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.

"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