Beastiary

All the different things in the Eightpints that you can kill and cook.

Try kill and cook.

Try kill and try cook.

MF, You're probably dead already.

So MF, you've bought a sword? Polished your helmet, accepted a contract from some teary-eyed merchant, and now you're off to make a name for yourself? Wonderful. Do try to remember your name MF, it makes writing the epitaph so much easier for the tombstone carver.

Let's be clear about what's actually out there, beyond the reassuring fug of the pub's fireplace: You're picturing goblins, I imagine. Big spiders, maybe a grumpy troll. Adorable. Cute. The reality, my dear would-be hero, is so much more creatively banal. We live in a world where the swamps have performance anxiety, the scrapyards are having an industrial revolution with a body count, and the local wildlife has a nasty habit of chewing on plate mail for its dietary iron.

The following texts are a best-effort attempt to catalogue some of the world's more overly enthusiastic welcoming committees. You'll find your Maulers, who are essentially walking, angry geology. You'll find the various factions, who will happily explain their bizarrely complex philosophies to you right before they try to "perfect" you into a skeleton or "tithe" your blood to their aquatic landlord. And you'll find the countless other things that scurry and bite and dissolve.

Read it, by all means. It might even help. But understand that this book's primary function is to give you a semi-accurate description of the thing that's about to eat you. It's a menu, in reverse.

Try not to get any blood on the good furniture when you come screaming back. Or, more likely, when you don't, MF.

The Mire

A wet, oppressive silence hangs over the Mire, broken only by the buzz of blood-flies and the soft, sucking sound of the mud. The air is thick with the sickly sweet scent of the Corpse-Lilies and the ghostly glow of Bog-Lanterns reflecting on the black, still water. Every ripple could be a hunting Swamparoo, every log a patient Jacaré-Emboscada. Here, you don't fight the swamp; you survive it, hoping the Slow-Current doesn't decide to pull you under.

Exploring The Mire

Do: Watch your feet. The Mire Stalkers set snares that can pull you under before you can scream, and the only thing worse than drowning in the muck is what you'll find when you get to the bottom.

Don't: Trust a pretty light in the dark. The Bog-Lanterns are beautiful, but they mark the edge of a floating village, and the locals have a strict policy on uninvited guests.

Mire Wyrm

The hulking worm-beasts you see poling the Stalker villages are but pale, sad echoes of the true horror that lurks in the deepest, oldest parts of the swamp. The Wild Mire Wyrm is a primordial force, a colossal, slithering engine of consumption that has been shaping the Mire's landscape for a thousand years. It does not know chains or goads. It knows only a deep, subterranean hunger. You don't hunt it. You simply become aware that the very ground you're standing on is moving, and then the world erupts in a churning vortex of mud, water, and a triple-jawed maw that was ancient when the mountains were still hills.

Jacaré-Emboscada

The Mire teaches you to mistrust stillness. You'll be poling your skiff through a quiet patch of water, admiring a gnarled old log covered in moss and what looks like old spear-points. You'll get a little closer, thinking it's a relic of some forgotten battle. Then the log opens a jaw wider than your boat and the world explodes in a shower of teeth, fury, and your own unfortunate limbs. The Jacaré doesn't hunt; it simply is the trap, a patient, living snare of bone and violence that is the final, bloody lesson in the swamp's brutal curriculum.

Swamparoo aka "Swampa"

There's a strange sort of beauty to the Swampa. You'll see them at dawn, great herds of them, bounding between lily pads in silent, twenty-foot leaps, their powerful legs barely disturbing the water. They are a marvel of adaptation, a peaceful herbivore that has mastered this treacherous world. Then you'll see a Mire-Stalker pygmy on the back of one, a poison-tipped dart in its blowgun, and you're reminded that in the Mire, even the most serene and beautiful things are usually just a vehicle for something that wants to kill you.

Rokakora

The Mire-Stalkers don't have sewers; they have the Rokakora. These colossal, armored isopods cling to the roots beneath the floating villages like giant, slow-moving barnacles. They are the unsung heroes of the paddy, the living filtration system that turns a toxic cesspit into a purified sanctuary for their sacred plants. It's a marvel of symbiosis, right up until the village is attacked. Then, on a signal, the giant bugs collectively expel every toxin they've ever filtered in a high-pressure, blinding mist of pure, chemical horror. They are the village's silent, patient, and utterly disgusting immune system.

Spore-Wing

You learn to listen for danger in the Mire, but the Spore-Wings teach you to look up. They are not hunted; they are grown, a testament to the Stalkers' unnatural talent for gardening. You won't hear them coming. There's just a sudden shadow, the whisper of leathery wings, and then the air is thick with a cloud of spores. One moment you're choking on a thick, disorienting fog, the next your armor is glowing with a sticky, bioluminescent paint for every archer in the village to see. They are the eyes, ears, and artillery of the swamp, a perfect, living weapon.

