A Knave's Guide to Eberron: The Mournlands

Cyre, the Purple Jewel in the crown of Galifar, sits in ruin. The dead too numerous to be counted, seared away in supernatural cataclysm which still taints the land like an emanating radiation, like noxious fumes wafting out of a bloated corpse. This is the Mournland, for it is a place of sorrow and for remembrance of a dark event that destroyed a culture without explanation.

The Mournlands bifurcate Khorvaire, its borders defined by a powerful miasma which churns like a dust storm, like a warning not to enter. The mists are said to drive men to madness by way of unceasing malaise, they carry the cries and psychic fears of those who died during the Day of Mourning upon them. In the thickest of the fog, their shadows wage in endless war as silhouettes.

Bodies litter the Mournlands in various states of decay, the rampant arcane energy toys with the natural decomposition process. Fields of charnel atrocities twitch and seizure, choked cries by consciousnesses trapped in dead frames echo out on the winds. Some sites are locked in time, bodies fallen but unblemished by the ravages of time or vermin. 

The fields of the Mournland, of Cyre’s former rolling hills and beautiful horizons, are overgrown. The grains which once created the most artisanal goods, crumble at the most errant touch into a gritty silt. Vineyards grow their crops, unattended, the fruits resemble fetal forms; it is likely pareidolia but only the most desperate would risk this unkindness of imagery. 

The waters of Cyre have receded, turned crimson or reverted into pestilent bogs. Death strandings of all manner of creatures can be found upon the forsaken shores, twitching in half-life, translucent in the skin, bones shown. Flies drone endlessly, though they never seem to be present. Mechanical cables, larger than any sane thing, shudder upon the beach and trail back down beneath the waters in the distance. Steel Krakens, some say, but even a kraken should must obey the rules of nature. It should not be this large.

The sky is always cloudy, overcast, ready to rain down ash, greasy waters, or other pestilences upon the fog-choked land. Travelling the Mournlands without proper shelter is just as risky as travelling it without weapons at the ready. The tattered husks of civilization within are just as treacherous as the open wilderness. 

Cabin Boy is an underrated film and speaks to my upbringing.

Cyre did not deserve this fate, it was a land of beauty and plenty. King Jarot’s daughter was meant to inherit the crown, not this legacy of horror. Cyre has no true ruler anymore, though Prince Oargev ir’Wynarn can claim a right to rule, he has no land to call his own. He hardly has a people. Cyran refugees litter the surrounding nations, untrusted for their former military’s actions in the last war, for the glory they once had, and for the doom that some believe follows them. They are as a people, from a culture of high art and fashion, primarily now destitute and hopeless. Cyran artifacts are worth a lovely sum, ensuring a flooded market that forces them into further indignity, and the prevalence of scavengers who will plunder their former homeland; risking life and limb for their own petty gains.

The Warforged may find their purpose here, as the Lord of Blades seeks to make this ravaged wreck heap into a homeland for the betterment and propagation of his race. His supremacist politics, vicious rhetoric, and ruthless efficiency reveal him to be the very worst of Cyre and the Mournlands, married into the frame of a hulking mechanical monstrosity. For every cultural milestone he seeks to claim, he looks upon the rest of the world with the same ambition which denied Cyre it’s crown. The mantle of a becoming god calls to him more than any petty throne, and his followers must straddle the line between violent zealots and peaceable wanderers to those who encounter them in this blasted place. 

Considerations for the Mournlands

The Mournlands are if you took a WWI no-man’s-land, turned it into Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the bombs dropped, and then allowed it to be the Chernobyl zone of exclusion. It is a place of tragedy, and therein lies the horror. It is fitting in a pulp perspective, but the tone should feel very "deep behind enemy lines" wherein the enemy is existence.

The Mournlands is not scary because it is filled with monsters, it is scary because it is wasted potential, it is a place where everything a civilization should strive for--maybe even deserve, has been inverted in a terrible way. The most beautiful and cherished realm of Galifar is now a heap of filth to suffer only the molestations of bonepickers, vultures, wayward cultists, and the misguided. Might makes right here, but this is not a place where goblin warlords wage for dominance in that philosophy; this is a place where might makes right because nobody is coming here to save you, nobody cares you’re here, you have no motives here but the ulterior; you cannot save this land, you will lose yourself here.

Characters who travel the Mournlands must contend with the mist, which will slowly infect their dreams and drive them into a depressive state where self-harm, suicide, or homocide seem to make sense as a means of coping with their utterly insiginificant place in a world where such atrocities can occur. Warforged are immune to this, in theory; those found in the Mournlands are considered to be some of the worst of their own kind---but it’d be too easy to blame that upon the mists.

Monsters in the Mournland

The creatures who dwell here represent the folly of man, of overgrasped ambition and nature’s inability to allow the wicked toil inflicted upon the earth to prevent animal life from attempting to retake the civilized world. 

Mourner

HD 3, AD 13, ATT 2d6 (Ghastly Claws), Morale: - , Speed: 50 ft (Flight). No. Appearing: Solitary or a Haunt (2-5).

A swirling torrent from the mists, humanoid at a glance, like a man stretched and bent, broken and tattered into merely wind. It howls and echoes in profound sorrow, clutching ghastly claws of razor wind as if holding its hand might allow you to pull it out of this endless torment.

• Hopeless - Mourners, upon dealing maximum damage with their Ghastly Claws, inflict a hopelessness in their victim. If the victim falls prone or would otherwise die from this attack, they must make a Constitution Saving Throw. On a failed throw they inhale deeply the mists and begin suffering psychic trauma, haunted by visions of a life not their own and a diseased attraction to the items in this vision. If a hopeless character were to say, encounter the living spouse of a Mourner, they would feel compelled to make them their own--acting in anger and desperation. Psychic surgery, therapy, or alcohol can numb this hopelessness into a more...internalized problem.

What’s it doing? [d6]

1. Shrieking and searching for something, scanning the environment with frenzied intensity.

2. Manifested in almost physical form, weeping and holding itself. The mists claim it when approached.

3. Banging recklessly upon the ruins of a structure, attempting entry, looking back towards the mists that spawned it as though it wishes to outrun the calamity.

4. Crying upon the winds, in baleful calls it asks where everyone is, why it’s so alone, why it cannot find them all.

5. It has its claws upon a looter, who as you watch, slits their own throat as they cry out how they “just want this to stop feeling so painful.” 

6. Screaming up at the sky, cursing the Sovereign Host and beckoning any dark power which will let it see its family again.

Shroud of Death & Despair (Living Finger of Death)

HD 9, AD 19, ATT 3d8 (Slam) or Finger of Death, Morale: - , Speed: 20 ft (Throb). No. Appearing: Solitary or a Hateful Hand (5).

