Hant of the Mere-Beast

    “So child, what story do you wish to hear this night?” the elderly grandfather asked the boy on his lap.

    The young boy scrunched his nose as he thought. After a moment, his eyes lit up as he thought of the story he wanted to hear, “The one with the swamp horse!”

    The content smile drained from the grandfather’s face as he asked, “Now who told you about that story?”

    “Balli was chasing Echi saying that the swamp horse would get her, and you know all the stories grandpa so I knew that you would know it!”

    “I’ll need to have a word with your brother about saying such things to your sister,” the grandfather muttered to himself before sighing. With a bittersweet smile, he looked to his grandson and said, “Well, since you are now ten I suppose that you are old enough to hear it. But just to be sure, when your big brother was first told this story he had nightmares nearly every night for two seasons. Are you sure you want to hear this story?”

    The boy’s face lit up even more than it was as he started bouncing in excitement. Chuckling and shaking his head, the grandfather closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he thought back to the story his youngest grandson requested. Ædil was always more interested in the darker stories of their world than Balli was, perhaps the boy would be less affected.

    “Alright Ædil, this story begins in this very village fifty years ago, with a young boy not much older than yourself named Togferth. Called Tog by his friends and family,” began the grandfather.

    As his grandfather spoke, Ædil’s mind drifted, the words pulling him into the story as if he was there.

#

    Tog slowly walked through the still waters of the swamp. The bigger frogs were also the most easily spooked, and he needed a few more to fill the basket for supper tonight. His eyes slowly roamed over the banks and lily-pads, freezing when he spotted one of the biggest bullfrogs that he’d ever seen. A grin spreading across his face, he raised his frogging-spear as he inched closer through the rippling waters. Wait...

    Tog slowly turned around, fearful of what he’d find. Would a swamp witch throw him into a pot to make stew? Or would it be Old Husk, the insect hive that used a man’s body as a home and meat shell? A Fang Knee? Spear Beak? Strangler Tail? Something worse?

    What he saw was none of those things, yet terrible all the same. Reaching up out of the water was a mud-covered corpse, rusted sword in hand as it drew itself up out of the muck. Soulless white lights within empty sockets gazed out at the world that had forgotten it, a mindless, relentless fury burning brightly within. Sword raised into the air, the risen corpse took a shaky step forward, rotten strips of muscle and sinew dangling from old bones.

    With a shriek of terror, Tog ran as fast as he could away from the undead. Tripping over his own two feet, the young boy scrambled up onto the bank. As the ground beneath his feet turned from mud to solid dirt, Tog cried out for his brother, desperate to warn him, “Tustan! Mere-Dead, Mere-Dead!”

    Terror unlike any that he had known drove Tog’s legs to run faster than he knew possible, rapidly outpacing the unstable corpse. Only to come to a terrible, horrified stop as he reached where he and his brother were to meet.

    Tustan had finished frog hunting first and reached the meeting point. But something else was waiting there. From a distance, it looked to be a horse and rider, yet the rider had no head. Where a saddle would be and where a rider’s legs would guide the horse, the torso merged seamlessly to the back. The arms were long, gangly things that dragged along the ground. Most unnerving of all, the muscles, veins, and sinew were clearly visible as it lacked any skin on its malformed body.

    Tog watched in dread as the lanky arms held onto Tustan’s shoulders as the beast’s horse head bit into his neck. Tearing out chunks of flesh with a wet ripping sound, the horse head of the beast swallowed the meat it tore out of Tog’s brother.

    Fear and shock rendered Tog as still as a boulder in the field as the beast ate its way through his brother’s neck. The beast’s left arm grabbed Tustan’s hair as it ate through the last of his neck, it's right dropping his body as it lifted Tustan’s severed head up to the stump where the rider’s head would have been.

    “Tustan...” Tog whispered in horror.

    The beast’s horse head snapped up to gaze at Tog, a single eye, like a baleful, emerald gemstone, in the middle of its forehead staring out at him. As the arms finished placing Tustan’s head upon its shoulders, the long, spindly fingers grabbed at the tattered skin before it began to rip and tear the skin off of its new head.

    As the beast continued to tear the flesh off of Tustan’s head, the wet ripping sound echoing through the mere, Tog watched as his brother’s head turned to face him. A wicked, evil grin spread across his brother’s face, no trace of the joking humor that was previously as much a part of Tustan as his hair and nose.