Bog-Root Mauler

The Maulers you find elsewhere are creatures of stone and fury. But in the Mire, rock is a liability. This variant is a grim lesson in adaptation. It has fused its hide with the very essence of the swamp—waterlogged Ironwood, buoyant kelp-roots, and a thick coat of algae. It lies perfectly still in the shallows, looking for all the world like a half-submerged log. I lost a good friend to one. He stepped on what he thought was solid ground, and the ground stood up and bludgeoned him with a club the size of a small tree.

Stilt Stalker

The big monsters will kill you quickly. It's the pygmies that make you paranoid. They have mastered their stinking home by simply rising above it on long, spindly stilts, and they move with an unnatural, silent speed. You'll be wading through a shallow channel, thinking you're alone, and then you'll see a flicker of movement in the reeds. Not at ground level, but ten feet up. By the time you look up, the poison dart is already in your neck, and the quiet rustling you now hear from all around is the sound of the rest of the tribe, knives out, coming to collect their dinner.

Stilt Stalker Mire Doctor

Every pygmy tribe has a Mire Doctor, the one with the biggest hat and the most unpleasant ideas. They're easy to spot, teetering on their stilts at the back, shaking a rattle and chanting. It's tempting to laugh. Don't. I've seen a charging Stálkarn warrior, a beast of pure momentum, stop dead in his tracks and start clawing at his own skin because one of these little shamans pointed a stick at him. Their magic is a foul, itchy, and deeply irritating thing that saps your strength and your will to live.

Bile Leper

There are many terrible ways to die in this world. Being eaten by a beast, cut down in a fair fight, even being unwritten by a Glimmer Hound has a certain... finality to it. Being killed by a Bile Leper is just plain insulting. This thing is not a predator; it's a walking biohazard, a bloated sack of plagues and infections that is literally rotting as it moves. It doesn't bite. It vomits. A torrent of acidic, disease-ridden bile that dissolves you into a nutritious, easy-to-slurp puddle. It is the most undignified end imaginable.

Mire Screamer

The pygmies don't just build their gods; they weave their sentinels. The Mire Screamer is a wendigo-sized horror of gnarled mangrove roots and swamp moss, given a hateful consciousness by some poor soul's sacrificed spirit. You won't find these things on the ground. They are unnervingly fast and silent tree-climbers, clinging to the high branches with their long, sharp claws. The first sign of one is a sudden, unsettling silence in the canopy above, followed by the sight of a half-eaten corpse hanging from a branch. Their name isn't derived from any sound they emit - for they emit none - but from their tell-tale sign of geolocation: silence, the scream of their victim, its abrupt end, then a second terminal silence. They are the swamp's silent, vertical nightmare.

Chamuscado Glass Wastes aka "The Cham"

The sun here is not a source of life, but a relentless hammer that has beaten the very sand into a sea of shattered, shimmering glass. The Chamuscado Glass Wastes are a beautiful and lethal mirage, a landscape of razor-sharp edges and blinding reflections. Every step is a gamble, and the only inhabitants are those who have learned to thrive in a world that can cut them to ribbons. The Doku-ya Juy'ata call this crucible home, for they know that in a place of such harsh, undeniable truth, there is no room for weakness.

Exploring the Chamuscando Glass Wastes aka "The Cham"

Do: Stick to the shade, what little of it you can find. The sun doesn't just burn you here; it melts the very ground into razor-sharp mirrors.

Don't: Trust an oasis. Ever. If it looks too good to be true, it's probably a Mirage-Weaver waiting for a thirsty fool to get close enough for the kill.

Glass-Shard Scarabs

The first thing you’ll notice is the sound—a dry, chittering rustle, like a thousand tiny razors being sharpened at once. Then you’ll see the shimmering tide on the horizon. These aren’t just beetles; they’re the desert's accountants, here to collect a tax paid in flesh. Don’t try to fight the swarm head-on; you’ll die a slow, miserable death by a thousand papercuts. Your best bet is to keep moving and hope they find a more recently-dead poor soul to balance their books with.

Chamuscando Emboscada

The Mire has its spiky log that eats people, and the Wastes decided it wanted one too. It’s the same bloody trick, just a different, hotter kind of hell. You'll be trekking across a shimmering glass flat, spot what looks like a sun-bleached rock formation, and think nothing of it. Then the rock opens a jaw full of shattered glass teeth, and your trip is over. They are monuments to the fact that in a desert, the most patient thing is usually the hungriest.

Mirage Weaver

Listen to me. Your eyes will lie to you here. The heat haze plays tricks, and the reflections on the glass can drive a man mad. The Mirage-Weaver is the master of this deception. It is a ghost made of glass and silence, a ripple in the air that you won’t see until it’s too late. You’ll hear a faint, hypnotic clicking, and you’ll follow it, thinking you’ve found some strange new insect. You haven’t. You’ve found the end of your story, and it’s about to gut you with talons as sharp as your own foolishness.