A gelatinous pulsating pillar of blackest night, throbbing and sluggishly pulling itself through the land. The world around turns to ash, flesh grows tight across the bone, necrosis overtakes living tissue. When it aims its nucleus upon a being, they age away into ash.

• Finger of Death - A Shroud of Death & Despair must focus upon a creature for two turns as its nucleus is pushed from the bottom of its ooze-form to the very top. The nucleus, white, almost skull-shaped yet liquid, affixes itself on a victim once it is pushed to the top. If a victim has not taken cover, the Shroud releases a horrible beam of white energy which deals 7d8 damage, aging the victim until they are nothing but bone dust and ash. 

What’s it doing? [d6]

1. Pulsating in a rhythmic pattern, as if communicating to something in code.

2. Leaning against a structure, slumped, as if resting; the structure is slowly aging itself to dust against it.

3. Submerging part of its base in a deep puddle of filthy water.

4. Seeking out organic matter to obliterate.

5. Remaining perfectly still, almost dried, as if inert. Rouses to life if approached by organic matter.

6. Spreading flagellum out, as if seeking to divide itself into two shrouds.

Steel Kraken

HD 8, AD 18, ATT 2d10+8 (Crush), Morale: - , Speed: 50 ft (Swim) or 10 ft (Crawl). No. Appearing: Solitary.

Steel cables, articulated by cumbersome, drag this leviathan of Cannith constructed folly at a slow pace. It is too large to engage with conventional weaponry. Its eyes shimmer a gemstone red, and its mouth is a spiralling razor pit of blades. 

• Colossal - A steel kraken is too large to be harmed by normal weaponry, taking damage only inflicted by war magic, large impediments (such as tumbling boulders or vicious shrapnel filled pits), or by siege weapons. Its reach extends hundreds of feet, but its crushing attacks are slow. A steel kraken would make an amazing dungeon.

What’s it doing? [d6]

1. Attempting to drag the whole of its immense sky-scraper sized frame on to dry land.

2. Spraying a vicious red miasma into the air above itself. Thunder crackles as a result.

3. Staggering and grinding, as if an internal mechanism is broken.

4. In-taking loose sand and silt from the shoreline where a death standing has taken place.

5. Emerging from the depths of the water in the distance, its eyes locked firmly upon any interlopers with hateful intent.

6. Wrapping its brutal cable-strong tendrils around a foreign ship, crushing the hull as though it were as flimsy as tin.

===

Having run my first session of A Knave's Guide to Eberron on 6/15/19, I had a damn good time. The session took place on its way into the Mournlands and the party who were utterly unfit for the job, did a great job botching it, getting maimed in the process, and are now likely going to find themselves hunted by both House Cannith and the Karrnathi military for the knowledge they shouldn't have about a planar experiment to create a more perfect (i.e. less sapient) warforged; which the party believes may have been a catalyst for the Day of Mourning. That's their theory anyway.

I look forward to doing more of these, I'm enjoying writing about this from an attempted pulp perspective, and the Mournlands should thematically really hammer home man's folly and ambitions in everything it is about. At least in my opinion.

Hope y'all like and can make use of any of this. I'd write more, but alas, grad school and factory work in the morrow.

- Brian

Dolmenwood by the Dozen: Mooncalfe & The Cult of the Glorious Dreaming Moon

Hey look at that, a return to an old blogging thing. I still have all my old article notes saved in a Google Doc. What follows is a character from a bit down the line of articles I had ideas for, but I like the idea of her. 

I feel like, of all the things I've written but never finished, this was a series of articles with the most potential. Given that I've fallen in with really enjoying B/X material, I feel that it only behooves me to make stuff with it. 

Also two posts in one day, what treachery be this?

===============

Mooncalfe, pale of complexion and of hair, touched by the strange voices of the night sky since a child; must appease them with blood. Called this by her mother because she is as sweet and caring as a calf to its cow with skin as pale as the luminous moon. A drunewife, she wears a hooded cowl of weasels, stitched together and not-quite-dead, as she scampers through the midnight woods of the Dwelmfurgh. She has taken to humming in mockery in the same tune of the weeping brides of Lord Malbleat, whose estate she enjoys stalking the periphery of. 

She knows well the secrets of the Drune, she attends the midnight meetings of lesser cultists in the form of an albino rabbit. She hastens to grow the anxieties between the folk of Lankshorn and the Drune Lodge. She herself has been bewitched since birth, she took her first breath at a moment when the godlet Ambule stirred from chalky slumber. She works, unwittingly, to the godlet’s ends.

She has killed, thus far, three pilgrims in the woods. The Drune are aware of these killings and grant tacit approval to the violence used to protect her family homestead. She has made kilnlings around their severed heads, and the clay she’s used are rich with chalk. Ambule can feel the movement of these kilnlings, like a stirring comfort to rouse the godlet from slumber.

Mooncalfe

AC 9, HD 3 (14hp), Att 1 × moonstone dagger (1d4+1), THAC0 19, MV 60’ (20’), SV D13 W14 P13 B16 S15 (M1), ML 9, AL C, XP 90, NA Unique. 

• Nature Songs: If Mooncalfe sings for at least one minute, she may cast invisibility upon herself or assume the form of an albino rabbit as though polymorphed without need of reagents. 
• Moonstone Dagger: Mooncalfe possesses a crude feldspar looking flint-cut knife, wrapped in a handle made of her own pale locks. It glows in moonlight and strikes with a +1 bonus to hit and to damage when used at night. Scratching out your own name from Prigmarinn Hill with this knife can allow the worshipper to reclaim part of their soul, enough to reincarnate. 
• Coat of Weasels: Mooncalfe’s squirming coat of weasels which silently pull away from any source of danger. If the wearer, in a panicked voice commands them to “Flee!” the wearer will gain the benefit of a haste spell, doubling movement rate, when fleeing an enemy or threat.

Mooncalfe’s Plots

If Mooncalfe continues her plots, she will eventually come to control a small cult to Ambule (or as she will call the godlet, the Glorious Dreaming Moon). The members will mostly be made of foolhardy, desperate, and would-be occultists in Lankshorn and Dreg (stat as acolytes) and they will begin to make silent pilgrimages to the eastern edge of the Dwelmfurgh to pray at Prigmarinn Hill and carve their name into the column in chalk. She will have 1d4 followers within a month of starting the cult, gaining an additional 2d6 acolytes for each month that follows. They pray here on the night of the New Moon and the Full Moon. 

