SWARM BAT
The bats tore like a tornado into the angry mass of mosquitoes. Raoul commanded our foe, on pain of being blasted from existence, to remain in its swarm shape. But the mosquitos drew back together and a moment later the bats were blanketing a humanoid form. Seemingly unbothered by their writhing, ravenous presence, it began an incantation. Raoul, however, was quicker, unleashing a fireball. It singed our eyebrows and reduced the bats to fine dust. This covered and hung about our enemy who, no worse for wear but very much unalive, completed his own dire casting.
-The Wreck of the Albatross, Juno Lutuem, Darkonese adventurer
Teeny Tiny Tales of Terror: S is for Sinister
SWARM RAT
“You didn’t have to be a rat to appreciate the delectable irony. The fellow had summoned us with his irresistible piping to the banks of the Musarde that we might be drowned en masse. And there he was, sinking into the muck, mad with pain, as we gnawed through his face, I myself feasting on an eyeball.”
-La malédiction de la Raunie: six ans comme un rat, anonymous work banned in Richemulot
“You didn’t have to be a rat to appreciate the delectable irony. The fellow had summoned us with his irresistible piping to the banks of the Musarde that we might be drowned en masse. And there he was, sinking into the muck, mad with pain, as we gnawed through his face, I myself feasting on an eyeball.”
-La malédiction de la Raunie: six ans comme un rat, anonymous work banned in Richemulot
The cure for what ails you
SHADOW MASTIFF
Your bastard son has acquired a trio of mastiff’s as black as night. Their baying suffices, in the absence of a steeling bard, to break our human ranks. In a fight they attack from the shadows and have each other’s back. If they could be cornered, we Narrulve would rip them to shreds. But they are not mere dogs. They are preternaturally intelligent, masters of our own guerrilla tactics, and disappear into the slightest shadow. And we alone labour under the burden of discretion.
-Matton Blanchard reporting to Gabriel Aderre
Your bastard son has acquired a trio of mastiff’s as black as night. Their baying suffices, in the absence of a steeling bard, to break our human ranks. In a fight they attack from the shadows and have each other’s back. If they could be cornered, we Narrulve would rip them to shreds. But they are not mere dogs. They are preternaturally intelligent, masters of our own guerrilla tactics, and disappear into the slightest shadow. And we alone labour under the burden of discretion.
-Matton Blanchard reporting to Gabriel Aderre
The cure for what ails you
Here's an updated list:
Done! Salt shadow [Ravenloft Gazetteer IV]
Done! Sea cat [Monster Manual] Pic
Sea spawn, master [Denizens of Dread]
Sea spawn, minion [Denizens of Dread]
Done! Seawolf [Stormwrack] Pic
Done! Selkie, dread [Fiend Folio] Pic
Done! Shadow spider [Monster Manual II] Pic
Done! Silver fox (elven fox) [Ravenloft Gazetteer I]
Done! Sirine [Monster Manual II] Pic
Done! Skin kite [Libris Mortis] Pic
Done! Skin thief [Denizens of Dread]
Done! Soul kraken [Neither Man Nor Beast]
Done! Spawn of Kyuss [Monster Manual II] Pic
Done! Spectral panther [Monsters of Faerûn] Pic
Done! Spellstitched creature [Complete Arcane, Monster Manual II] Pic
Done! Spider, monstrous [Monster Manual]
Done! Spider, shroud web [Book of Sacrifices]
Done! Spider, sword [Monsters of Faerûn] Pic
Done! Spirit animal [Frostburn] Pic
Done! Splinterwaif [Monster Manual III] Pic
Done! Spriggan [Monster Manual II] Pic
Done! Stakewood tree [new]
Stitched [Van Richten’s Guide to the Walking Dead]
Done! Strahd Undead [Ravenloft Gazetteer I]
Done! Subdweller [Denizens of Dread]
Done! Swarm, cat [new]
Done! Swarm, hoard scarab [Draconomicon]
Done! Swarm, leech [Stormwrack]
Swarm, scarab beetle [Fiend Folio]
Done! Swarm, scorpion [Sandstorm]
