Cooked or raw, they taste like camel urine. Unfortunately they are full of water and easy to catch. I’m tired of eating these sand-fish
Anjet of the Cenn Caerwaith
Beware the lords of the sky, in the wastelands even the would-be dragons give them a wide berth
Anjet of Cenn Caerwaith
These pale mutations may have once been children, or perhaps monkeys, now all that remain of their former origins is the humanoid shape of their bodies, all else having been twisted into a gross mockery of life…
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.
A swarm of what appears to be small gray chips of concrete leap and skitter across the ground from the shadows of the ruins towards you…
You hear a loud electronic buzzing, almost as if a runaway lawn mower mated to a taser gun is rampaging through the slimy cattails and weeds towards you before a swarm of huge flies erupt from the low scrub in front of you, electricity dancing between their mandibles.
It is pitch black. You are likely to be eaten by a grue.
Ever wonder what secret a Wizard’s beard holds? How did it get so long? Has this man really not shaved for that long?
Bringing more fantastic elements to the old classic.
The susurrating death-bringer of the Northern Moors.
The Dark Kind came to the world as conquerors. They failed. Now they are odd neighbors.
"Though they walk as men and grow as weeds, they are neither; the angry dead, feeding the green with the rage until they walk again, yellowing bones bound by the twining green."
Pitiable creatures, wandering forever in search of that denied them, unable to rest even as they crumble away to little more than crawling wrecks of bones.
"My god, what is that?"
"Orcweed, sir. Never need a wall with this growing."
Burninating the countryside,
Burninating the peasants
Burninating all the peoples
And their thatched-roof COTTAGES!
The leftover remnants of Mind can sometimes cling to existence when the Body fails and the Spirit departs…
The genesis of Gurgustius and Gorboduc and the curse upon their father Brutus is a terrible legend. Who knows if it is true? But it is the only way to account for the hideous sutured spawn of the King who is hidden.
Slain by thirst and heat, these sad souls seek moisture - any moisture - to quench their eternal, burning thirst.
The Yang to Lutazum’s Ying, the grand totem of the Maletanalu, the 5th tribe of the Hanaset.
The Wordfishes of Hloth, known also as the Sshpah, are strange composite-minds of the Hlothian jungles.
An insignficant little species, the candlebug (or waxmoth) is a persistent bane for mages and merchants alike. Each the size of a small digit, these little scarabs thrive on wax and burrow up inside candles, ruining them. Sometimes a late-night worker will hear a crack and a sizzle as his candle expires, only to find the half-burned remains of a waxmoth squirming around on his desk. This is very annoying in worlds where candles are expensive...