The Drune will notice her actions at a rate of 1-in-10, gaining an additional +1 to that roll every pilgrimage her cult takes to Prigmarinn Hill. There is always a 50% chance any Drune will misogynistically think this is just drunewife idiocy and reset this counter back to 1-in-10.

The authorities of Lankshorn and Dreg will notice her actions at a rate of 1-in-20, though if her followers begin to attack church-goers or priestly sorts (and they just might), she will then be noticed at a rate of 1-in-10. The authorities gain an additional +1 to this roll every moon cycle or whenever a prominent citizen returns from the Hill, baptized in chalk.

Members of the cult speak only of beautiful dreams, of dwelling in a palace in the clouds, hands affixed to pillars in garlands as they are fed by waifs and angels. This is when they can speak at all. Those who join the cult slowly lose the ability to sleep their mind is bewitched with pleasing images of dreams, but sleep itself is anathema to them such that a sleep spell will drive them into a fit of screaming (suffering 2d4 damage per turn they'd have slept). Mooncalfe kills the most far gone, using them to make new kilnlings (see Wormskin #7).

What are her followers like? [d12]

1. Unnatural pallor to their flesh, paler than an albino, paler than bone.

2. Collects only white dust as detritus and filth upon their person.

3. Coughs a wheezing cough, exhaling powder much like flour. 

4. Has begun carving names into their flesh, identical penmanship to those found at the Hill.

5. Wears an upside rabbit mask of rotted wood and whitewashed paint. 

6. Wears pumice and white stones, tied to their limbs with twine. Walks strangely.

7. Hums a strange melody, like weeping mourners. 

8. Wears a white woad upon their naked flesh, made from chalk powder and bird feces.

9. Has a zombified gait, as if in a drunken stupor or devoid of cognition.

10. Preaches loudly and insanely at night, running naked through the streets wearing a pumice mask shaped like the moon.

11. Hands are drenched in many coats of dried blood, speaks numbly, wants to feel "the ivory liquid" of the glowing chalken moon god.

12. Wears a wooden token of birch, carved to look like a weasel bent in the shape of a crescent moon.

Who has been converted? [d12]

1. Pilgrims, from far-and-off settlements.

2. Tax collectors from out of Castle Brackenwold.

3. Drunks and lechers out of Shantywood Manor.

4. Goatmen and half-goats from Lankshorn.

5. Rivermen and boatswain from Dreg.

6. A wandering friar and some woodland guides.

7. Students of Antiquated Cults & Developing Religions from the Royal College of Loom.

8. The least of the Drune, young men who can barely wear a hood let-alone cast a spell.

9. Wandering mercenaries who felt the need to find a new god.

10. Young teens from Lankshorn and Dreg, eager to be edgy and "pagan."

11. Moss dwarfs, now desiccated, dehydrated, and powdery.

12. An important local figure; a blacksmith, banker, or friend of the party. They were coerced. 

Bringing Mooncalfe to Justice

The Drune will not care about Mooncalfe or her mortal thralls for the most part, they will give her a stern talking-down-to if she brings too many woodsfolk too close to the Dwelmfurgh’s borders; but they will generally consider her just to be foolish and lonely. If they learn about her connection to Prigmarinn Hill, they will respond with a desire for violence against her---but they fear that any open attacks might bring reprisals from Lankshorn and Dreg; a threat they hardly desire to see attack them. Adventuring parties who are of friend to the Drune (as much as a friend can be to the Drune) will be granted access to one of her magical items upon her death; though they will demand the body be returned to them for proper evaluation.

Lankshorn will want Mooncalfe dead or "imprisoned." Lord Malbleat described her physique in blood-curdling terms after seeing her once from his manor’s window; he'd take her for a wife if imprisoned---and this would cause strife against the Drune, surely. The goats do not know of her magical equipment, and thus will have zero claim to it upon her death. Malbleat will pay in petty favors and a pittance of gold for her head, though he’ll offer petty titles additionally for her to be delivered to him in shackles.

The folk of Dreg want her dead, specifically they want her body to be burned at the stake like a witch. They want this to set a message, and the whole rogue’s gallery of a town will pay a “permanent” discount on goods and services, as well as the offering of a freshly dredged river vessel; large enough for travel along the Lake and cramped living quarters. It was an old fishing vessel, and if the party doesn’t want it, they’ll use the wood to further burn Mooncalfe. They also, do not know of her magical items, though local collectors will remark on her “gem-stone knife” and offer a fine price for it.

What if we ignore her?

Within a year, she’ll have several hundred soulless thralls under her command and Ambule will stir in its divine slumber, granting her visions of the world as a white-dusted wasteland of deathly chill and strange songs. She will begin to interpret any rumors of the Cold Prince as him being a herald of her god, and she will assist in those endeavors alongside her people at every turn. If, somehow, she survives to see the Cold Prince return; he will look at her for half a moment before cutting her to ribbons and remarking to a lieutenant about the strangeness of the newer Drunesfolk.

Yoon-Suin Appendix G: Explained List of Suggested Traditional Monsters Found in Yoon-Suin - Part 2.

A continuation of a previous post, for the reions of Lower Druk Yul, The Mountains of the Moon, and Sughd. I actually really enjoyed attempting to incorporate these generic monster listings into a more specific setting, even if it is just set dressings. Some are better than others, (my favorite probably being the Will o'Wisp from the first entry), but I'm enjoying this regardless.

Lower Druk Yul

Bulette - Wayward backwash of dragons, the bullete is a vicious ambush predatory who lurks in the yellow-dappled hills of lower Druk Yul. Each bullete exists in a state of perpetual rage. In life they live in endless hunger, seeking to feast upon man and beast who should be filial chattel to draconic masters, a position they will never hold. In dreams, they turn and churn in froth-mouthed loathing envy for wealth, status, and the ability to fly upon the moonlit skies. Few, save for the most bold of royalty, seek to make a bulette part of their menagerie. Most know well enough to avoid their path.

Ankheg - The Grasshopper men of lower Druk Yul are territorial and barbarous, and among the most violent of them are those who undergo the five-fold murderous right of the Ankheg. Baptized in the blood of larvae and of a herd caterpillar, the Grasshopper man enters a feral state, melting itself down in vitriol and cocooning itself in the flesh of those it seeks to avenge. After a week of horrid rebirth, the Ankheg emerges, now a tunneling beast who sprays acid and who rampages until it has bloated itself to death on the flesh of any who would get in its path.

