Propelled by four massive legs this towering ziggurat lurches across the landscape smashing any obstacle, natural or man-made, in its path. Cast from bone-white stone the hatches of a long-dead language scar the railings of mammoth steps. The heads of crushed icons from across the world and throughout history adorn its corner terraces, inner spaced with black-iron statues of a grim-faced clergy. Borne on eddies of crackling, blue magic a stone visage floats above the ziggurat's zenith. Forever cast with an expression of condemnation this is the face of the sorcerer-king Enuk'lun. Arcane might pulses in its eyes, eager to eradicate the heresy of divinity. God Smasher. The Living Temple of Enuk'lun serves two purposes. First, the ancient structure keeps the memory of the sorcerer-king alive untold generations after his demise. Second, to erase all faiths which do not venerate Enuk'lun above all others. In dim eons past, the sorcerer king's empire ranged wide and

A lovely apple deflated by rot. A ruptured gourd infested with maggots. A once-full tree stripped down to all but the last of its leaves. The finest wine turned to sour vinegar. Young love aged to bitter amenity. These are the sort of things Lord Fallowfields represents; everything once ripe and beautiful caught in decay. His skin is pulled so tight over his fine-boned face that the stretch marks seep clear, viscous fluid. Gazelle-like antlers spiral from his temples, the base riddled with bloodied honeycombs. Strings of black hair cling to a puckered scalp, his eyes are like shriveled grapes squatting in distended sockets. The Duke of Autumn's End is a lithe fey, around six-and-a-half feet tall. His stick-like limbs are swathed in uncured leather punctuated by sepia chitin plates. Barbs adorn the back of his knee-high boots, giving the impression of a locust's legs. He wears a cloak of dead butterflies stitched together, their shells cracking and wings flaking in an inexplica

With a face comprised of fathomless shadow and blazing, red eyes it is hard to imagine that Hypatatos was once a man. A crown of tarnished silver set with teeth instead of jewels rotates about his head. Beneath a funeral shroud converted into a sweeping toga lays clammy skin, dotted with rigamortis' bruises. The Dreamhunter's arms end in ephemeral talons, twice the length of human fingers; the number of slicing digits forever changing as the gloom churns like a timeless sea. Frightful Specter. In life, Hypatatos relished fostering fear in others. As a child he played cruel pranks on his siblings and friends, culminating in frightening his grandfather to death. Beaten and tossed out onto the streets Hypatatos held onto his thirst for screams and the evil soul recovered. He studied under dark clerics and poisoners, developing techniques to keep victims in the paralyzed edge of sleep as he tortured them. When mere pain was not enough Hypatatos worked on dream-based magic. He&#

Often mistaken for some manner of scabrous mutant the Fiend of the Moors is not some reptilian horror. His muck-caked scales were once a brilliant suit of armor harvested from a felled dragon and crafted by the finest elfish smiths of the era. His toothy maw was a great helm flanked by wing adornments that was fused with his time-ruined face in a manner best to consume the humanoid flesh he now craves. His claws started delicate fingers that coaxed heart-tugging notes from lyre strings and ecstatic sighs from bewitched lovers but were worn down to long, scything bones. His desiccated, still heart used to beat with dauntless courage and run fast when on the hunt. Now it aches with eternal loneliness. Once a hero of renown, the Fiend of the Moors is now an accursed corpse doomed to haunt the bogs where he fell. Oath Broken. The Fiend’s tragedy stems from where it often does in such tales; hubris. Seeking the hand of an elf noble he swore that he would venture into the Moors, track do

Infectious and undying, the Pariah’s given name has long been lost to the sands of history. Legend holds this lurching, bandage-swathed terror was the prince of a forgotten desert kingdom renowned for his foolishness and generosity. Now he is a looming figure, whip-thin, and covered in plague sores long since crusted over. This affliction gives what little skin is exposed amid rancid bandages a leathery texture, shavings of diseased flesh flaking off in the breeze. Wild eyes, brimming with madness and power, forever stare, their lids glued open with petrified canker. Infectious Madness. Fragments of the Pariah’s tragic tale say that the now nameless prince was overcome with insane mirth when he realized he was the last living soul within his capital. They say he cavorted through the streets, leaping over corpses rotting on the ground, throwing handfuls of desert sand into the air as if it were confetti, and his cackling echoing like rolling thunder along of the city’s crumbling wal

