Other items are everything that doesn't fit in other categories.
|Shins are usually metal but can be made of glass, plastic, or substances that have no name. Some are jagged bits of interesting material or small, coinlike objects (such as highly decorative buttons from a machine), while others are properly minted and stamped, with writing and images.|
|Angule and the Greater Good: The Rise of the Angulan Knights
"Girar, the handsome young human Aeon Priest, whirled around, holding his quarterstaff before him. The mob of disgusting, slobbering, diseased, ignorant mutants and baby-stealing visitants closed like a dripping fist around him and the innocent children he had sworn to protect.
'For Midgard and the future of humanity!' shouted Angule, champion of humans everywhere and the last hope of kindness and decency in the Ninth World. She charged into the clustered hordes of monsters, slashing left and right. The creatures felt no pain for they had no souls.
'I love you!' Girar cried. 'Do you hear me, damn you? I love you, Angule!'
'I am sorry, noble priest,' Angule said, beheading a gibbering freak. 'My heart belongs to my eternal mission.' 'Your mission to secure the future of humanity from the inhuman horrors of the past?'
'That's right,' Angule said. 'Now flee, and take those innocent children with you! I will defend you and the future you represent to the last!'"
(The rest of the page is blotted with a previous reader's tear stains, and completely unreadable.)
|Two Weeks and a Day in the Pleasure Wagons of Ossam's Traveling Menagerie and Soaring Circus
Greasy, throbbing sunlight. In my eye. Tried to move. Couldn't.
Well, that was it, I reasoned. I wasn't just hung over. I was paralyzed.
Bound to happen eventually. Someone must have mistaken me for the lovely contortionist with the unagran tattoo, and twisted me like a length of rope to get at my tender parts.
Which, of course, I *did* appreciate. Even now.
I cleared my throat to call politely for help, and a husky voice mumbled something obscene (and somewhat half-hearted - it was dawn, after all) in my right ear. A bare hip settled comfortably into the palm of my left hand as another of my nameless companions got comfortable.
And then, of course, I realized the truth - I was not paralyzed. My limbs were merely pinned by the thirty or so strangers sharing the small bed with me.
What a relief."
|Humming and Hiding - The Secrets of the Labyrinth of Sound
"I will not tell you *why* I found myself lost within the crumbling tower of Kasmus Gol. Nor will I speak on the state I found myself in, or who was with me. Promises were made in the spiraling depths of the Labyrinth of Sound. Promises I intend to keep.
Instead, I will tell you of my escape from that echoing prison. 'But Krasha,' you might say. 'I know enough of the Labyrinth to say that it is but a dark room, navigated by music rather than crude movement. Furthermore, it is deserted! One will not, for example, stumble over bands of thieving murden there, as you did in your thrilling account of "The Crossing of Deep Vormask."'
To this, I respectfully ask you to close this book and explore the Labyrinth on your own, bereft of my guidance. You will find the melody-scarred bones of my friends still cooling there. You will stumble over grotesque evidence of the choices I made to escape those lightless halls. And you will see how far your rudimentary knowledge will take you.
Otherwise, remain silent, and read on."
|Known Powers - A Historical Examination of the Rulers of the Ninth World
"The kingdom of Malevich is defined by two unfortunate traits: a thirst for conquest and a peculiar type of chasm-related insanity that descends upon every monarch the country has ever had sooner or later.
I am, of course, speaking of the Voil Chasm, or Earthwound, the vast rift dividing Malevich from their rivals in the Pytharon Empire. Each ruler of Malevich in recorded history has become obsessed with the chasm in one form or another - some have sought to cross or bridge it (with the lofty goal of conquering the neighboring empire). Others have tried to reach the bottom of the glowing wound. All have failed, to various catastrophic degrees."
|Made from some type of synth material, this rope is 15 meters in length and looks sturdy and strong. As you hold it, it squirms gently in your hands, trying to wrap itself around your wrists. It appears to possess a rudimentary form of intelligence, perhaps even sentience. It can tie and untie itself on command.||
|This handful of crumpled papers is covered with messy scrawl. They purport to be part of the "canon" of the Bloom cult, but they seem little more than the incoherent ramblings of their author, a cultist named Inkpot. Most of the pages are covered with grimy fingerprints and thick, dried blotches of yellow phlegm.|