Gargantua - Beneath the tall grass lurk the colossi of old, half-buried in ruins consumed by the rough, rugged countryside. Flesh melded with ancient black stone, old and calloused, dead but alive. Fifty to a hundred feet tall, sometimes larger, in the form of insects, lizards, man and beasts alike. Their eyes shine with a piercing white cunning which fades to dim starlight when its eyes are closed or obscured. Scholars debate if they are ancient war-men from distant Xinjiang, constructs of the Dwarfs meant to combat the eldritch threats of Upper Druk Yul and the Mountains of the Moon, or the derelict eidolons of once powerful deities who held sway over this sparse territory.

Cyclops - Paragons birthed of the Elephant Demon's most profane rituals, the cyclops are towering humanoids of blue-black skin with a solitary eye, dropping ears, ragged tusks, and violent mien. The eye of a cyclops can be wielded by wizards, sorcerers and sages for the purposes of discerning cosmic but malign truths or to scry curses upon their foes. Cyclops in Lower Druk Yul are often deployed as the shock troopers of a crusading colonization effort by the cult, attempting to pacify grasshopper men or any belligerent intelligent beings who might stand in the way of the faith. Those who are not attached to the cult often seek to inhabit caverns with strange acoustics, howling out mournful songs for ten thousand nameless dead. The Ogre Magi of Syr Darya look upon Cyclops with uncharacteristic pity, in whispers they contemplate if a Cyclops might be a means of binding a Magi's soul into a wretched, bestial, shackled form. 

Hook Horror - The apex natural predator of the borderland, the hook horror is a vaguely insectoid avian creature which dwells in the tall grass. It uses its acute hearing and slithers on its belly across the grasslands, lying in wait for caravans of traders or wayward pilgrims; striking under cover of darkness, flaying the victims alive. Hook horrors leave behind ravaged campsites of skinless corpses. It is not unknown for these creatures to drag skin husks into sinkhole lairs and engage in foul bartering with others of their kind. Slugmen and the Ogre Magi, whose flesh they find to be unpleasant to taste or wear; occasionally engage in trade with these skinflayers; trading slave chattel for the pelts of their enemies.

Jackalwere - Fewer creatures in this world are more insidious than the Jackalwere. Emissaries of the vestiges of long dead deities once worshiped in the Oligarchies and Druk Yul, birthed in the black flame of dragon's spite and given wicked form of man or carrion dog for purposes of bringing ruin and strife to those who cross their path. They infiltrate the camps of pilgrims and travelers, making use of their charisma and charm to lull their prey into a false sense of camaraderie. Once drinks of tea have been shared and kind words of friendship spoken, the Jackalwere mesmerizes the unfortunate soul with a lullaby to nightmares played on a gilded kora. In dreams their victims are at the mercy of dead, decaying, decapitated gods who seek to find any lineage to those who were once loyal and to subjugate the dreamer into an unending insane state of torpor. If caught in the act, a Jackalwere fights with brutal swords and flees in animal form only if confronted by holy-men or overwhelming force.

Manscorpion - Known to scholars as the Girtablilu, the manscorpion are a race of guardian spirits given form. Appearing at gateways into the underworld, these raksha-faced entities guard the border between spirit and man, punishing those who try to trifle between such places. They can remove their faces, revealing a cosmic truth that has been storied as a glance which melts the face of those whom they gaze upon. With their face removed their spiritual side appears as a star-light smoke of gold and blue, rising to the heavens and casting forth a terror to those who view it; a hallucinogenic trance in which the victim feels as though thousands of scorpions are attempting to burst forth from their flesh. All wield wicked glaives in antiquated stile, embellished with lapis lazuli and cruel barbs. They will hold counsel only with demigods or the blind, and in neither case do they enjoy it.

Medusa - The Protectress of a long damned apotropaic spell, the Medusa and her wards have made their home in Lower Druk Yul so as to make her many pursuers further burdened in their hunting. Originally a daitya of Upper Druk Yul, she was brought low and cursed by dragons for her refusal to aid in the cosmic wars between their kind and the eldritch creatures from the Mountains of the Moon. Each thread of her hair was given serpentine form and each whispers terrible paranoid secrets into her ears. She fled her home only to be hunted by Slugmen warlocks who had learned of her warding spells of petrification. Shackled by their foul magic and told by her serpentine locks that she awaited eternal humiliation and indignity at the slugmen's hands, she carved her spell into her eyes such that any who met her gaze would find themselves locked eternally in stone. After generations of flight and pursuit by hubristic wizards, cabals, and cults; she began to carve her victims in her own image, granting them similar abilities. She is now pursued by the Cult of the Elephant Demon who has discovered there is but only one true Medusa, and who seek to force her to grant them her spell.

Mummy - In ancient times, there were kingdoms here. Mound-dwellers and nomads with their own traditions and cultures, who once reigned over Druk Yul, paid homage to dragons and fouler things. The horse-lords of the Pallum Jun, eternally debauched Belshum Pel, the gold-tusked royals of Sahbassiq, the masked folk of Khemmendruk, even ever-frozen Gelun; all surpassed the prior in bitter wars and genocide, all undone in hubris and ambition. Their dead were shrived and ritually buried, regardless of the corpse being mangled by grasshopper men, eternally scorched in dragon's flame, or host to a legion of foul spirits. Hundreds, even thousands of years since their fall, they still thirst for dominance and treasure. The jingling of coins, the misplaced desire of settlers looking for a new home, will see these mummies rise from their deep places. Silently they stalk their prey, blighting the earth and carrying the curses of their fallen kingdoms in their wake.

The Mountains of the Moon & Sughd

Giant Crayfish - These crustaceans were in ancient times, the livestock of otherworldly entities who conjured them from baleful moonlight and the cosmic milk of lingering distant stars. Not until great wars and calamities against the Dwarves of Sangmanzhang, were they pressed into use as mounts for extraterrestrial cavalry and eventually Dwarven Irregulars. The breed found commonly in the Mountains of the Moon are opalescent in color, their meat a soft sour that when properly brined can inhibit trans-dimensional visions. Some are stilled use in the armies of the oligarchies, others roam the deep and hidden places, submerged in reflected starlight, and hungry for the flesh of mortal beings.

Tentacled Blink Cat - The Tentacled Blink Cat is an emissary of the long night, an heir to ancient wars between the Celestial Blink Hound written of in texts in the ancient halls of Sangmanzhang. One would chase the other, never would the two meet, and so the legends go that whenever one grasped close enough to another they would tear into the curtain of the void and reveal a bit of light. The tentacled blink cats of our modern era are surely less legendary, though no less savage in the destruction they can bring. They possess a hateful intelligence, utterly alien, which reviles all life. While their young will sadistically kill their prey to be nourished by the meat, elder examples of the species are able to sustain themselves on the psionic evocations of pure terror and dying memories--often allowing their lairs to be overgrown with rotting corpse mounds as a sign of stature. When confronted with a mountain dog they will either attempt to chase it or flee from it, explaining in many cases the use of shishi or foo dog statues that line the roads of the Oligarchies. Such cats fear the overwhelming numbers of a pack and will cling to their hidden places in the face of these icons; though such safety is never assured.