Done! Swarm, spider [Monster Manual]
Done! Swarm, viper [Fiend Folio]
Done! Swarm, wasp [Fiend Folio]
Swordwraith [Fiend Folio] Pic
Done! Salt shadow [Ravenloft Gazetteer IV]
Done! Sea cat [Monster Manual] Pic
Sea spawn, master [Denizens of Dread]
Sea spawn, minion [Denizens of Dread]
Done! Seawolf [Stormwrack] Pic
Done! Selkie, dread [Fiend Folio] Pic
Done! Shadow spider [Monster Manual II] Pic
Done! Silver fox (elven fox) [Ravenloft Gazetteer I]
Done! Sirine [Monster Manual II] Pic
Done! Skin kite [Libris Mortis] Pic
Done! Skin thief [Denizens of Dread]
Done! Soul kraken [Neither Man Nor Beast]
Done! Spawn of Kyuss [Monster Manual II] Pic
Done! Spectral panther [Monsters of Faerûn] Pic
Done! Spellstitched creature [Complete Arcane, Monster Manual II] Pic
Done! Spider, monstrous [Monster Manual]
Done! Spider, shroud web [Book of Sacrifices]
Done! Spider, sword [Monsters of Faerûn] Pic
Done! Spirit animal [Frostburn] Pic
Done! Splinterwaif [Monster Manual III] Pic
Done! Spriggan [Monster Manual II] Pic
Done! Stakewood tree [new]
Stitched [Van Richten’s Guide to the Walking Dead]
Done! Strahd Undead [Ravenloft Gazetteer I]
Done! Subdweller [Denizens of Dread]
Done! Swarm, cat [new]
Done! Swarm, hoard scarab [Draconomicon]
Done! Swarm, leech [Stormwrack]
Swarm, scarab beetle [Fiend Folio]
Done! Swarm, scorpion [Sandstorm]
Done! Swarm, spider [Monster Manual]
Done! Swarm, viper [Fiend Folio]
Done! Swarm, wasp [Fiend Folio]
Swordwraith [Fiend Folio] Pic
Last edited by Mangrum on Sat Mar 31, 2007 1:04 am, edited 11 times in total.
SUBDWELLER
Victor was inclined to believe that they had thrown themselves upon us, without so much as a weapon, that we might release them from their tortured existence. I had seen in their eyes not suicidal fury but rather hunger and madness. Either way it would have been kinder to cut them down. Instead Sena incapacitated the lot with a spell, reasoning vainly that they might afford us useful information about our subterranean surroundings and our tentacled quarry. When we later returned they were being eaten alive by their equally sundered brethren who eyed us with the enthusiasm of children unexpectantly offered dessert.
-Brutus Nostrum retelling Doctor Daclaud Heinforth of his ‘adventure’ in the mythical land of Bluetspur
Victor was inclined to believe that they had thrown themselves upon us, without so much as a weapon, that we might release them from their tortured existence. I had seen in their eyes not suicidal fury but rather hunger and madness. Either way it would have been kinder to cut them down. Instead Sena incapacitated the lot with a spell, reasoning vainly that they might afford us useful information about our subterranean surroundings and our tentacled quarry. When we later returned they were being eaten alive by their equally sundered brethren who eyed us with the enthusiasm of children unexpectantly offered dessert.
-Brutus Nostrum retelling Doctor Daclaud Heinforth of his ‘adventure’ in the mythical land of Bluetspur
The cure for what ails you
STRAHD UNDEAD
“Only the maddest of militiamen pursues a smuggler across the border and up the Old Svalich Road. For long ago at the frontier the Devil Strahd had nailed to the trunks of a corpse of trees the still uniformed bodies of a dozen Vistin troops each with the word trespasser, in Balok and Vassi, hung about the neck. A captain come seeking his missing men ordered that they be taken down and buried. A mass grave was dug, but as the last corpse came free, it and the others set upon the living. The captain and his men narrowly prevailed and orders were given for the grave to be much enlarged. Yet hardly had the work begun, than their rotted comrades rose again, routing the living. To this day the putrescent bodies stand there, nail pierced palms seemingly affixed to the trees.”
