The common Dragon is seen as a Monster and a Beast; whether that is true or not, is an entirely different matter.
Satyrian, commonly known as the Satyr.
After the horrors of the Scranja war, Humanity found itself in a predicament that it had not faced since well before the birth of civilization. Scattered to the solar winds, and very nearly the victim of genocide, many of the isolated pockets of mankind faced population bottlenecks, and the possibility of failure from inbreeding. The Synthmen were a part of the solution.
A most useful race - if one can get past their appearance, and avoid being eaten...
A list of thirty different dragon flavours, in no particular order, just waiting for your campaign to give them life. (although I really wanted to, you will find no "Tandoori Dragon" or "Barbecue Dragon" or "Egg Salad Dragon" here. Not that kind of 'flavour')
To all space explorers, rogue traders and Federation colonisation and expeditionary force officers!
Thirty new alien species have been discovered. You are well-advised to inform yourselves, as to engage these entities correctly, without risk of harm to yourself or to the interests of Terra.
Ten of the described species are human in origin, yet modified to such a degree that they no longer need to be considered human.
Another ten are civilisation-building aliens competing with Terra for available space.
The final ten entries are remarkable life forms that display sapience, without using it to create civilisations. Caution is advised.
What do you mean they are organized and using weapons? We destroyed a group a week ago, they were but simple zombies then...
"We just thought the winter was worse'n usual. Turns out we had an unexpected visitor. Wasn't until poor Dave and Glenda... died... that we finally got a clue. By then it was almost too late. You know how many of us'll never be the same? Oh, you doubt me, do you? Look in my eye, son, and tell me what you don't see. Yeah, I thought so. Damned Snow Devil!"
Cold, mystic master manipulators.
"They're many names given to the things of this vast consciousness that we don't understand, are afraid of, or otherwise just don't want to be associated with. These creatures, though familiar in appearance to many common races, have no name for themselves, but have been appropriately named "Concordare Iram", Translated: Harmonized Rage."
The Fae, they are called, though the reason they are not called by their true name, the Fairies, has been lost to the ages- at least, by the humans. The other races know, the other races know well of the Fae.
Humans have a very short memory. The elves, the dwarves, the goblins, the orcs, they don't. They remember of the interactions between Atheians and the Fae all those years ago in that other age. They know what happened. But the humans... they have forgotten.
This is why they will be the first to die.
Trapped in Atheus, blocked from returning to their home of Congeria, the daimon is (usually) a minor demon- though this does not mean that they are not a highly deadly adversary.
"O'er the Wall Mounts there's this race of creatures. They look humanoid, but big. Mebbe 15, 20 feet tall? There all covered in this hair. Most of the species' hair is an auburn, but theres some that are black or blonde or brown. There faces look kinda like a cat face. The eyes are always one solid color, but the colors differ, like with humans. But the thing that makes them special is that they milk our females, like we milk cows. They breed 'em. They treat us like cattle. They even breed out the aggressiveness and intelligence."
-Old Gerald, man in the pub
The sun rises over the city. The great skyscraper's silhouettes from the fresh beams appear almost golden. The city is waking up, with the morning's half asleep citizens going about their daily routines. Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts open up, and revel in the influx of business. People head to work. The clocktower chimes, signaling the time of 9:00. But then a great shadow blocks out the sun. And the citizens of this metropolis start to scream as they are lifted up bodily by these beasts. An hour full of terror and screams goes by. And then another. And when the clocktower chimes again, signaling the time of 11:00, no one heard it. They had all been carried away. There were no flaming wrecks, nor collapsed buildings, as any other giant monster would leave. Simply empty streets, and a forbidding silence.
Caution: contains mature content regarding the gruesome ecology of a parasitic beetle.
A terrible monster. A thing of nightmares. Tales of the creature shake the core of the most sturdy and chill the spine of all who hear. They say, "Be careful who your friends are. They may just want you for your body." They were right.
Hexenwolf – Magic, Were Creature, subclass Wolf
Hexenwolf are difficult to find and track. Those who are gifted with such ability usually keep it hidden and to themselves. All seem to be lost however to spiral down a long road of animalism if they are not careful.
Dr. Johan Kosdin Lerkoviski Were-Hunter
A name shrouded in the mists of time. A scheme of pure genius. A relic of the Mage Wars.
"That Inquisitor...what's his name? Hellenbrecht something? Matthias Hellenbrecht, I think it were? Don't let him near me again - made my skin crawl... You know that look you give a juicy steak after a straight day or two of marching? I swear to Iocath, he was giving me that very look."
-Private Dalton Hayes, Imperial Levy 304
Cold Comfort is a long-sword of star-steel, its blade giving off a wan, blueish light. Its grip is wrapped tightly in snow-serpent hide, and its pommel bears a single opalescent gemstone.
This blade is enchanted in such a way, that whoever wields it, begins to fall completely and irrevocably "in love" with the weapon. This love does not manifest itself as the expected reverence and bond formed between any warrior and his weapon, but as a deeper, truer love, one has for a soul-mate of the same species! The longer the wielder carries Cold Comfort the stronger and more disturbing this love becomes, and only the most powerful of magicks can potentially break the sword's insidious spell. The blade's owner will even speak to and coo to the weapon, convinced that the sword understands and returns this epic love.
If the blade's wielder somehow loses the weapon or has it taken away, they will become inconsolable, and will predictably go to "ends of the earth and back" to retrieve it at any cost. Such is the weapon's curse that even separation from it does not damper the feelings the owner has for the sword. Legends tell of several distraught and mind-addled knights who even years after losing the blade, still wander the country-side searching for their lost love. And woe be to the "new lover" if and when they find him or her.