The dead, imbued with the divine essence of magic, walk again, ever hungry for the missing spark of a living soul.
"Don’t worry, I’ve fought necromancers before! Wait, what the…"
From the outlook of my new and inexpensive flat, I could see her. She was kneeling in the graveyard across the cobblestoned way in front of a fresh grave. She was in dark mourning gear, complete with those large black hats that were the fashion. A lost lamb I supposed, recently wed, recently widowed, crying for the loss of a loved one. She had been there two days that I noticed, as well as their nights. She never seemed to move, so locked she was in her grief. As I drank a lonely nightcap, I caught the glimpse that changed me. In the pale moon light, I saw the grave buckle. In a foul corruption of Athenean birth, some spawn sprang forth. Not taking my eyes off the horrid scene, I reached over to the weapon I had been cleaning. Before I could grasp it fully, the petite young widow of my imagination cleared a saber concealed under her over cape and removed its loathsome head. After checking her kill, she looked up at me; backlit I assumed by the lamp in the room. She was not just a simple widow, she was Mourner. I held up my glass in a true salute from one professional to another. At that point I knew two new things: That the Unnatural truly had become more active as I had been hearing in the back alleys and I needed to move far from that graveyard.
"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.
The leftover remnants of Mind can sometimes cling to existence when the Body fails and the Spirit departs…
Slain by thirst and heat, these sad souls seek moisture - any moisture - to quench their eternal, burning thirst.
The dead, when buried without last rites, often find it impossible to rest easy…
They march, march forever. Eerie chanting fill the air. Death Cometh.
GET AWAY FROM ME YOU ZOMBIE FREAKS!
Last words of Derrius the Bold
Do the PCs dare to go and raid the tomb of the Pharaoh Upshi?
Death be not proud.
Dont mind him, he’s just a rag man
Clochardshire resident, common quote
The rules against nighttime travel in the Sorcery Springs Geyser Basin are there for some very good reasons, not least the highly dangerous Geyser Ghosts.
Once she was Archmage Stewart’s beloved wife Emma, an acomplished which in her own right, now she is but a husk of what she once was, and yet the Archmage loves her too much to put her shell to rest.
"Such well behaved children… never a word out of them and they do just as they’re told. They seem so pale though, I wonder if they’re sick…"
The Necronautilus is a huge undead whale used to transport undead and their masters secretly.
"They come with the mist, and fight to protect us. Protecting their people meant so much to them that they kept fighting for us after they fell. Count yourselves blessed that the Company of Stars watches over us."
- Mylnes, Ethalani Elder
The restless shade of a terrible demon of an age long since dust.
The Ambassador’s bodyguard quaked at the sight of the uniformed skeletons guarding the main gates of the royal palace. "Don’t be afraid," the Ambassador said. "They are King’s Bones, the monarch’s personal bodyguards, and are no threat to us unless we were to do something stupid like trying to attack His Majesty."
Basq doesn't exist. He occupies a point in space--a single X,Y,Z point in the Cartesian plane, but he's not made of anything. People looking at him see whatever they want to see. Or what he wants you to see. Usually a mix. Just the same, he cannot be hurt swords or arrows. Only things that deal damage to an area (fireballs, gases) can damage him. Or weapons that can cut through an infinitely small point.