-Gustov Petroff, hawksman and horse smuggler wanted for desertion from the Falkovnian army, explaining the rules of the game
“Only the maddest of militiamen pursues a smuggler across the border and up the Old Svalich Road. For long ago at the frontier the Devil Strahd had nailed to the trunks of a corpse of trees the still uniformed bodies of a dozen Vistin troops each with the word trespasser, in Balok and Vassi, hung about the neck. A captain come seeking his missing men ordered that they be taken down and buried. A mass grave was dug, but as the last corpse came free, it and the others set upon the living. The captain and his men narrowly prevailed and orders were given for the grave to be much enlarged. Yet hardly had the work begun, than their rotted comrades rose again, routing the living. To this day the putrescent bodies stand there, nail pierced palms seemingly affixed to the trees.”
-Gustov Petroff, hawksman and horse smuggler wanted for desertion from the Falkovnian army, explaining the rules of the game
The cure for what ails you
SKIN THIEF
It is a tragic tale. She was born the bastard daughter of a widowed, wealthy aristocrat. The father was Vistani and a Vatmska I suspect. To judge by her attractive portraits, she did not look Lamordian. Indeed she seems to have been often met with that unique glance of contempt and curiosity reserved for her father’s people. Her birth, ancestry and appearance were somewhat embarrassing to her mother who nonetheless loved her deeply. For herself they were an intolerable humiliation, recalled too often by an intolerant world. She took comfort in the things of nature and in an extraordinary gift for healing. Her mother was happy to finance her medical studies. Her letters home had been long filled with bitter complaints of racial and sexual discrimination and harassment by students and faculty alike. First at one university, then at another, and another, and another still, until they stopped coming and she vanished from the Brautslava Institute where she was doing doctoral research on skin grafts. Her director confessed that in her last few months there her appearance had acquired such fluidity that he was not certain of recognising her from one week to the next, and so became reliant upon the stylish Dementileuse gloves she had taken to wearing.
-Hector Vail recounting an old case of serial murder to Oliver Pendleton
It is a tragic tale. She was born the bastard daughter of a widowed, wealthy aristocrat. The father was Vistani and a Vatmska I suspect. To judge by her attractive portraits, she did not look Lamordian. Indeed she seems to have been often met with that unique glance of contempt and curiosity reserved for her father’s people. Her birth, ancestry and appearance were somewhat embarrassing to her mother who nonetheless loved her deeply. For herself they were an intolerable humiliation, recalled too often by an intolerant world. She took comfort in the things of nature and in an extraordinary gift for healing. Her mother was happy to finance her medical studies. Her letters home had been long filled with bitter complaints of racial and sexual discrimination and harassment by students and faculty alike. First at one university, then at another, and another, and another still, until they stopped coming and she vanished from the Brautslava Institute where she was doing doctoral research on skin grafts. Her director confessed that in her last few months there her appearance had acquired such fluidity that he was not certain of recognising her from one week to the next, and so became reliant upon the stylish Dementileuse gloves she had taken to wearing.
-Hector Vail recounting an old case of serial murder to Oliver Pendleton
Last edited by cure on Mon Feb 12, 2007 9:30 pm, edited 1 time in total.
The cure for what ails you
SPELLSTITCHED
“There are people in this existence who just don’t want to be helped. Take Drakov. After the first of his preposterous invasion, to spare everyone any further annoyance, I had the remains of his beloved Zweifalk gathered up, stitched back together, and painted in Darkonese colours. They were then dispatched to patrol the frontier with orders to cripple, mundanely or magically, any Falkovnian soldier who so much as looked upon Darkon. But did Drakov take the hint? The oaf launch three more invasions, furnishing me with more body parts than I could be bothered to stitch back together in a hundred existences.”
