With it’s ability to electrocute you with a magical bolt from it’s nose, mess with a Wandfish and you may well end up sleeping with the fishes.
The everyday kin to the elementals and the demons
Exotic birds for any game
As the tree sprouted from his chest, and the roots anchored his body to the ground, he wished as he died that he had not eaten the golden apple.
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…
Imagine a tribe of nomads where all the males have the blessing of being were-stallions. The tribe would not need to have ordinary horses to move around, all mounted warriors would be female and a curious custom could be that when a couple gets married, the girl rides her chosen to the altar.