WORLD BOOK WORLD BOOK WORLD BOOK 0120 0120
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The Pock
The Pock is a semi-permanent portal between the physical world and the extra-dimensional demonic realms.
Only fools attempt to penetrate its molten depths or even
travel near it. Never more than once every three years,
diabolical beings escape into the Khitan wastelands here,
powerful refugees who seek refuge from even deadlier
foes beneath. Much of the portal’s energy seems to bleed
off and fuel the infernal heat around it, thus rarely focusing enough energy to open the portal fully.
Blood River & The Scab
From the Pock’s eastern edge pours a river unlike any
other on Khitus: a river of blood that flows sluggishly
down through a barren valley. Where it passes, stones
remain stained red for years. Foul lizards and toads live
here, accustomed to the river’s grotesque nourishment,
disturbed only infrequently by wanderers who stagger
lost into this forsaken place. The river’s source appears a
fleshy gash in the world that refuses to heal.
Blood River gives way to many stinking tributaries at the
valley’s terminus. It spreads thinly across the land, coagulating into field after field of crusty crusted ichor called
the Scab. It is a cursed place that even the sand does not
bury, air and land both festering with putrid gore, maggots,
and choking swarms of flies. Banishment into the Scab is
among the more heinous Khitan death sentences.
Grarraque’s Rest
The desiccated remains of an ancient grarraque beast
lie half-buried out in the wastelands. Many millennia
ago, the Dragon Kings stopped the dreaded beast but
could not destroy this force of nature. To keep it from
again rising on Khitus, the Daragkarik “infected” it with
a living shield of scarabs, a collective swarm cursed to
always consume the ever-regenerating corpse.
Built in a hollow under its massive body is the small
town called Grarraque’s Rest. The town contains several hundred souls looking for a “safe place” to hide
away from their troubles or the troublemakers of the
world. Few buildings of any true permanence exist
here, though some places have become reinforced by
constant wind-blown dust and dirt as well as broken,
discarded chitin. Most, however, remain crude huts or
tents pitched here by the truly desperate.
Protecting the Rest is an ancient living being known
by the denizens as Trinesta. She appears akin to a female
centaur, though her hindquarters are those of a massive
scarab (though a few think this is merely an illusion over
her true form). More often, her voice rises out of the col118
“Whatkindoffavors,youask?Onetimeshesentmy
bartenderAtikoutintothewastetodeliveramessageto
agroupofraiders.Didn’tseehimformonths,thenfrom
outofnowherehecomessaunteringintotownwitha
newmount,armor,weaponsain’tbeenseeninanage,
andmorecointhanI’veseen...wellever!”
Jarik K’arr, owner of the Scarabs Shell
lective crackle of the thousands of scarabs that make up
her true form—the cursed shield of scarabs tied to the
grarraque’s corpse. While none know for certain, some
guess she was a wizard who summoned a grarraque in
hopes of wresting power from a Dragon King. This is her
eternal prison and punishment. Regardless of the truth,
Trinesta allows the town to exist and protects it from
raiders in exchange for news and stories of the world as
well as the occasional favor.
The town’s largest building and its centerpiece is the
tavern called The Scarabs’ Shell. Thousands of dead
scarab shells, glued or otherwise, coat the outside of
the building, giving it an interesting coppery hue. The
tavern’s owner is Jarik K’arr, a half-breed humanoid who
has been at the Rest for many years, serving up advice
as much as food and drink.
There are only two rules at the Shell set by K’arr:
• “If you can tell a story or sing a song or generally be
entertaining, you can get a free meal and a night in
a good room.”
• “Don’t kill the scarabs.”
“Beenafewyears,butthere’salwaysasmanyidiotsas
therearesandsoutthere.Onetime,therewasthiscaravanguardwhatgotsurprisedbyoneofTrinesta’sbeauties
asitcrawledalonghistable.Eitherhiswitswasempty
orhisreactionwasfasterthan‘em,buthesmashedone
scarab.Crackedoneofmybesttables,hedid.”
“Hadn’theardtheplacegetthatquietwithoutbeing
empty. Ten breaths of silence, and that fool’s looking
about,wonderingwhyfolkclearingawayfromhim.”
“Endofthosebreaths,thefloorboardsboilwithscarabs—hundreds of `em. Flowed up and over that guy
rightquick—quiteasmartsuitofarmor,it’dbeenifit
weren’tbitinghimallover.Trinestabepraisedtheysoon
stuffeddownhisthroattoquiethisscreaming.Thatguy
felldownandthecarpetofscarabscarriedhimaway.Any
morequestionsaboutthebugs?”
Jarik K’arr, owner of the Scarabs’ Shell