-Lord of Necropolis, a forged and calumnious autobiographical parody of the life of Azalin Rex
“There are people in this existence who just don’t want to be helped. Take Drakov. After the first of his preposterous invasion, to spare everyone any further annoyance, I had the remains of his beloved Zweifalk gathered up, stitched back together, and painted in Darkonese colours. They were then dispatched to patrol the frontier with orders to cripple, mundanely or magically, any Falkovnian soldier who so much as looked upon Darkon. But did Drakov take the hint? The oaf launch three more invasions, furnishing me with more body parts than I could be bothered to stitch back together in a hundred existences.”
-Lord of Necropolis, a forged and calumnious autobiographical parody of the life of Azalin Rex
The cure for what ails you
STAKEWOOD TREE
-Jander asked: “Do you believe that there is a stake out there with your name on it?”
-Strahd locked his eyes upon Jander’s and replied flatly: “No.” Then, after a long moment, he seemed to focus upon some distant sight and a flicker of a smile cracked his marble face. He continued less soberly: “I once caught a druid raising a stakewood tree in the Bloodfang Hills. He still walks the forests of Barovia insuring that there is no sequel.”
Strahd von Zarovich and Jander Sunstar in quiet conversation
-Jander asked: “Do you believe that there is a stake out there with your name on it?”
-Strahd locked his eyes upon Jander’s and replied flatly: “No.” Then, after a long moment, he seemed to focus upon some distant sight and a flicker of a smile cracked his marble face. He continued less soberly: “I once caught a druid raising a stakewood tree in the Bloodfang Hills. He still walks the forests of Barovia insuring that there is no sequel.”
Strahd von Zarovich and Jander Sunstar in quiet conversation
The cure for what ails you
Cure, I'm going to send these last three back for a second pass.
* Your skin thief blurb is an interesting take for a unique villain, but it doesn't really seem to have much to do with the monster entry that would follow it. For skin thieves, think Texas Chainsaw Massacre or The Hills Have Eyes.
* Spellstitched creatures aren't actually stitched together ala flesh golems. They're generally intelligent undead, identifiable by the magic runes carved into their flesh.
* The stakewood tree basically gets a passing mention in its own blurb; I'd like one that actually focuses on the creature.
Don't take this as a knock against your extensive contributions in general, though.
* Your skin thief blurb is an interesting take for a unique villain, but it doesn't really seem to have much to do with the monster entry that would follow it. For skin thieves, think Texas Chainsaw Massacre or The Hills Have Eyes.
* Spellstitched creatures aren't actually stitched together ala flesh golems. They're generally intelligent undead, identifiable by the magic runes carved into their flesh.
* The stakewood tree basically gets a passing mention in its own blurb; I'd like one that actually focuses on the creature.
Don't take this as a knock against your extensive contributions in general, though.
-
Drinnik Shoehorn
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 1840
- Joined: Tue Dec 02, 2003 6:28 pm
- Location: Tiptree, Home of Jam
Spriggan
Tell me a tale of Dancing Tim,
Man so short he danced on a pin,
Three feet tall and fierce as Hell,
Dancing Tim had a story to tell,
Along came a warrior into his glade,
Seven feet tall and armed with a blade,
He saw Tim dancing and began to grin,
An attack he launched, to do Tim in,
Tim was quick and Tim was clever,
Tim jumped away from the tall fella,
Up Tim stood and carried on going,
The warrior stopped and Tim kept growing,
With a mighty fist he broke the man's back
With a mighty twist he snapped the man's neck,
With sword on ground and blood spilt,
Tim carried on dancing, the man's skin as his kilt.
Traditional Tepestanii folksong, warning of the terribt fey.
Tell me a tale of Dancing Tim,
Man so short he danced on a pin,
Three feet tall and fierce as Hell,
Dancing Tim had a story to tell,
Along came a warrior into his glade,
Seven feet tall and armed with a blade,
He saw Tim dancing and began to grin,
An attack he launched, to do Tim in,
Tim was quick and Tim was clever,
Tim jumped away from the tall fella,
Up Tim stood and carried on going,
The warrior stopped and Tim kept growing,
With a mighty fist he broke the man's back
With a mighty twist he snapped the man's neck,
With sword on ground and blood spilt,
Tim carried on dancing, the man's skin as his kilt.
