''I stand before you now to tell you that the gods have spoken to me! Obey not the strictures of the Church! They seek only to deprive us of the very same pleasures that they enjoy themselves''.
Known fully as 'Nind Vel'uss Tahcaluss whol nind ehmtu siltrin' or 'They Who Hunger for Their Own Flesh'
Ostensibly but a rock, a chunk of metal, it has one extraordinary use: randomly, the Igneus Saxum issue flames.
Spindly, steel spiders, spinning silk so sharp. (100-word sub)
Pets mind you. Not exotic monster companions. No saddled dire-boars to be found here. No purple worm caravans.
He stood before me, a freankenstien of a man beast that towered twenty feet tall or more. Its rigor colored flesh stunk of eons of decay both sickly sweet and of putrescence beyond what the mortal mind could fathom. I tried to gag it from my throat but my stomach refused to relieve its contents and for that made me more uneasy.
Former Cult Leader who outlived his usefulness
When a thousand years of dust settled upon the worked stone floor of The Grey Tomb, a new sage was born. A creature, of dust, time, age, wisdom. The dust that was once the bodies of ancient wise men. It coalesced and swirled into being, small and wispy, dry as its home. It mutters words of wisdom for no one to hear. Begging its dark home for a soul to learn from.
The eyes came closer and with them came a growling sound, and the warrior swung at them with his sword. They flew around it, revealing themselves to be harmless insects. The warrior swore...it was no Cave Bear or Giant Spider but a pair of Eye Flies out looking for insects to eat that were smaller still.
Dwarven Undead with a hunger that won't be satiated by simply your blood, brains, or flesh.
Sometimes walking through a moldering old crypt can be a pleasure. With the smell of bone dust and ancient burial wrappings, almost like a library. Certainly as quiet. Until you step in a patch of Choo Mold.
What do you mean, the little wriggly ones you throw at fish or the big rock ones that squish people?
Veglins are fungus-goblin hybrids with a unique life cycle, all of whom are inflicted with inescapable racial dreams. Their biology and psychology are product's of an ancient, evil wizard's plan to get someone else to build his hideouts for him.
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.
"Is it just me, or is this cave moving?"
- Obin the Spelunker’s last words
In the darkness you notice a point of light erupt no bigger than a candle, quickly followed by several dozen more and a soft metallic sound, like a man at the dinner table sharpening his knife against a fork.
The smoke-breathing gnomes of the Thunderheads
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.
A writhing mass of red tentacles
*Sphhisshh* *Sphhissh* *Sphhissh*
Magic is like alcohol, the more that is used, the more it causes a hangover later on and the less judgement one has when using it. If one waits a while after casting a spell, things "detoxify." A cantrip or two is like a sip of weak beer, whilst a large creation spell is like a bottle of vodka. Cast something too big and you can die from magic intoxication.