Bloated by stolen fluids, the gaunt fiend looks like its sickly-green skin might rip at any moment. The multitude of boney spines sticking out of the seams betwixt its muscles doesn’t help either. Yet, somehow the abyssal creature keeps itself together. The rags it wears, however, do not last long. Yet, the fiend always finds fresh cloth from its victims to skewer. Its face, such as it is, is flat with a sunken, rotten hole where eyes and a mouth should be; viscous mucous dribbles from all three. The fiend can also bloom membranous sails from its back, catching the Demon Winds and flying as swift and directed as a winged beast. Cactus Fiend Large fiend, neutral evil Armor Class 16 Hit Points 189 (18d10 + 90) Speed 20ft Flight 60ft Str 17 Dex 22 Con 20 Int 12 Wis 17 Cha 15 Saving Throws Str +7, Con +9 Skills Nature +5, Survival +7 Damage Resistances: bludgeoning, pier...

The gloomrider wears a battered, black duster that bears a moist sheen; the mucus coating the gunslinger’s chalky skin saturates the fabric and exudes a cloying scent, not unlike sweet tobacco. Its ‘fingers’, a squirm of four tendrils, anxiously twitch a mere breath away from the butt of twin revolvers in slaad-skin holsters. These strange shooting irons bear cylinders of scintillating crystals and spit chunks of chaos-spawned stone. The drifter’s face consists of a single orifice that serves as the mouth, nose, and sensory organ. More small tendrils spiral from the opening, petrified back in the general shape of a head. Thankfully, the gloomstalkers wide-brimmed hat usually obscures the unsettling visage. The rest of the uninvited horror’s attire matches its profession with a fancy vest covered with deep-speech sigils, black trousers, naga-hide boots, and spurs crafted from dead stars. The last accessory makes their every step jangle with soul-jarring tones not born of this sphere. ...

A paradoxical horror, the body of this undead creature consists of formless gloom left with a vague impression of squirming limbs while crackling lanterns dangle from a plethora of tendrils sprouting from its top. Within the lanterns, tortured witch-lights burn, tormented faces surfacing within the glow. Unforgiving Light. When the Fiend of the Moors , claimed his territory, he only faced one serious contender for control, an ancient hydra. The two creatures fought for weeks. The accursed ranger couldn’t stunt the growth of the hydra’s head, while the hydra couldn’t stop the vile revenant from rising again. Seeking an end to this stalemate, the Fiend assailed the reptile with a horde of undead beasts. Eventually, the hydra’s lifeforce was overcome by the enervating energies. The corrupted elf came to another obstacle; raising the hydra into his service. Eventually he found a way to bind it being to five will-o-wisps, and command the spectral terror which resulted, thought the la...

Cast in a humanoid shape, this pile of stagnant mud, blighted plants, and many stolen bones it is easy to mistake a Muck Wraith for a giant, undead horror covered in swamp muck. In truth, it is befouled elemental dredged up from a bog’s bottom. It always has a humanoid skull, or three, floating where its head is, arm and finger bones from a variety of beasts in its arms, and leg bits in its legs to maintain this deception. Bottom Feeder. Anxious to gather more undead horrors under his thrall, the Fiend of the Moors , scoured his dank domain for mortal remains he might use to construct a skeleton horde or the like. However, the accursed ranger found he didn't have the arcane skill needed for complex necromancy. At the same time, his mind was already degrading at a rapid pace. What he did discover is that he could corrupt the natural world around him in much the same manner which he'd created, accidently or otherwise, undead beasts. He took the tainted land and mishmash of ...

