghosts naturally undergo energy decay as they age. This process takes a very long time, on the order of anywhere from several decades to tens of thousands of years, but all ghosts eventually fade. (This is why every inch of the earth is not covered in wandering souls, despite the living being greatly outnumbered by the dead!)
As ghosts go through the various stages of their degradation, they take a variety of forms. Last is of course, ectoplasm. Ectoplasm is the primordial spirit-stuff, pseudomatter without any remaining consciousness or signs of post-life. But one step above ectoplasm, is the phenomenon known as ghost moss.
A Dungeon is a specific type of naturally-occurring pocket dimension which can form when a certain series of conditions are met. Much like mushrooms growing in damp and shady areas, a Dungeon can arise anywhere where there are monsters, traps, winding halls, tantalizing treasures, places to explore and hazards to encounter. The basic life cycle of a Dungeon is as follows:
The base structure of a Dungeon is created and allowed to fall into some degree of disrepair. This is usually somewhere subterranean and sectioned off into many enclosed rooms and passageways. Examples include libraries, basements, sewers, cave systems, mineshafts, parking garages, subway tunnels, and of course, literal mundane dungeons.
The Dungeon gradually accumulates hazards and valuable items. As conditions deteriorate, the Dungeon becomes populated first with dangerous vermin, then with bigger and more exotic creatures. At the same time, people will enter wishing to store something valuable where it will be protected by the natural hazards of the Dungeon, installing additional traps along the way. Alternately, they will enter simply because they wish to explore, and are curious as to what could be inside, likely having heard rumors about treasures or wondrous artifacts. Most of either group usually die, leaving their valuables on their cooling corpse and providing a source of nutrition for the monstrous denizens within, as well as bait for future adventurers.
im writing a book and its called the Book of Wounds. actually writing is probably the wrong word im really just living and the Book is being written about the things i do. like sometimes i fuck up and break a glass and cut my hand and that goes in the Book because i got hurt but didnt really deserve it. although im not so sure about that because i did drop a glass so it is my fault that it broke and my fault that i got cut. but its only a little cut and not even a big deal so who cares i guess.
the Book of Wounds is written about every single time someone has ever gotten hurt and not deserved it. its existed pretty much forever i guess or at least ever since some ape was smart enough to watch another ape die and think “why did this happen. who caused this?” im not the only person in the Book. i bet most people are in it actually.