    The grin stretched inhumanly wide, showing far too many teeth as the beast spoke with Tustan’s voice, yet corrupted and wrong,“My dear brother, come join me for a supper of something with more meat on it than bullfrogs.”

    Hearing his brother’s voice broke Tog out of the fog that his mind was in. A scream of pain, anguish, and terror tore its way out of Tog’s chest, the beast listening and savoring it like a fine wine.

    The beast practically danced forward, darting and circling around Tog as it spoke, “Now what shall I do with you dear brother? I do so love fresh meat, so I cannot kill you now to eat later. Not while I have another meal to finish. I also cannot just let you go, you would never come back and I would be out a meal. Decisions, decisions, decisions...”

    The bloody fangs in the beast’s mouth were still painted with Tustan’s blood, the breath from within smelling of rot, of plague, of death. It made Tog’s vision swim, his mind fog, and his stomach churn. As black swept across his vision, he fell to his knees, then onto the ground as consciousness left him.

#

    The sounds of a cooking fire and a wooden spoon stirring in a metal pot greeted Tog as he awoke. The smell of stag hide, sage, and lemon crest filled his nostrils. Opening his eyes, the dim candlelight, and fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows that sparsely illuminated walls covered in skulls, furs, and herb bundles.

    In the center of the room, a woman stirred a pot nearly half as tall as her. Her stooped frame was dressed in old leathers, from what Tog could see her hair was white and stringy. A hermit woman? A witch?

    “Are you going to lie there all night, or are you going to get some food?” asked the woman, her voice raspy and rough like dry twigs.

    With nary a word, Tog pushed himself off the leather covered cot that he had been resting on. The animal skulls seemed to leer down at him from the walls as he slowly made his way towards the woman. As he approached, he noticed that a cloth bandage was wrapped around her head.

    “Would you be so kind young man and fetch me a pair of turtle shells? They last so much longer than wooden bowls around here.”

    It took a moment, but after looking around Tog spotted two turtle shells hanging on the wall to his right. Not wanting to provoke her, he quickly ran over to pick up the two shells. Turning around, he froze upon seeing the woman’s face.

    The bandage that he saw earlier was covering her right eye, a long, gagged cut above that had a greenish paste smeared over it while blood seeped from the wound. Her left arm ended at a stump halfway to the elbow, the injury long since healed over.

    “Well? Do you want to eat or not?” the woman asked, her sole remaining eye glaring at Tog.

    Slowly, he made his way over to the old woman, his whole body shaking with every step. With shaking hands, he held out the two shells. The ladle dropped a mass of boiled crawdads into the first, then the second. Placing it over the top of the pot, the woman took one of the shells and sat in a chair.

    Sitting on the cot that he awoke on, Tog picked up the first crawdad before asking a question, “What happened? How’d I get here?”

    Not stopping her eating, or to peel the shells, the woman’s response was direct; “You had a run in with Molochdes. Had I not been by you would be dead for food. You’re welcome.

    “Now, you owe me an eye and thanks to you I’d be surprised if Molochdes hasn’t figured out where I live. So the way I see it, I have two choices. First one is I let you go and regardless of whether or not you escape the mere Molochdes figures out where I am, comes here, and then eats me. As I’m sure you can imagine, I would much rather avoid that.”

    The crunching of the beast’s teeth crushing Tustan’s neck echoed in Tog’s mind. The way she worded the choice though, something about it was unsettling, not right. Tog’s grip tightened on the shell as his body tensed.

    Ignoring Tog, she continued, “The second, and much preferable to me, choice is I use a ritual to hide my hut from Molochdes. Fortunately I know such a ritual, unfortunately for you, I need your life to fuel it. So enjoy your last meal boy, tyfas.”

    The last word was spoken with an echoing reverb of power, and at the front of the room plants and grasses grew to cover and block the doorway. The wooden frame of the cot warped, twisted holding Tog in place. The witch stood up, finishing her last crawdad as she took a stick and started drawing a circle on the floor.

    Shell and crawdads ignored, Tog scrambled, he scratched, he clawed at the wood bindings holding him in place. He had to escape, the witch was going to kill him, use him for a foul ritual that would condemn his soul! Being eaten by the beast would have been a kinder fate.

    A loud, evil laughter echoed into the hut, causing both occupants to still in fear. Tog recovered first, fighting to free himself with renewed vigor. The witch’s eye seemed glazed over as she whispered to herself, “It’s too early, how could he have found me so soon?”