Traditional Tepestanii folksong, warning of the terribt fey.
Last edited by Drinnik Shoehorn on Tue Feb 13, 2007 4:10 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Blood once flowed, a choice was made
Travel by night the smallest one bade" The Ballad of the Taverners.
The Galen Saga: 2000-2005
Travel by night the smallest one bade" The Ballad of the Taverners.
The Galen Saga: 2000-2005
-
vipera aspis
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 351
- Joined: Fri Jan 21, 2005 8:38 pm
- Location: Chicago
swarm, cat
How did the fire start? Well it all started with the noise.
The noise was aweful. That screeching, yawling, horrible crying. Thats how you knew they were coming. I poked my head up to spy on the abhorent event unfolding. Their shadows raced along fences and down past alley walls; all converging on the sight of their fallen, poisoned and stiff "tabby comrade". It lie at the doorstep of the widow Winthrop, the bowl of poisoned milk spilt at it's side. It hadn't been the first, it was weekly infact. She hated them and blamed their nightly noise for her Edwards' eventual madness and untimely self-annihilation those eleven winters past. And with that thought i returned my head to my pillow and attempted to close my eyes.
The cats must have paced for a few minutes near her windows, her doorstep and along the roof top. Screeching the whole time in that aweful mourning tone you sometimes hear on terrible nights. Then the screeching morphed into a low growl used by all. And at the sound of broken glass I finally peared out my window to gander at the horror resulting at widow Winthrops. The cats had somehow found or should i say made a hole in one of her windows and were pouring in. There must have been at least two-dozen maybe more pouring in and crashing about inside.
I saw the flare of a oil lamp go up and heard the screeching in her house of what i thought to be the cats; but understood to my growing horror to be the widow Winthrops'. With a sudden burst of light and a shout i believe the lamp was dropped and the fire started.
And the last thing i saw before my mind blissfully relieved me of my consciousness was the widow Winthrop slamming up against the window, bloodied arm reaching out of the feline made hole with her face eyeless and slashed to ribbons, screeching at the top of her lungs; amid the rising flames.
-Charles J.Omera; Nova Vassan author
How did the fire start? Well it all started with the noise.
The noise was aweful. That screeching, yawling, horrible crying. Thats how you knew they were coming. I poked my head up to spy on the abhorent event unfolding. Their shadows raced along fences and down past alley walls; all converging on the sight of their fallen, poisoned and stiff "tabby comrade". It lie at the doorstep of the widow Winthrop, the bowl of poisoned milk spilt at it's side. It hadn't been the first, it was weekly infact. She hated them and blamed their nightly noise for her Edwards' eventual madness and untimely self-annihilation those eleven winters past. And with that thought i returned my head to my pillow and attempted to close my eyes.
The cats must have paced for a few minutes near her windows, her doorstep and along the roof top. Screeching the whole time in that aweful mourning tone you sometimes hear on terrible nights. Then the screeching morphed into a low growl used by all. And at the sound of broken glass I finally peared out my window to gander at the horror resulting at widow Winthrops. The cats had somehow found or should i say made a hole in one of her windows and were pouring in. There must have been at least two-dozen maybe more pouring in and crashing about inside.
I saw the flare of a oil lamp go up and heard the screeching in her house of what i thought to be the cats; but understood to my growing horror to be the widow Winthrops'. With a sudden burst of light and a shout i believe the lamp was dropped and the fire started.
And the last thing i saw before my mind blissfully relieved me of my consciousness was the widow Winthrop slamming up against the window, bloodied arm reaching out of the feline made hole with her face eyeless and slashed to ribbons, screeching at the top of her lungs; amid the rising flames.
-Charles J.Omera; Nova Vassan author
my bones among the rocks and roots