Most folk would call an argillomatus a clay golem. They would be wrong.
Death is the fate of every birth, and life is only a brief loan of light before the eternal darkness swallows us. The remaining years of life have been stolen from the creatures known as Time Zombies, who stalk the living in the hopes of stealing a few more years of precious life.
I'm different. I have a different constitution, I have a different brain, I have a different heart... Dying's for fools, dying's for amateurs.
Maddoc sat amid a pile of unrecognizable corpses. Men, Dwarves, Orcs, you couldn't tell. He periodically took a stab at one with his new knife and screamed, "STOP LAUGHING AT ME!"
Nightmares upon the battlefield. Once thought defeated, rumors of their return have begun to spread.
High above the lands of the living, where frost and howling of the wind reign, the morbid monument to a faith long dead calls the deceased on a last pilgrimage.
Dwarven Undead with a hunger that won't be satiated by simply your blood, brains, or flesh.
The rotting ghoul sunk it's teeth into the girl's throat, tearing it open, and then laid her down, and as she died, so the rotting body that had murdered her ceased rotting. Milky white eyes became green ones with normal pupils. Maggots swarmed out of the body, the damage they caused healing rapidly,and the stench of flesh gone bad vanished. The Xarloccian swore to itself that it would always tread the path of Evil from now on, just one earlier act of Good had nearly rotted away it's body and sent it's soul to the Nine Hells.
"Captain's log, date unknown. We have been exploring a region of dead space, wandering between the dull cinders of dying suns, looking for an explanation to what happened in this sector of space. Our charts show that this sector should be bursting with life - young stars and verdant worlds - but all we have seen is a stellar wasteland." -Log entry recovered from a derelict exploratory vessel on the fringe of the Miros Waste
"It was just after nightfall when it came; a horrible, rotten mass of bone and flesh, with a voice that was like a thousand screams braided together. I only survived because I ran - I ran and I've never stopped running, because I know it's after me. Me, and everyone else who was there when the city of Vesta was slaughtered." -Hans, Former Captain turned nomad
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.
Malevolent Vampire Mutation? Or Brain-Dead Sun-Junkie?
Driven by the need to keep his descendants fed, Daniel Andersson is one of the more peculiar undead - and gods - one might ever come across.
A rough town which is haven for outlaws is a staple of all adventuring genres. In the fantasy genre the town of Crueloar provides places in which you can share a dinner table with a vampire or learn the ways of dark magic.
Undead abominations born of the Light, the glow of the Accursed’s warped flesh strikes terror into those who behold it.
Beware this wizardly cadaver! His spells might not kill you, but you will wish they had…
The empty shrines of a god so old, all but his name is forgotten.
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.
village of the damned. A village of people that have been 'raised', from death by priests, too many times. At first glance the folk appear as any other, but upon closer examination, they are pale, drawn, and tired...