    Tog ignored the witch, he had managed to get a leg loose; just a little more and he’d be free. Seeing her victim struggling, the witch renewed her preparations. Seeing her resume drawing in the dirt, Tog struggled harder. Seeing him struggle, she sped up her preparations.

    Both were interrupted as the walls shook, the roof rattled, and laughter echoed. The roots and grasses blocking the doorway splintered and wilted as the beast bit, clawed, and slammed.

    “Dear brother, has this old hag stolen you away?” the beast called in a sing-song voice, sounding like an older, gruffer Tustan.

    “Begone Molochdes! This home is not yours, you are not welcome here!” the witch shouted at the beast as she finished her ritual circle.

    The beast’s laughter was punctuated by the splintering of wood, “My dear, dear Wuldara, is that any way to treat your husband? It has taken me fifteen years, but I have returned after you cast me away!”

    Tog’s eyes widened in horror, the witch was the beast’s wife?! Now he really had to get out of here! As the witch began chanting, Tog managed to get his foot free. Jumping up on top of the cot, he took a moment to get his bearings. The witch was in front of him chanting, behind her was the still bubbling pot, and beyond was the beast trying to break in.

    As he tried to think of a plan, Tog felt a sudden weakness in his leg. A glance down showed muscles withering, skin graying. He didn’t have the time to plan. Praying to make it through this, Tog jumped down from the cot and rushed the witch.

    Her hand reached out to grab him, but Tog managed to duck under her reaching fingers and shove her backward. Put off balance, the witch stumbled back into the pot. It tipped back before the weight caused it to rock forwards, dumping the boiling water onto the witch.

    As she screamed in agony, Tog ran out of the hut, racing under the stamping legs of the beast. A lashing claw left a deep gash, from the edge of his eye to the back of his head, taking part of his ear. The wound burned, undoubtedly already infected from the foul magic of the beast.

    The beast considered chasing the boy, it could easily catch up to a half-grown, hobbling human, but its true prey was within.

#

    “Tog made it back to the village, where the priest managed to work a miracle and save his life. The cut that he received from the mere-beast left a terrible scar that he carried for the rest of his days. His leg never regained its full strength, but he managed to live a full life. Thus the story ends,” the grandfather finished his tale.

    Ædil stared up at his grandfather with sleepy eyes, fighting back a yawn. As he got off of his grandfather’s lap to go to bed, he had a realization, “Grandpa you have the same scar as Tog!”

New Blog and New Schedule

Three weeks ago I started a new blog called Dungeons & Destinations with the idea of taking pictures of the real world and using them as inspiration for D&D related material. Thus far I have utilized pictures from several family vacations on two continents and an island, with plans in the future for pictures from all over this incredible world we call home.

As a result of this new blog, I will not be posting on this blog every week. I will still be posting material from the shared game world that my friend and I built as well as material from the campaign in it that I am running, but instead of posting every week I will be posting once a month. This blog is more of a hobby for me while I plan to turn Dungeons and Destinations into my primary income so I need to devote more time to it over this one. However, I will be making the posts on this blog longer to make up for only posting once a month instead of once a week.

A Spirit of Winter: The Ghost Town

This post is the first in a series where I will be providing a stylized version of the campaign that I have been running. It takes place in the northern forests of Sylvanor, centered around the village of Lumberfall run by the dwarven druid Edric Greenbeard. The PCs consist of Alaina, a half-elf ranger and member of the Order of the Black Arrow, Thoradin, a dwarf paladin of Argovas, Immaril, a wood elf druid, and Eleanor, a wood elf bard. Each post in the series I'll be switching between PCs as the perspective character.

With that said, let's begin!

The roar of an army filled the air, dew dripping off the leaves as the fog-shrouded valley churned with the movement of hundreds of charging bodies. Atop a hill, a dark-skinned human, his arms bound and his torso bare, was forcefully knelt before three chalk-skinned, red-eyed, silver-haired elves. A male, his hair cut to accentuate his ears, dressed in gold-lined vestments the color of blood, stepped behind the human.

Black smoke danced around the elf's arm, swirling, churning, coming to a point in front of his palm. Using the point of smoke, the elf carved pictographs that burned with dark, eldritch power into the human's back. Placing both hands upon the shoulders of the screaming, paralyzed human, the elf tore his hands upwards and following them, the human's blood ripped itself from his body to pool in the air before the elf.