The Puppeteer is an entity of pure psychic energy similar in appearance to a distorted jellyfish. Most never glimpse this sanity-rending shape for the Puppeteer rarely manifests. Instead, the ancient being prefers to remain unseen as it foments chaos and tragedy for its amusement. It can inhabit those that are 'Primed' thanks to an eldritch mixture, turning them into the Transfigured for the duration. Measuring nearly two meters in length the Puppeteer is topped by a dome of translucent, oscillating petals. Amid the red ruffles, free-floating eyes swell up like cysts, and eventually burst in the same way. The ooze produced rapidly evaporates into the ether. Thick cilia, reminiscent of human fingers, twitch under this disgusting crown. From the center of the mass dangles an ever-changing number of tentacles with the consistency of dispersing smoke. These ethereal pseudopods and entangle objects and creatures the Puppeteer uses its powers on. The Serum. The Puppeteer takes a

Casting himself as a gruff, grizzled nobleman, the Lodgemaster seeks to corrupt a government from within by encouraging his fellow bluebloods into greater acts of barbarism and depravity. The demon's human form is a barrel-chested man just past his prime, streaks of grey peppering his neatly trimmed beard and hair. He still carries a commanding air of physical prowess and intellectual intensity, despite his years. The Lodgemaster builds a reputation of a man’s man as a consummate hunter and a powerful lover. He can transform into a massive, red dire wolf with glinting eyes and dagger-like fangs. In his true form, the demon is covered with crimson fur and stands just under eight feet tall. While his body remains bipedal his head resembles a dire wolf's skull; the fangs replaced with blackened steel. Red pinpricks of light float within the skull’s sockets and a leathery tongue lolls from its maw. The Lodgemaster’s legs are reverse-jointed, and his hands are surprisingly articu

The Groom towers over other men, his handsome features chiseled and ice-blue eyes framed by curls of ebony hair. Many would liken his body to the most exquisite of marble statues. The truth be told, it is crafted from enchanted wax lending an angelic-white tone. The Groom usually bears a stoic countenance, occasionally accented by heroic resolve. No heart beats within the fighter’s chest, only a corrupted slice of divine fire. His eyes are frozen marbles, his hair spun silk, and his noble mien as false as it is well-sculpted. The Groom wears a suit of curated platemail armor as easily as others don clothing; both it and his longsword bear a frosty sheen of rime. His appearance makes women swoon and men defer to this larger than life figure, often to their great detriment. Revenge Obsessed. The Groom will stop at nothing to track down his creator, The Relict , and destroy her. He realizes he is a thing that should not be and often waxes on ending his plight via suicide. The icy wa

Bearing a severe widow’s peak and sardonic smile, La Contessa lurks in the shadows, stalking her prey. Due to her blood-shot gaze behind spectacles, raven hair, and pallid disposition the noblewoman is often mistaken for a vampire. In truth, while she is undead her state is due to science instead of the supernatural. Clad in the finest studded leather as dark as night and a cloak of direwolf fur, La Contessa is always eager for battle against her hated foes. Her 'custom-made' sword is actually a vat-grown mimic with taste for undead flesh. Alchemical grenades are secreted across her attire; La Contessa draws her weapons with preternatural speed. Wherever La Contessa treads she leaves a trace of essential salt behind, which she must leech from others to survive and continue the Hunt. Vampire Hunter. La Contessa's accursed state stems from her hatred of bloodsuckers. Over a century ago, her city was antagonized by a coterie of vampires and their spawn. Blood-ran in the st

With skin as pale as snow and lips as red as blood the relict entrances most who meet her at first glance. They find her white hair with a stark, black streak exotic and explain away the hint of scars around her neck and wrists as testaments of a hard life. After all, her expression is best described as forlorn and vulnerable, yet her doe eyes radiate an inner warmth. These smitten fools do not know exactly how right they are. The relict’s pallor stems as it is composed of enchanted wax layered atop sigil-etched bones. Her perfect lips and mole are painted on. The softness of her hair is a trait of spun silk. Her scars are mold lines, her eyes the finest glass. Animated by a stolen fragment of divine fire the feminine golem murdered her creator-husband for his blasphemy and will not hesitate to lie, steal, and kill to get what she wants. In most instances, the relict wears a charcoal-grey dress tailored to accentuate her curves, but careful to hide her seams as well. She usually wears

Festooned with white bulbs around an intestine-purple trunk an eyestalk bears some similarities to the aberrant beholders, and some theorize a connection between the two. However, it is still a plant, driven by an instinct to hunt, kill and consume. The average eyestalk specimen stands just over two feet tall with thick, bark-like growths on its top and behind each ‘eye’ bulb. When the carnivorous plant burrows these growths snap closed to protect these vulnerable parts. Magic Eaters While usually thought of as eyes the fruits spread along the eyestalk are reservoirs of arcane energy coalesced into berry-like pulp. Arcane botanists suspect these plants pull this energy directly from its victims just as a normal plant pulls its food from the soil. This theory is further collaborated by the eyestalk's typical behavior of attacking spell-casters among a party first. Often it will burrow up close to the caster, barrage it with eye rays, and then attempt to pull the body back with t