Known fully as 'Nind Vel'uss Tahcaluss whol nind ehmtu siltrin' or 'They Who Hunger for Their Own Flesh'
Dwarven Undead with a hunger that won't be satiated by simply your blood, brains, or flesh.
He raised his sword to fight the foul undead thing in front of him, which was when it threw something only just glimpsed in the beam of his torch at him. When he blocked it with his sword, the resulting explosion both shattered his sword and took off his hand. As he turned to flee, screaming in pain, the Dumuzid he was facing stabbed him again and again until he fell dead to the sandy floor of the tomb.
The Nurglur stand taller than a man, though they are stooped and hunched so their faces lie at a height similar to ours. Their bodies are slim with a muscled, wiry strenght and their feet are turned with three bird like talons.
*Sphhisshh* *Sphhissh* *Sphhissh*
Van Torxus first line of defense against intruders into his realm.
The PCs have travelled long and far. As nightfall approaches a mighty storm is unleashed. Luckily there is a lush wood nearby the path.
A good shelter for the rage of the unnamed weather gods it seams at first. As the PCs enter under the roof of this dense wood, they are welcomed by only a few drops wich is allowed trough the thick forest crown. A fire is offcourse required to warm the weary bones of the travellers. As one of the party is set to the task of collecting firewood the others settle down at a suitable location. But alas, they did not know the perils of this forest. But it seems clear to the rest of the party that something ill is at work as the woodcutters scream echo from afar.