A similarly dressed elf woman stepped forward, a chalice made from the fanged skull of a large beast in hand. Holding out the grim chalice in front of her, her gaze remained locked to the ground as the male brought the blood over and poured it into the receptacle. Herbs are sprinkled into the blood, which bursts into a dark, purple flame.

~*~

His eyes snapped open as Thoradin launched himself up from his bedroll. The tent's other occupant, one of the village druids named Immaril, leaned over a bucket in a cold sweat, having vomited up supper. Fumbling for a side-pouch in his pack, Thoradin struggled to maintain his composure as he pulled out a bottle he was saving for when they reached Golstatt and took a pull almost before he had the cork out.

"Wel' tha's the wors' dream I've evva had," Thoradin muttered to himself as he recorked the drink.

"Unless it involved a blood-ritual atop a fog-shrouded hill I do not want to know," Immaril snarked, still recovering from his nausea.

Thoradin started at Immaril before he slowly asked, "How'd ye know?"

His tent-mate's gaze snapped to Toradin, a hint of worry and fear in his eyes, "I had a vision of that while meditating."

"Oh, is tha' wha' ye call elf-snorin'? By my beard, I swear ye wer' sawin' logs when my shif' ended," he had to snark, because not snarking meant acknowledging that they both shared a vision, and visions never bode well.

Immaril's response was a glare, but as he opened his mouth to retort, an unearthly shriek, like the fury of the damned, from the forest tore them from their banter. Running out of the tent, grabbing his shield and ax along the way, Thoradin snarled as a trio of undead elves came racing out of the tree line.

"I see tha' th' firs' death didn't stick, lemme help ye there!" Thoradin yelled as he charged at the three, ebony-skinned, zombies. He had fought zombies before, three would be easy to deal with.

At least, that's what he thought before the outer zombies moved around him as the middle one ducked under his ax swing. As Thoradin pulled his ax back and raised his shield against the reaching arms of the zombie to his lift, the zombie to his right leaned back and let out a soul-piercing wail. The sound cut through to his heart, causing an unnatural chill to settle on his bones.

As the middle zombie reached out for Thoradin, an arrow flew over his shoulder and slammed into the zombie's nose cavity. At the same time, roots, moss, and grass grew wild and latched onto both Thoradin's and the zombies' feet, anchoring them in place.

"Next time you run into a fight, wear armor," called the half-elf that moved into the village roughly three years prior.

'Must...resist...snark...' Thoradin thought to himself as his ax bit into the hip of the zombie.

As more of the caravan woke up, the zombies were easily dispatched by the crew of druid trainees and lumberjacks. The trainees burned the remains as the rest got started on preparing tea, coffee, and breakfast. Thoradin found himself sharing a cooking fire with the half-elf that shot over his shoulder, Immaril, and Eleanor.

"So, how'd the pub entertain'r end up slummin' with th' res' of us? Ol' Scale-face gett'n tired of ye?" Thoradin asked before taking a sip of tea. Not his favorite drink, but he had a limited supply of Old Back on this trip and he had to make it last.

"I'm picking up some new material in Golstatt, an old friend who lives there writes songs and said he had some new ones that I'd like," Eleanor answered with a giggle.

As Immaril returned to the fire from burning the zombies, the half-elf asked him a question, "Something wrong?"

"It is those undead, in life they were elves though I have never heard of elves with such a skin tone. From my admittedly limited knowledge of necromancy, I do not believe that their ebony skin was the result of being animated, nor did they look like they were suffering from frostbite," Immaril responded as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

The caravan soon finished their breakfast, and set out to get the lumber that they were transporting to Golstatt. The small mining town needed the lumber for braces and supports, and in exchange Lumberfall was getting a supply of ore. It was a trade that was made every few months, and the ones to make the journey were on a rotating list.

Four hours later, the caravan cleared the treeline to see the sleepy village of Golstatt in the distance. It was only as they approached that they noticed something amiss: not a single chimney had smoke coming from it. Thoradin and those that he shared breakfast with raced ahead to scout the village, and arrived to the scene of a massacre.

There were no bodies, but every door was splintered and splattered with blood. Not a soul was to be found, not even the children.

Bloody Tides

     Enough was enough, "Does anyone wanna explain why we’re standing on the beach, at night, with three crates of meat, staring out into the ocean?"

     The orc-blooded merchant glanced back at the hired guard, surprised that an elf would be so impatient at a five-minute wait, before he answered, "T’was in the contract you signed, you read it, did you not?"