Dwarf - See Dwarves of Sangmanzhang. Most encountered will be waging ancient blood feud wars, performing profane rites to invoke the void lotus, bartering with old enemies to spite even older enemies, or attempting to find the location of ancient Sangmanzhang -- in all its fallen glory.

Galeb Duhr - When the wind blows strangely through the Mountains of the Moon, they ring out in frozen chants "Ga Leb Du Hr." The Dwarfs know the meaning of this phrase, which causes the rocks of the Mountain to spring to life in sorrowful imitations of long dead soldiers; but the truth of the matter is not something they will readily speak aloud to foreign scholars. The Ogres of Syr Darya believe it to be a cleansing chant, "All Wicked Spirits Be Gone From Here", though in translation this would be an incredibly flawed reading. The rocks which take form and fight during this time, speak only these words, and to the Oligarchies they are known as the Galeb Duhr. Those wise enough to know the weathers, or those skilled in wind sorcery, often attempt to rouse the rocks from their slumber while enemies move through their territory; but such an art is hard mastered and harder still to perform to perfection.

Genies (in Sughd) - In Sughd, as much as in any other place of civilization, the wheels of society move very slowly. The Genies, or Jinn, are that which move it just a little quicker at the behest of their masters; bound and shackled to labor for all eternity by magicians and wizards alike. Though once creatures of primordial elemental power and chaos, they were drawn through the veil of reality and bound into sick and weakly shapes by mortal hands. They perform minor miracles and serve as a celestial bureaucracy bound to the mortal world, attending to matters on the authority of their human betters, hateful of every moment in which they are denied the powers of their original existence. Occasionally a genie may break free and resume its original form as a dao, ifrit, marid, or whatever elemental title it clung to; such beings often take up the task of waging war against Sughd with armies of elementally-blessed mercenaries enticed by the promise of wishes which might better their lot in life. The Yellow City knows well enough not to bind genies, it is far easier to torment meat into doing as they are demanded than to trifle with such raw and hateful magics. Some claim they learned this lesson the hard way.

Cloud Giant - Vicious dharmapala, the sky-painters, the word-thieves; the Cloud Giants dwell among the stars and the frozen-most points of the Mountains of the Moon, wherein they reign as judges and masters of their stratospheric realm. When the year is right, they paint tales of ancient days in the auroras, breathing to life alien lights from their mouths and eyes. They dance a dance of the end times, of avalanches, or meteor showers. Their arms move in and out of existence, causing the appearance of anywhere from four to six limbs at any given times. Their eyes shift places in much the same way, gazing into past, present, future, below, above, beneath, and to the land of the dead with pulsating and dizzying fervor. The words spoken to them by mortals of weakened wills are frozen in the air, lost forever from the mortal mouth; some of the Cloud Giants wear such words as jewelry, others devour them and mock eternal the victim in their own voice.

Storm Giant - Beneath the Cloud Giants, in the storm-hidden caves of the mountains, dwell the drum bangers, the thunder-brewers, the man-burners. Gathering in pairs, these behemoth men of ebony and rain-cloud-made-meat whoop and holler at the tribulations and melancholies of men. These mahakala loathe silence, revile politeness, and love only those whose hearts overflow with violent ambition. Many tales of a heroic Storm Giant exist, often depicting the character shifting and ebbing through humanity and monsterful cruelty. Those of age and experience can temper their outbursts, often working forges and finding patience in the slamming of mighty ono hammers upon cloud forges. Such giants produce weapons of legend, for both heroes and villains alike.

Stone Giant - The great ogres, the daityas, the scribes of earth's truth; they dwell in and around the oligarchies, in the dark places, in the hidden places, in the lost places. They intone low thrumming sounds and hear back the echoes of the world. Notably man-eaters, this has not prevented many a delver and adventurer from seeking out their insight in search of hidden cities and places of great wealth. To one another they call themselves the gönpo, and they are known by this name in certain esoteric texts, far-flung city-states, and within the annals of Syr Darya where they are noted as bitter protectors of sacred oaths. Few ogre magi will comment on what this means, though secret sacrifices to deep-built ashrams occur thrice a year, via caravans out of Syr Darya. These stone giants are spoken of in tales for their taste for virgins, though the truth of what it is they hunger for is open to interpretation. More than a few wayang plays have been dedicated to the gönpo who eat away a virgin's innocence so they might better fight a foe who would otherwise manipulate their humanity.

Roc - Praise is oft given to the divine bird of the Tree, the Ziz of the Mountains of the Moon, the genus loci of Yoon-Suin itself. Resplendent in size and feathers, the Roc is the immortal enemy of the Elephant Demon; known to swoop down from the heavens and steal away the Demon's avatars to feast upon their knobby grey flesh. Their shaking head horn, easily the size of a horse, is said to herald the coming of the monsoon. Many a legendary magicians, slug-man, fakir, and monster hunter have hunted the Roc for the golden ivory of its horn; which when brewed in tea can allegedly heal any poison, and when carved into netsuke is said to produce wondrous living figurines. They are known in frescoes and carvings from the earliest ages of man-kind in the region, with some claiming the pestilent feces of the great Roc is the cause for the many powerful strains of tea to be found throughout the Purple Lands. Folkwives tell tall tales of offering up serpents to the Roc, who upon devouring the serpents will bless the anointed worshipers with wealth, yak, and divine guidance. Just as many wayfarers cast the Roc as a harbinger of doom; if one is seen near the road, even from a great distance, it knows of you; and it will cast you down into torments unless its great appetite is appeased.

Next: Probably some notes for the Monsoon Ghats, as I've been deep into research for that and it's been fun to look into the cultural upbringing I was denied.

Yoon-Suin Appendix G: Explained List of Suggested Traditional Monsters Found in Yoon-Suin - Part 1.

I've been dealing with existential dread, so here's some very late Yoon-Suin Encounter tables and an attempt to incorporate the Yoon-Suin Appendix G additional monsters into said tables with my notes on how I'd run them beneath it all. Monster context is important, it is what makes the setting the setting. Below are the first three regions in the Appendix G, twisted a bit to incorporate consolidated lore from other editions or to just try to play off regional items I'm into.

