"Never a more rotten cretin ever took up the cloth than the Hound Priest. Now that's an empirical fact, that it is. If it wasn't the womanizing that damned his soul, it was the gambling. If it wasn't the gambling, it was the pilfering of church coffers. If it wasn't the stealing, then it was dog-fighting. If it wasn't the dog-fighting, it was training his hounds to kill men on command. Some say he even fed a few of his own babes, fathered out of wedlock, to those blasted curs. Whether that be true or not? I lean toward true myself given the nature of the man and the beasts that now follow him. Eventually, the locals got fed up with his crimes and stormed the temple he was tasked to look after. It was a bloody affair. Despite being soaked in inequity the cleric could still draw on divine, well profane, power. Good folk withered under his touch and bled out of every orifice under his curses. His hounds proved as dangerous as any war-dog and racked up kills...

“The Lamplighter’s tale includes everything you’d expect; love, loss and a tragic end. Ghosts don’t bloom from happy soil, after all. The long and short of it is that the lamplighter weren’t a handsome fella, in truth he was downright hideous. Still, his family raised him lovingly and despite being bullied most of his life the boy kept bitterness at bay. As a man, he took up the position his specter’s know by now. The night streets were quiet and that lessened the chances of him being harassed. The darkness also hid his features, though he wore a cloak and wide-brimmed hat too. He also fancied himself a bit of a savior, staving off the darkness with his little light. A right good man, the lamplighter. How bright he burned on the inside. Now he burns bright on the outside; a charred and broken skeleton in a flaking coat. One night he came across some drunks accosting a lady of the evening. Drove them off with his pole, he did. The harlot gasped at first seeing her rescuer’s f...

"The thing about the fettered geist you need to understand is, he's motivated by a sense of justice from a bygone age. Whatever kingdom swathed him in those their chains is long since dust and rumor, but he remains. Dunno if he was a criminal or a judge, hard to tell really. But, what sorta people would bind their arbiters up in chains like that? Swear, some of them look threaded through his body. Anyway. Whatever rules the spook follows seem pretty damn capricious to we modern folk. But he still insists on punishing those who ain't worthy. Worst thing is, once he tugs a poor sod into his realm everyone else gets to see the victim silently scream as he's beaten and strangled to death. Then, plop, his broken body dumps back into the real world. If'n you ask me, it's high time someone passes judgment on that ghost and lay him to rest for good. Course, trying to do so seems to be a capital crime in the fettered geist's eyes. Most things are, truthfully....

“It used to be that Rookery Tom was beloved by everyone in the slums for his quick wit, sly style and mostly his crooning. Beloved by all but one, that is. Seems that the master of the thieves’ guild didn’t take his lady’s affection for the bard too keenly. So he sent some fellas with keen knives to cut the tabaxi’s vocal cords and well, the other bits the lady fancied. Not sure if’n they intended to kill ol’ Tom or just make an example outta him. Don’t think the guild master cared much either way. He should’ve though. Folks took the bard’s death pretty hard and they knew where the blame lay. Protection payments dried up. Number runners got mugged. Working girls quit in droves. Oh, the thieves’ guild tried to bring it back to heel and weren’t none too pleasant about it. But then a strange thing happened; a dark, terrible thing. Guild knee-breakers went missing. A few of its cutpurses turned up sliced to ribbons. The guild master’s lady swore she heard Rookery Tom humming outside...

"Don't know where the apparition they call Black Tongue comes from, per say. Rumors speak of a baby buried under the floorboards when it came out all wrong, wearing its caul like a shroud. They thought it dead, the story goes, due to the back tongue hanging from a lipless mount. Weren't dead, though. Weren't living neither. A year later folks noticed a lack of rats in the fields, save a few dried up remains. They played it off as a blessing, they did, to cover up their dread. Next year it was cats. A few years later after that, it was children. Oh, they'd find pieces of them, drained of life n' withered so dry they were practically crumbling dirt. Terror rippled through the farming community. Those with any mettle gathered and the hunt began. Course 'round that time that strange infant's mother vanished too. It made sense to the locals that maybe that black-tongued babe was behind the killings. So, with pitchforks and torches they marched to that l...

"Sure as the sun rises, the specter's name be a pun on her profession in life. Let me tell you though, there be nothing funny bout the Headmistress. Her victims don't laugh their heads off, be what I'm saying. If you catch my drift. No one's quite sure who took her head, nor where they hid it. Only that they found it laying in a blasphemous circle burned into the chapel's floor. Folks didn't want nothing to do with the body, nor that now unhallowed place so they walled it up with her inside, pretended it didn't exist. Went on with their lives. Not that they lived for long. Her spirit seeks her head, collecting others along the way. They don't fit her ever-bleeding neck, though. The Headmistress, she don't care. Though, she uses them all the same. You think it'd be amusing seeing a man getting mauled by a clutch of severed heads. It ain't." -Fossor Carvilius Graeme The Headmistress Medium undead, chaotic evi...

"They took his hands, you know, figuring that would stop his crimes. It didn't. Tacked his strange hands, with those unnatural fingers, to the town's notice board. Left him to bleed out in the streets, they did. Figured that would stop him too. It didn't. The first thing Long Fingers did was steal his hands back. Though, they still ain't attached the stories say. Then he stole the town elder's every last coin. Then their livestock. Then their children. Then their lives. Folks whisper he still haunts us to this day, ready to lay low any fool overflowing with coin and arrogance. Though, truth be told, the spirit only cares about the treasure. It be the poor folk that like to imagine he wouldn't rob them of their coppers and take their life too for good measure. The restless don't got morals, just dark desires that drive them." -Fossor Carvilius Graeme Long Fingers Medium undead, neutral evil Armor Class 14 ...