     "Course I read it, but I don’t recall anything about standing out in the cold not a hundred yards from the biggest glacier in the world, at night," he snapped, neglecting to mention that he was drunk when he signed the contract and was still suffering from the hangover.

Lesser Gods: Archrist and Bagold

Here, I'll be introducing two gods that aren't as widely known as the ones listed on the deities page.

Archrist

Lesser Deity

Superiors: Argovas and Orlag

Symbol: A blank scroll

Home: Dune-Swept Library of Scienterna

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Portfolio: records, finances, knowledge, written word

Worshipers: scribes, librarians, merchants

Domains: Knowledge, Law, Luck, Rune

Favored Weapon: Rapier

The scribe and archivist of both Argovas and Orlag, Archrist spends most of his days recording information of any sort. Unlike many of his fellow gods, Archrist hates mortal worship. He taught the early races the first written language and promptly lost interest in them.

Eszath, Doorway to the Frontier

Eszath
LN Small City

Corruption +1, Crime -2, Economy -3, Law -2, Lore +1, Society -1

Qualities notorious, pious (Yalma), racially intolerant (humans), superstitious, hunted
Danger 35

Demographics

Government Autocracy (Mayor Mavanas Ihanor)

Population 6,431 (5,080 humans, 578 dwarves, 321 halflings, 452 other)

Notable NPCs

Mayor Mavanas Ihanor (LE halfling aristocrat 3)

Guard Captain Daszlo Ironhammer (LG dwarf fighter 6)

Chief Accounting Archivist Marcellus Norbanus Indaletius (LN gnome expert 5)

Marketplace

Base Value 4,400 gp; Purchase Limit 37,500 gp; Spellcasting 3rd

Minor Items 4d4; Medium Items 3d4; Major Items 1d6

Originally planned as the gateway to the Sylvanor frontier, Eszath was officially founded in 928 of the Age of Dynastic Collapse. Its location was chosen because of both its proximity to Glastig as well as the massive, seemingly endless forests that lead inland, making it a wondrous source of lumber. With the rise of Whaleden and the hobgoblin empire, Eszath's influx of colonists and settlers looking to make their way north has almost disappeared. To make matters worse, in the last few years the streets have become the hunting grounds of a killer. The only thing that links the victims is that they are not human, leading many to suspect that the humans in the city are to blame.

From the Journals of Gronk, Frontier Goblin Wizard Extraordinaire

1097 of the Age of Northern Expansion
Mythday, 5 of Chazron

There are times when I wonder what my life would have been like had I stayed with my birth clan. Then I remember how miserable I was. No one respected the knowledge that writing could give, and the fire...the less said the better. No, my life with Garrek and Mathias, my friends and mentors, is better than any I could have imagined before I was cast out of the clan.

Oh life in the old barn was as bad as I feared at first, the townsfolk would come periodically to chase me out of town, I'd get cold and sneak back to the barn only to be chased out again in a week's time. Then one day I snuck back to the barn only to see tables set up with a myriad of odd plants and animal parts. The back stables also had two bedrolls and some pots and pans.

At the time I was terrified, I knew the common language of humans in these parts and knew that the town was having trouble making enough money ever since the copper mine went dry. It seemed like the barn I was calling home was given to some newcomers. I didn't dare hope that the new residents of the barn would let me stay, and some part of me just broke. I was tired, my life was an unending cycle of eating what roaches and rodents I could catch, sleeping in a dilapidated barn followed by running for my life out into the cold. I just wanted it to end.

After a few hours of standing in the middle of the barn, they showed up. A big guy with a sword that looked like a long piece of metal with an edge and a halfling with a belt and bandoleer filled with tiny clay pots. Garrek and Mathais, the half-orc and halfling business partners. And the greatest alchemists I've ever had the fortune of knowing.

I expected that they would chase me out or kill me. Instead, they asked who I was and why I was in their barn. I told them my name and that I slept there. I don't think that they knew quite what to do with me, they bought the barn to turn it into an alchemy shop and found a goblin squatting in their new property. Instead of chasing the goblin squatter out or killing him, they gave him a job and put him to work.

Oh sure, I have a bit of fun at their expense now and then, the first time I wold told to sweep I went to where he pointed and swept that spot for hours. The look on Garrek's face would make for one of my most entertaining memories for years.