The Yellow City & The Topaz Isles

Sahugain - Degenerate fishmen and shark-kin, the Sahugain haunt the brackish reefs near the Topaz Isles. The Sahugain are said to be born by the last hateful breath of drowned Hayai nomads, cursed now to swim the sea in endless hunger for the flesh of their former people. They war with the kraken-men and can be found, occasionally, in the employ of adventuring guilds and head-hunters who seek to contend with beasts of the deep.

Locathah - Sand and ochre-colored fishmen who can be found in the lower docks and markets of the Yellow City, often seeking to purchase foreign intoxicants. The Locathah encountered by most are pilgrims, searching for the "the true dream of the haunted sea" which is an alleged primal god-head state that can be tapped into by those of the right sensibilities. Many a cult or magus can count Locathah among their henchmen as a result of this.

Giant Crab - The giant crabs of the Bay of Morays are naturally occurring animals that feast upon the detritus of the Yellow City. Less scrupulous managers of crab-fighting troupes will make use of the far stronger but far less intelligent giant crabs rather than deal with the potential rebellions of crab-men proper. This practice would be frowned upon, but few are able to tell the difference between the two creatures.

Tako - As goblins are to man, tako are to the kraken-men. These octopi-folk wage petty wars among themselves and anyone unfortunate enough to stumble into their coastal cave-dwellings. Of note, a tako can be bargained with so long as their payment is made in knives. Tako view knives as the teeth of a great leviathan, and those who would use such "teeth" in treachery invite upon themselves misfortune.

Selkie - Shapeshifting female spirits of Hayai folktales, the Selkies of the Bay of Morays take either the form of a tropical monk seal or a manatee depending upon their age and power. Young Selkies are intensely curious about the surface world and take upon the lithe form of seals as a show of their playfulness and exuberance. Older Selkies, who know well the cruelties of the Bay, take the form of manatees, their hides pock-marked by the sufferings inflicted upon them. The Slugmen of the Yellow City have heard tales of marrying Selkies for dominion over the sea, and though a fool's errand, many seek to abduct these creatures for such a union.

Basilisk - Imported from deep underground and from across the sea, Basilisks are a companion beast that were for many decades considered to be en vogue by the decadent Slugmen of the Yellow City. Their popularity comes and goes as pets, with those discarded by their Slugmen owners either ending up captured by poisoners and freelance torturers or running wild in the slums, gorging themselves on cockroaches and pariahs.

Reef Giants - These titanic anchorites dwell deep beneath the Bay, meditating in contemplation of some greater being to whom they owe their loyalty. Occasionally one awakens, instructed by strange whispers to pilfer and plunder the riches of other beings and bring them to the deepest trenches of the sea. Though usually solitary, they occasionally gather in family groups best comparable to a brahmin household in both opulence and hierarchy.

Giant Squid - While often noted as warbeasts of the Kraken-men, the giant squids of the Bay of Morays are naturally occurring entities which seek only to feed upon whales, manatees, and other large ocean-dwelling creatures. When spurred on by Kraken-men, they seem to possess a hive-mind and a cruel cunning that allows them to take delight in twisting men apart.

The Hundred Kingdoms & Lahag

Beholders - Conjured into being in ages past by a cabal of magicians who studied among Sangmenzheng, the Beholders are aberrant elder entities of paranoia made flesh. Originally intended to protect fakirs and shahs from the plots of their enemies, the Beholders engaged in horrifying tortures of the flesh and consumption of potential beings who could harbor thoughts of harm in their hearts. Many early kingdoms were destroyed to the last by Beholders who sought to protect their charge, only to consume them to protect them from the threat of these degenerate kings taking their own lives.

Ettercap - Ettercaps in the Hundred Kingdoms are foul champions of the Spider Goddess, formerly high ranking cultists who have lost their minds and humanity to be blessed with her venomous mien. These spider-faced demons can be found in sealed temple rooms where they are fed failed aspirants, in the wild where they hunt those who do not bare her mark, or on the fringes of settlements that worship the Elephant Demon--as such places are always ripe with gore to feast upon.

Gloomwing - These gigantic moths dwell within the haunted jungle of Lahag, and those who know of them claim them to be the cause for many an angry ghost. Making use of baleful pheromones and hypnotic powers, gloomwings ensnare their prey, eat their physical shell, and leave their shadow to wander the jungles as a wraith. The unfortunate soul who is implanted with the eggs of a Gloomwing has their spirit devoured, casting their immortal soul from the cycle of reincarnation and into oblivion.

Intelligent Plants - Lahag and the fringes of the Hundred Kingdoms are rife with terrors, including the very flora of the land. The haunted jungle is filled with carnivorous spidery white creeper vines which throw pollen-coated thorns the size of knives, those struck by them suffer extreme necrosis and rot away into rich soil within a matter of hours. Mantrapper plants are common both in the jungle and the private gardens of the Hundred Kingdoms, where such plants dissolve their victims in acid and produce hallucinogenic "corpse honey." Though of the dozen additional dangerous plants of the jungle, the most notable is the Yellow Musk Creeper, whose musky puff ball flowers can grant angry spirits physical form and infect the living into becoming mindless thralls.

Stirge - The Stirges of Lahag have the bodies of brightly colored birds and cruel, adaptive proboscises made from draining away blood from specific body parts. Some can inject a venom which liquefies muscle, others melt away bone, but all are known to cause paralysis in victims. Jungle Stirges gather in large colonies, building nests from the rotting bodies of their victims. Due to their large "noses" and general horrifying abilities, Stirges are considered to be heralds of the Elephant Demon and can be found building their nests as far away from Lahag as Runggara Ban.

Wraith - Derelict shades, wraiths cling to the mortal world by way of their last dreadful memories. Ancient kingdoms can be overrun by wraiths who exist in perpetual agony of their city-state's downfall, attacking outsiders in the hopes of infesting their bodies and fleeing the calamity that seems nascent. Wraiths produced by gloomwings exist in pure torment, lashing out at the living in the hopes of displacing their souls and fleeing the jungle.

Wight - Wights in Lahag are formed from the cursed bodies of royalty, drowned in the God River by demons. At night they crawl from the waters, seeking to devour outlanders and those who would not pay them homage. Their bones are carved with hellish embellishments and their flesh painted in rot that tells the stories of their downfall. Those of their bloodline or who pay them a respect may learn from the wights the true names of demonic entities.

Lamarakh

Bullywug - Along the God-River there are many degenerate tribes which have entered into more devoted unions with their totemic gods, and among the most notable are the toad people who dwell in the muddy mangroves. Cannibalistic to their young, eternally hungry, bloated and corpulent, these batrachian people view anyone other than their own people as a threat. Lamarakhi hunters who travel through their areas will often wear elaborate horned frog masks and slather themselves in mud, as this is often enough to fool a Bullywug.