This long, ferocious reptile bears rigged, crackling scales across its ethereal blue body. Clearly a crocodile, the undead beast reminds one of a will-o-wisp, if one lives long enough after encountering its jaws. Not only do its fangs crush flesh and bone, they lance the prey with electric jolts generated within the wispy crocodile's unliving, ever-hungry core. Lightning on the Water. Once the Fiend of the Moors realized he could raise and resulpt the varied beasts of his domain, the elven horror sought out the largest crocodiles in the bog. Capturing them, though, proved difficult as the ancient reptiles recognized a greater predator and fled whenever the accursed ranger came near. So, the Fiend of The Moors employed will-o-wisps to entrance his targets before slaying them. However, he found when imbuing the crocodiles with unlife, that they came back resembling those vile balls of light. This pleased the bastard even more. Whispy Crocodile Large beas...

Corpulent and putrid, the fen toad was massive in life only to swell up with brackish water, pus, and noisome glass. Its eye, in turn, shriveled to nothing leaving sockets empty save for pin pricks of witch light not unlike will-o-wisps in hue. A purple, sore-covered tongue hands from chapped lips. Deathless Glutton. The first fen toad swallowed the Fiend of the Moors , its poor amphibian brain thought the accursed elf was carrion instead of an undead terror. Instead of carving his way out, the fiend settled in the giant frog's gut and devoured its life force from within. In short order, the creature died. Not long after that, it returned to unlife under the Fiend of the Moor’s control and opened its mouth with all the ease of an inn door. The doomed ranger stepped out and sent the first fen toad out to infect and raise its kin. Fen Toad Large undead, unaligned Armor Class 10 Hit Points 45 (6d10 + 12) ...

The pallid wyrm measures in excess of ten, ragged feet; its scales translucent and the meat beneath nigh-insubstantial. Whether gliding in water, over land, or through solid objects, the serpent is practically silent. Not completely silent, however, as a subtle wheeze comes from the undead snake, though the sound is not ophidian in nature. Instead, it reminds one of the last gasps of a dying man. Clutch of the Grave. The great constrictors of the mire were the first creatures the Fiend of the Moors. were drawn to after his damnation. They were also the first lives he consumed to fuel his undead state. A ranger in life, however, the Fiend learned how to keep enough of the serpents’ souls intact so he might raise them as deathless companions. Like their creature, the slough snakes crave the heat of the living, coiling around their victims, and squeezing until that delicate flame is extinguished. Slough Snake Huge undead, unaligned Arm...

Scuttering along one spindly legs, these crustaceans are covered with a white shells covered in a series of spherical clusters and spines. The middle of its shell contains a mandibled mouth ringed by tiny eyes, while the underside of its ‘head’ envelopes a leech-like mouth. Once they latch onto a creature, the shells slice up the flesh while the legs dig in deep. The clusters make it hard to dislodge the creatures, even more so as they convert a victim’s bones into additional shell. Bloodborne Parasite. These foul beasts began as normal barnacles along a boat hull as the vessel sailed, and then sank in a noisome swamp. Instead of shriveling up and dying, these crustaceans adapted to survive. FIrst they latched onto lesser undead and drained their juices before being discovered by the Fiend of the Moors. The cursed ranger proceeded to breed and refine the profane creatures, gifting them with a thirst for blood only outdone by actual vampires. Like the other corrupted beasts in the ...

More on the Brood Still sensuous despite her advanced age, Evigra'tha radiates a beauty bordering on beatific. The thousand, and last, child of primordial Iktokris rumor has it that her father was one of the myriad of gods once responsible for the Dark Mother’s imprisonment who sought Iktokris to make amends. If Evigra'tha is a demi-god of sorts, that would aptly explain her longevity and power. Like the rest of the brood, she is clothed in a soft, black downy from crown to hoof. Said hooves are shod with well-beaten iron with stripes of glossy, ebon chitin showing between the metal. Evigra'tha’s curled horns are of the same shelled material, though she also has a second set arching backwards from her temple amid a mane of black hair. The bridge of her nose and forehead is flat, rather like a goat, and her dark eyes contain no iris. Swathed in loose silk clothing that does little to hide a body ripened to perfection by childbirths, Evigra'tha leaves most of her ba...