Truely, the greatest gift that they gave me was a spellbook they took off of a dead wizard. Well, they gave it to me after they were done with it to get potion ideas. While I had no training in the arcane, I was a smart little goblin, and after two months of studying the book managed to produce an orb of light.

To this day

~~~~~~

"WAIT A MINUTE, YOU PRANKED ME?!"

The goblin nearly leapt out of his skin at the bellow just above and behind him. Face pale, Gronk turned around to see the furious half orc that had been reading over his shoulder.

"Ah-w-w-well...um...the thing is...Gronk," he started, trying to think of a way to talk himself out of Garrek's fury.

"I know full well you know how first person works, Gronk. Now what do you have to say for yourself for pranking me in that way all those times over the years?"

"Y-y-you see...it-was-Mathais's-idea-bye!"

A slow grin spread across Garrek's face as he looked out at the goblin running down main street. His business partner walked up from in back and looked at the amused half-orc.

"You figured out that he was pranking you two months in, why'd you wait more than ten years to bring it up with him?" the halfling asked.

"The last two times Gronk wasn't doing it because it was funny, he was doing it because it was routine. This way he'll find something new to entertain himself. Perhaps it'll be at your expense this time Tablespoon."

"Don't start that again," Mathais groaned as he went back inside, though Garrek managed to overhear the halfling mutter the old material under his breath, "A dash is not a unit of measurement."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you like my work and want to support me, check out my homebrew race book here.

Race: Dohrnii

No one within the Cyan Shelf can remember a time without the dohrnii. Roaming the seas since time immemorial, the ancient race has delved deep into esoteric secrets of reality, consciousness, and dreams.

Physical Description. Though sailors will oft describe them as spell-casting jellyfish, the other races that call the ocean home think of them as resembling translucent eels. Built like merfolk, dohrnii have long tails that they whip back and forth to propel themselves through the water, while their upper bodies possess the basic humanoid features (head atop a torso that bears two arms) but that is where the similarity ends. Dohrnii lack a rigid skeleton, instead having a cartilaginous skeleton like sharks and rays. Additionally, their skin is translucent enough that many think that they can see the outline of bones and organs. Dohrnii are amongst the rare races with the ability to emit bioluminescent light of a myriad of colors. The normally nocturnal dohrnii use these bioluminescent patches to create breathtaking displays of light and color.

Behind the Screen: Monster Making Madness II - Themed Creatures

Last time I talked about some quick and dirty ways to have new creatures to vex your players. This time I'll be taking a different approach. I won't being going into mechanics very much but I will provide stat blocks of the creatures that I use for examples.

Say that you're building a new homebrew world and you want to populate it with creatures besides what you find in the Bestiary or Monster Manual. Unless you have a particular campaign feel in mind, I wouldn't completely throw them out, but you can recapture the wonder that we all felt when we first read or saw Lord of the Rings by doing this.

While you could create each creature individually, this will drive you to madness rather quickly. Alternatively, you can come up with a unifying theme, location, or niche and build around that.

For a new dark fantasy setting, Dale decides that he wants to have his players face off against demon cults with horrifying abominations. Thinking about what he has seen done in the past, he has the sudden idea to have the abominations be the still living sacrificial victims of the cults. Thus he has his starting point: humanoid abominations that were once ordinary people.

Now you have something to unite your focus on this slew of creature building. You still need to create the first creature. While the mechanics will vary depending on the system you are designing monsters for, if there is already something that suits your purposes just use the mechanics from that.

Dale decides that the first monster that he makes will be a stealthy scout. Something that avoids combat but rather keeps an eye out for trouble and reports back. Smaller is better, and Dale recently read about the Blood Eagle so he figures that this scout is nothing but head, spine, and ribcage. Wanting it to have more than eyes and ears, Dale figures a low-level, passive magic detection would finish it off nicely. Last up is the name, and because the mental image reminds him of cloakers, Dale settles on the name bloodcloaks.