Catoblepas - These creatures are meandering swamp beasts with long necks, pig-like snouts, and matted hair which obscures their face and vision. They eat brambles and pond weeds, gnaw upon ginger root, and only upon nights of the full moon do they become a true threat. On such nights the Catoblepas desires to feast upon the flesh of virgins, and their eyes become visible and to gaze upon them causes madness.

Dryad (Jungle) - Dryads of the Lamarakh are the spirits of mangrove and swamp baobab, and thus are either guardians who dilettante the river from the land or predatory demons who seek to allow for the destruction of man's influence. They manifest themselves, typically with flowers woven in their hair and whorls painted upon their bare flesh. Those who lay with men, depending on their predilection, either grant the man divine rite to protect their people from the evils of the River, or they absorb their mate into their own flesh, making use of his soul as a homunculus meant to render the tribe into ruin.

Grippli - If the Bullywug are degenerate tribesmen, then the Grippli are what they once venerated before falling into horned frog totemic degeneration. The Grippli are a breed of jungle spirits who dwell within the low-hanging fruit that hangs above the river. When they fall into the river they are born as brilliantly colored frog-people who will help lead people back to known paths, villages, or show them rich fishing areas.Though now in an age where the Bullywug exist in force, the Grippli are seldom kind to those who do not prove themselves worthy of their boons.

Weretiger - Dwellers of the river-forest know well the tale of the Weretiger. A lost prince from the Hundred Hundred Kingdoms came to the jungle in the hopes of beseeching it for aid against those who butchered his family. He was a timid and kind man, but now he saw enemies everywhere and had become a vicious man himself. The jungle took pity on his soul and bifurcated his essence. In times of peace, when his enemies were not around him, he would be a man as he once was. But in times of rage, a demon would burst from his skin in the form of a tiger. The lost prince may have passed away many moons ago, but his spawn and some of his victims possess a similar curse--unburdened without his empathy.

Intelligent Plants - see Hundred Kingdoms entry, but in Lamarakh they are water-logged, vicious, and often aquatic.

Vodyanoi - If the River is divine, then the vodyanoi are its crusaders. Hulking entities that resemble powerful pot-bellied pit fighters with the heads of knobby-hided whales; all obfuscated under endless tangles of strangling reeds and feasting eelings who suckle for the blood of the river's chosen. Some tribes of the river hold the idea that the vodyanoi were once objects of worship and deserving of respect, while others have legends of profane and vicious sacrifices in which the creatures would maul and rip apart the flesh of virgins until the river ran red. Regardless, when the river demands blood, the storm clouds gather, the air grows rich with thickness, and the vodyanoi seek out enemies with terrible claws and the rippling energy of electrical eels.

Will o'Wisp - The shadow fires of Lamarakh dance along the edges of the river, inside the mouths of totems, behind the eyes of jangseung statues. They are the spirits of the ancestors, mischievous and baleful as often as they are kind and a boon to travelers. They delight in wayang puppetry, often joining in to increase the lighting quality and better animate their chosen heroes and villains. In the event of a wicked encounter with such beings, they are known to accept coinage (or even just coin-shaped items) thrown to the river. They will dive for such items, snuffing out their lights, and ceasing to be for a time.

Next time - Part 2.

Beldam County: Haggards

Hags are to women as Haggards are to men. Haggards indulge in insane machismo, foul skullduggery and utmost thuggery. Hags lurk in isolation, Haggards demand attention and brutalize those who scorn them, often in turn make them haggard themselves. It is unknown if they breed. They are plenty happy to torment ladies and menfolk alike, make them squeal out little rabbit sounds; but such an act is merely psychic defilement and domination. The Hags say Haggards make their own out of shitty people and from bodies they dredge out of the Slugbarrens.

Roald Dahl's The Twits, Illustration by Quentin Blake.

They're always just a little too tall and a little too heavy, with jaundiced eyes or those of a bloodshot red you only knew as a child in nightmares. They reek of alcohol, skunky grass, old milk and pennies. They are hirsute, but only enough to allow you to glean a scabrous hide.

While hags like their spells, Haggards like pipes, hammers and clubs. They like to hurt people until people join'em. Hags are the evil that isolation, domination, and witchery make. Haggards are the evil of the mob, of the Brom Bones or Gaston type, and they want more like them. Bravado is the only measure of worth, and those who use hokum magics aren't worth respect because a well-placed fist ought to do just as well as a firebell spell in their crappy little minds.

Haggards make up a large population in Beldam County, they don't like the Hags or the Harpies on principle. They torment the Mensfolk and any Ladies who find themselves wandering through, berating them into joining the mob as a Haggard or scaring them out of dodge. They bully Mugwumps when they can, but the innate cursed cravenness of a Mugwump does not make them all too fun to harm. Haggards can't see children, because they have no inner child that allows them to process child logic. They don't like singers and guitarists, they think the blues are weakness made vocal. Lowmen enjoy manipulating Haggards, as they are almost universally twits and easily brokered with. Haggards dislike Lowmen because they're a bunch of suited smoke-eyed sinners who can't be bullied.

But Haggards hate, above all other things, a hobo. A hobo has whimsy and joy in their wandering soul, a fact that a Haggard cannot abide unless he's beating it out of the roustabout. Hobos who invoke the Road Gods can make a Haggard cringe in self-reflection of where they got lost. Haggards would love to kill off what makes a hobo a hobo, but that'd require building infrastructure and trying to be nice; which isn't in their nature.

The only way to not be picked on by a Haggard is to ignore them and treat them like a facet of society, until such a point they decide to prey on you. Unless you're actively hunting Haggards, you'll eventually find yourself brutalized by their fists and foul nature. They're the toxic masculinity of the mob made manifest, they're every bad father, bully, backwoods slasher, and beast made man; much like how a hag is that for a woman.

Haggard.
No.Enc. 3d4, AL C, MV 90' (30'), AC 8 [11], HD 2+2, #AT 1 (Club/Fists), DG 1d6 or Weapon, SV F2, ML 10. Special: A killing blow from a Haggard causes a Save vs Spells by a male-identified victim. If they fail, they rise as a Haggard in a mockery of their former form.

A Haggard who is working for a Hag can steal the mojo of virile and macho men by publicly demeaning them. Victims who react must make a Save (Charisma or Strength), and on a failure they lost 1d4 points of that attribute until they prove their macho manliness. Functionally this is a geas spell, usually cause for a fight or a snipe hunt or some other insane feat of foolishness.