There is nothing typical about the typical bryne. These coastal terrors are lumbering humanoids with a skin tone close to that of a drowned corpse. Crystal-like deposits of bone and salt erupt from their elbows, knees and shoulders while the rest of their flesh is puckered here and there from barnacle scars and fell branding. Their most disturbing aspect, however, is their fleshless skulls. Some say a bryne’s head resembles a dead horse, others a dead wolf’s and there is an argument to be made for both. While the skull’s shape is general equine the fangs within are wicked and sharp like a dire wolf’s Deep set eyes as black and cold as a shark's ooze off-white ichors and within the fleshy inside of a bryne’s mouth resides a forked tongue capable of speech. The first among bryne wears his age like a cloak of tattered rags. Folds of pock marked skin hang from his limbs, revealing greyed meat in places. At the same time, the crystal formations on his bones are chaotic, jagged, and...

Curls of spectral flame bind the ashen panoply together in the rough shape of a wide-shouldered man. Hints of his heroic jaw are hinted at beneath the helm’s beak, remnants of chiseled arms between the seams of stylized half-plate. The apparition’s cloak, composed of blackened feathers spread like phoenix’s wings. In one hand, the mad knight wields a flaming longsword with a hilt of bright feathers, in the other a warpick depicting a phoenix’s beak. Bent on purging wickedness from the world, nothing but madness swirls in the specter’s eyes. Madness and the ceaseless torment of an honor long lost Burn It All Down! Sir Castille, the Everburning cannot be reasoned with. He cannot be bargained with. He absolutely will not stop until every ounce of corruption is burned from the world. This is not a noble goal, nor a sane one. The ravening phantasm will put an overly-rowdy tavern to the torch as quickly as he would a foul demon-cult. In either case, the collateral damage doesn’t matt...

While enrobed in a black velvet cape and suit of midnight blue finery, this mask-wearing villain is no man, nor beast, nor even undead. Even the clothes it wears down to the exquisite larva-style mask of porcelain are nothing more than an illusion. It’s difficult to understand how the complex harmonies of this elemental actually produces this dashing image, many composers have gone mad attempting to replicate it. It doesn’t help that Phantasmagoria encourages such exploration. With a fluctuation of sound, this foe can materialize a faux-saber out of nothing, but it still cuts just as deep. In its true form, Phantasmagoria retains most of its humanoid traits, though they are jumbled and distended in a discordant mess. Phantasmagoria came to be due to an absurd tragedy. During a sold-out performance of a grand opera, including a full chorus and orchestra, the opera house was struck by an arcane explosion set off by revolutionaries looking to kill the upper class inside. They succe...

Within a gilden, elven ribcage spins a core of razor-sharp gears, cogs with organic teeth, and a tangle of oil-dripping cables. It is suspended in the ghastly space by a hextet of rusted chains smeared with pilfered grease. This is what the construct truly is, as the limbs and head it wears are little more than accessories shed as easily as a mortal changes clothes. These extremities come from creatures foolish enough to entreat the Pedagogue by solving the Knot, pulled from the cooling corpses and fastened in place by wrapped chains, rusted nails, and crooked screws. The longer a stolen body part remains attached to the horror, the more gilded and bejeweled bone appears beneath rotting meat. Once an appendage becomes too damaged, or if Spurheart grows bored of it, it is carelessly discarded and a replacement attached. Legend claims that Spurheart began as one of the first elven artificers in ages long forgotten. This elf prized knowledge above all other things. Even morality. It ...