You now have your first creature, and from here ideas should start percolating up. Each creature should tie back to that unifying concept, while expanding and building upon what came before it. Rise and repeat until you have enough creatures that you are happy with.

Dale wants a total of four monsters. He has a scout, but cultists aren't known for having much in the way of martial capabilities. That, along with watching 300, gives Dale the idea for the next beastie: a frontline, phalanx-type combat oriented monster. Additionally, he wants a ranged combatant and a heavy hitting tank. Taking a look around online, he stumbles across images of the early stages of the video game Dead Space. The zombies with blades coming out of their palms are an almost perfect fit for the weapons of the phalanx monsters. The various husks from Mass Effect 3 give Dale the last inspiration that he needs for the other two: the ranged combatant has a second person grafted to their arm and can spit teeth and other small bones while the tank is composed of four people grafted together forming a tall, lean monster with massive cudgels for arms. Deciding that of the four monsters, the phalanx one is the oldest while the remaining three are new creations. Thus he gives the phalanx monster the name skark while the ranged and tank ones are bonespitters and lumbering brutes respectively.

Bloodcloak             CR 1/2
XP 200
NE Tiny aberration (demonwraught)
Init +3; Senses Perception +10, darkvision 60 feet, passive detect magic
Defense
AC 15, touch 15, flat-footed 12 (+2 size, +3 Dexterity)
hp 3 (1d8-1)
Fort -1, Ref +3, Will +1
Offense
Speed 5 ft.; 50 ft. fly
Melee grapple 1d4-1
Tactics
During Combat When at all possible, the bloodcloak avoids combat. It watches, observes, and slinks away to report back to its masters. When combat is unavoidable, it tries to escape so that it can make its report. The sole exception is when it spots a lone intruder, at which point it will try to strangle it with its spine/tail.
StatisticsStr 8, Dex 16, Con 8, Int 6, Wis 8, Cha 4
Base Attack +0; CMB -3 (+5 grapple); CMD 10 (15 grapple)
Feats Skill Focus (Perception)
Skills Perception +10, Stealth +15
Languages Common
SQ darkvision 60 ft., passive detect magic (does not gain more than round 1 information), Innate Grappler (gain a +8 racial bonus to grapple checks)

Skark             CR 2

XP 600

NE Medium aberration (demonwraught)

Init +3; Senses Perception -2, darkvision 60 feet

Defense

AC 14, touch 12, flat-footed 12 (+2 shield, +2 Dexterity)

hp 22 (3d8+9)

Fort +4, Ref +3, Will +1

Offense

Speed 30 ft.

Melee bone blade +6 melee 1d8+4 (19-20 critical)

Tactics

During Combat When more than one is present, skarks will form a phalanx with their bone shields interlocking and the blades sprouting for their opposing hand in position to thrust into their targets. Additionally, they will attempt to demoralize their targets by shrieking and screaming (Intimidate) as their jaws open far too wide.

Statistics

Str 18, Dex 14, Con 16, Int 10, Wis 6, Cha 4

Base Attack +2; CMB +6; CMD 18

Feats Shield Wall, Intimidating Prowess

Skills Acrobatics +8, Climb +10, Intimidate +7, Swim +10

Languages Common

SQ darkvision 60 ft.

Bonespitter             CR 3

XP 800

NE Medium aberration (demonwraught)

Init +4; Senses Perception -2, darkvision 60 feet

Defense

AC 16, touch 14, flat-footed 12 (+4 Dexterity, +2 natural)

hp 22 (3d8+9)

Fort +4, Ref +3, Will +2

Offense

Speed 30 ft.

Ranged bone dart +5 ranged 2d6 piercing 80 ft.

Tactics

During Combat Bonespitters tend to hand in the back, avoiding melee while shooting at the enemies that look to be the most dangerous.

Statistics

Str 12, Dex 18, Con 16, Int 6, Wis 6, Cha 4

Base Attack +2; CMB +4; CMD 18

Feats Point-Blank Shot, Precise Shot

Skills Intimidate +4, Survival +5

Languages Common

SQ darkvision 60 ft.

Lumbering Brute             CR 4

XP 1,200

NE Large aberration (demonwraught)

Init -1; Senses Perception -2, darkvision 60 feet

Defense

AC 18, touch 8, flat-footed 18 (-1 Dexterity, -1 size, +10 natural)

hp 42 (5d8+20)

Fort +5, Ref +0, Will +5

Offense

Speed 30 ft.

Melee slam +6 ranged 2d6+12

Tactics

During Combat Lumbering brutes are simple combatants: they go towards the nearest adversary and try to smash it into paste.

Statistics

Str 18, Dex 8, Con 18, Int 4, Wis 6, Cha 8

Base Attack +3; CMB +8 (+12 bull rush, overrun); CMD 17 (21 bull rush, overrun)

Feats Power Attack, Improved Bull-Rush, Improved Overrun

Skills Intimidate +7

Languages Common

SQ darkvision 60 ft.

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