Playing a Haggard
Okay, you're going to be less than a good person. Haggards are meant to be bullies, blackguards, thugs and bastards. They're like a self-sympathetic Orc, because at least an Orc has a chance at some tragic backstory. A Haggard is just toxic macho bullshit made manifest. That being said, playing a Haggard you're essentially a human, you just have to have low Intelligence, Wisdom and Charisma. Your alignment is Chaotic, skewing towards Evil. You can speak and read, but don't care much for books.

How do I look?...
1. You've got a manky eye and a snaggletooth grin.
2. You've got constantly bursting pimples under your beard and your teeth keep falling out.
3. You've got one nostril and more hair in your ears than on your scalp.
4. You've got fingernails that look like they'd belong on a lobster and breath like rotten garlic.
5. You've got the nose of a crocodile and the eyes of a raging bull.
6. You're hairy as a skunk ape and you've got fangs like a jaguar.

How do I sound?...
1. Like a cask of bourbon laughing at an ether frolic.
2. Like you're going to beat to death everything good that ever graced your presence.
3. Like all you ever dined upon was cigar smoke and crying grannies.
4. Like a foreign fop or dandy, followed by cruel inane cackling.
5. Like a sonuvabitch who always has to question everything that isn't obviously making the world a worse place to live in.
6. Like you're playing at being an intellectual or gentlemen, calling people "m'lady" and "m'arm" or "Mister Thinks-He's-Smoort."

Do I remember anything from before I got made Haggard?
1. Nope. All the better for it. Ignorance is bliss.
2. She laughed at you, and you realized that you were obsessed not in love. To late to face that now.
3. He never respected you, so you beat'em down until he didn't have a face. You regret that, but you can't put him back together.
4. You threw that first rock and the screams and the breaking of bones, it did you well. It made you high. It made you feel dirty. No turning back, you'll never be goodly again.
5. You shouted and hurled insults and screamed bloody murder until all those weeping terrified children weren't in your sights anymore. Maybe you could've been a better man. Maybe a father. Hard to remember. Better to forget.
6. You beat that vagabond to death, your friends called you a hero. Of course it were your friends that were rustling the cattle. Blackmailed you. Hero isn't a hero if you're not given respect. Lot of blood happened. Lot of blood keeps happening. Better off now.

If your GM is cool and you're playing a Haggard as a human fighter type, with low stats in the thinking and social arts, see if you can get the ability to make Haggards out of things you kill. It only works on male and male-identifying creatures, and it is functionally just a zombie fever type of situation. No raised Haggard owes you any loyalty, and frankly they'd only listen if you beat'em back to death. Its more of a background flavoring than anything useful, and really this should just be an NPC type situation race.

The Gracklegrick, a Fey Monster

Gracklegrick

Hit Dice: 4d8 (22 HP)

AC: 13 (Oil-slicked Autumnal Cloak)

Attack: +4 to hit Enchanted Enemies, 1d6+1 Damage (Feyrusted Scissor)

Morale: 10.

Number Appearing: Solitary, an Annoyance (1d3+1, plotting and scheming) or a Plague (1d10+1 HD6 Gracklegrick Mastermind.)

Alignment: Fey/Chaotic/Autumn.

Intelligence: Scheming & Wickedly Petty.

Size: Medium (5-6’ tall)

XP: 294

Possessions: Feyrusted Scissors, Oil-slicked cloak, gunnysack of pilfered goods (1d30+1d8 copper pennies and 1d4 children’s toys in poor conditions.)

“Beware little childe of where Mr. Gracklegrick goes, a foulest of fey who all children must knowe/He dances, he sways, he calls and sings; in mother’s voice and father’s hand, he takes of all things/With plague and with itch, he rips and he tears; treasured love and treasured toy now his to bear/Go not out in young winter, oh precious sweet childe, or else Mr. Gracklegrick take you into the Wild.”

~The Ballad of Mr. Gracklegrick, a rather unpleasant poem.

Inspired by this picture by Jana Heidersdorf

A Gracklegrick is a scheming and wretched fey, gaunt of build, with a head like that of a grackle bird and a slender body of a gentlemen always wrapped in a fine cloak of oiled-black autumn leaves. They make their homes in derelict places on the borderlands of civilization, only appearing for a matter of weeks when Autumn runs too late and Winter is nascent to fall.

They hate, more than all things, the laughter of children. All Gracklegricks believe their joyful tones are a mockery of the Gracklegrick’s own jeerful guffaws; such to the point that ever since man first walked the world the Gracklegricks have vowed never to laugh in their natural happy tones. Out of sheer spite they warped their voices to be those of cruel mimics, able to emulate the voices of parents simply by observing the sounds of the children.

When they emerge from the Fairylands it is generally to perform some immediate slight against a distant bloodline relative of someone who has wronged another Gracklegrick; though all bow to the Master Huntsman and Elf King of Autumn and do his bidding without question. They are given equal respect as vassals by Autumn for their exquisite skill in stealing away children, though seldom do they remember to place a fetch in return.

A Gracklegrick Mastermind will lead an annoyance or plague of his kinsfolk, often to properly formulate a scheme which requires multiple operatives. Such plots might involve stealing the child of a noble, whisking away a baby from the womb, or stealing away even the ability for an individual to produce such offspring. In such cases it is not unknown for a Gracklegrick to hire mortals to provide distractions, though they prefer if they must, to hire elfs. Elfs seem to understand the nature of their ancient grudges.

Abilities:

Spellcasting - A Gracklegrick is able to cast spells, four times a day, as an Elf.

Fey-blooded - Gracklegricks take double damage from iron weapons and are sickened by silvered weapons. If struck by silver, a gracklegrick loses its ability to cast spells for 1d4 turns and puffs up as though suffering from extreme allergies.

Voice Mimicry - Gracklegricks can mimic the voice of anyone they hear, and from that they may extrapolate to mimic the voices of anyone in that individual’s bloodline.

Possessions:

Feyrusted Scissors - The chosen weapon of the Gracklegrick is a set of shears in the shape of a crane bird, nickel rusted into orange with a lichen-like pattern resembling leaves and branches. It cuts for 1d6+1 damage, and those cut by the blade must Save vs Enchantment or be shat upon and harried by flocks of magpie for the next 1d10 days whenever the victim is outside.

Oil-Slicked Autumnal Cloak - A black long coat made of fallen leaves, stitched with threads of starlight. The colors of the leaves were drained and rotted, black mold remains taut among the lattice structure of each leaf. The cloak is light armor that provides AC+3, and in a darkened forest or place of rot the wearer can remain hidden in plain sight at a rate of 4-in-6. Wearing this cloak in any other season than autumn confers no benefit, though those of fey origin can keep its power active by slaying a youthful creature and leaving it to rot.