“The Gutters Slasher.” “Full Moon Killer.” “The Buzzing Horror of Lankkirk.” “Dr. Bones.” What do these four infamous killers have in common? They are all the same creature, or rather collection of creatures. Each beetle of this unique hive is crested with what appears to be a tiny, human skull of off-white with scarlet wings under a darker red carapace. Though, this sentient swarm isn’t spotted in its natural state often, and those that see it usually don’t live to tell the tale. Most of the time, the swarm nests within a humanoid corpse, which it animates. The insects take great care to keep their walking hive clothed while breeding and feeding in the rotten flesh. It’s not long, however, before skin sloughs away, revealing bloody honeycombs strapped in place with cloth or leather. The corpse’s eyes are always eaten first, with two fat, skull-headed grubs taking their place. Sometimes Deaths’ Head claims it came to be by feeding on the body of a lich, mummy, or vampire of som...

The moneylender loves the finer things in life almost as much as he adores showing them off. His coats are always lined with exotic furs and tailor-made to fit wide, orcish shoulders. He casually buys the latest male fashion, save for boots in which he looks for the most sturdy and best for kicking debtors when they are down. The greenskin is never without a studded cane of pale dragon bone, tapped with a polished catseye stone. He also has a pouch or three of coins squirreled away on his person. The moneylender’s coif is always perfect, but never absurd. He always has a monocle on hand when something needs a closer inspection. The moneylender was once an adventurer seeking his fortune. He found it in an evil dragon’s horde, though was utterly drenched in the wyrm’s blood when killing it. Then he covered himself in his comrade’s blood as he butchered them to claim the bounty for himself. Some manner of fell magic transferred from the dragon to the orc that day. His avarice and cru...

Blue-skinned and robbed in solid shadows which give a vague impression of a sheik’s robes, this fiend is always quick to smile or sneer depending on the current level of contempt for its ‘master’. However, malice always twinkles in its compound eyes, especially whenever it twists the wishes asked of it. Asymmetrical horns curl from the Thirst Slacker’s forehead. Its legs end with a fly’s feet. Lastly, it sheaths a charred scimitar on a belt made from a chain of coins stolen from the eye sockets of the dead. The weapon is rarely drawn and never used. Instead, holes in the feind's hands contain red-shelled centipedes eager to strike. Avarice Peddler. While the Thirst Slacker presents itself as some sort of djinn, its origins lay in the deep bowels of hell. It often appears with a cup of cool water or fine wine in hand, ready to offer it out to the current holder of the ‘ancient’ skull which summoned it. From there, it explains that it is here to quench its master’s thirsts. ...

When roused, the elemental appears to be the corpse of a drowned woman with long, pale hair tangled with branches and rotting leaves. She wears an ever-flowing dress covered with yellow stains and deep, billowing sleeves that obscure her hands. The hem also hides her feet. In truth, she doesn’t have any. Instead, whenever anything besides her head and neck are exposed, one discovers only murky water and sodden human bones instead. After a few blows, the elemental’s true state is revealed. From crown to soul, the phantasm consists of only filthy water. For decades, a mountainside village harbored a dark secret. Although famous for its springs, there was one such body of water they’d never show. Whenever a member of the village became a burden to the rest, save it be one too many children or stricken with illness or injury, they were taken into a deep cave filled with unclean watered, drowned, and left to rot with the rest. No one knows how many times this heinous act was repeated s...

In its true form, Broken Bough is a mockery of a humanoid comprised of branch, brier, earth, fungus, and thorns. Trapped within the gorse are hunks of meat and bones harvested from its victims. It is from these rotting nodules that the plant horror generates an animal disguise so it might continue its hunt. At the heart of the terror resides a sliver of stone chiseled with the druidic symbol for hate. All Flesh Must Die. Broken Bough was once a dryad sapling in a druid grove. It was showered with attention by the nature priests who worshiped there. It hummed along to their ritual songs. It swayed along to their dancing forms. It listened to their words and gained a crackle of sentience. Then men and dogs came to claim the grove for their own. Broken Bough was watered with its beloved druids’ blood, stunned by their final screams and sobs, shuddered as ancient stones were toppled and shattered. Before the usurpers left, they set the grove aflame, so they might build souless bui...