Sun-fused Glassback

You'll see them from miles away, a walking mountain of shimmering, sun-bleached glass. These gentle giants are a living piece of the landscape, and for the most part, they want nothing to do with you. They are the great movers of the desert, glaciers of glass and patience. Do not mistake their slowness for weakness. I once saw a warband try to bring one down. The fight ended when the Glassback simply turned around, and the warband ceased to exist. The best way to fight a Glassback is to not fight a Glassback. Walk around.

Glass-Lurk Drake

There are beasts you can hunt, and then there are disasters that happen to you. The Drake is the latter. You won’t see it coming. You'll be walking across a beautiful, shimmering field of glass, and you'll feel a faint vibration under your feet. Then the world shatters. The ground erupts in a whirlwind of razors, a living sandstorm that coalesces into the form of a serpentine dragon made of pure, incandescent rage. You cannot fight the desert's anger. You can only hope you aren't standing on the spot it chooses to vent.

Glass Furnace Mauler

This is the common Mauler, but one that decided to stop fighting the heat and simply become it. To get close to one is to feel your skin tighten and your water boil in your canteen. It is a walking furnace, its hide a semi-molten carapace of fused sand that radiates a shimmering heat-haze. It swings a shard of pure obsidian like a splinter of the sun itself. It's a miserable, brutish creature that has so perfectly mastered its hellish home that it now brings that hell with it wherever it goes.

Sun Forged Djinn

There are creatures in this world made of flesh and bone, and you can understand them. You can learn their habits, predict their fury. The Djinn is something else entirely. It's not a beast; it's a piece of the desert's own cruel soul, a ghost of the cataclysm that birthed the wastes. You'll see it from a distance, a shimmering distortion in the heat-haze, and you'll think it's just another mirage. It isn't. Its upper body is a beautiful, terrifying construct of obsidian and captured sunlight, but it has no legs, just a swirling vortex of sand and ash where they should be. It doesn't walk the wastes; it is the wastes. I once saw one turn a whole dune into a river of molten glass with a gesture. You don't fight a thing like that. You find the deepest, darkest hole you can, and you pray it doesn't notice you.

Glass-Wing Vulture

You'll see them first as a black speck, riding the thermal vents high above the shimmering glass, and you might think nothing of it. But this isn't your common carrion bird. Generations of roosting in super-heated cliffs have fused its feathers into plates of razor-sharp obsidian. It's a creature of brutal efficiency, one that has decided that actively hunting is far too much work. It simply circles, patient as the sun itself, waiting for you to run out of water, or hope. When you finally collapse, it doesn't descend. It folds those glass-shard wings and drops. It doesn't come to eat your corpse; it's the thing that makes you a corpse, a living guillotine falling from the sky. A word of advice: if you see one circling, don't look up. Keep moving. It's only interested in you when you stop.

The Docklands & Warehousery Industrial Landscape Ltd.
aka "The Docks"

The Docks are a maze of splintered wood, salt-stained stone, and the perpetual stink of bilge-water and cheap ale. By day, it's a place of grim commerce, the air filled with the shouts of merchants and the groan of straining cranes. By night, it belongs to the smugglers, the press-gangs, and things that crawl out of the polluted harbour. Every shadow is a threat, every crate might hold a lurking spirit, and every dropped Shiner risks attracting the attention of the things that swim in the deep, dark water below the piers.

Exploring The Docks & Warehouse Industrial Landscape Ltd.

Do: Keep your hand on your coin-purse and your back to a solid wall. The only thing quicker than the tide in this district is a thief's knife.

Don't: Fall in the water. Ever. It's not the drowning that'll get you; it's the Shiner-Eels that are drawn to the sound of a heavy purse hitting the waves.

Bilge Crabb

The Dockmaster’s Guild likes to call these things the "clean-up crew," which is a rather polite way of describing a walking garbage heap with claws that can punch through a steel shipping container. For the most part, they're content to scavenge, and you can walk right by one without it giving you a second look. But corner one, or get between it and a particularly appealing pile of rotting fish guts,

Shiner Eel

There's a reason you see old, grizzled sailors count their pay in a locked room, far from the water's edge. It's because of these things. A Shiner Eel is blind as a stone, but it can hear the clink of a dropped coin from a hundred yards away. I've seen it myself. A young fool, drunk on his first big score, fumbling with his purse at the end of a pier. There was a splash, the jingle of his Shiners, and then... nothing. The eels are the harbour's tax collectors, and they always get their due.

Crate-Lurker

Every adventurer dreams of finding that one forgotten crate, tucked away in the back of a warehouse, filled with ancient treasures. Well, sometimes when you pry open that crate, you're met with the vengeful, angry ghost of a whisky so potent it gained a hateful consciousness. The Crate-Lurker is the ultimate bad trip, a spectral horror that smells of aged spirits and violent regret. It doesn't kill you; it pulls you into the splintered, suffocating darkness of its wooden prison. It’s a fine lesson in the dangers of both looting and cheap liquor.

Wharf Hauler

You can sometimes hear them at night, when the fog is thick—the groaning of splintered masts and the shriek of a thousand rusted nails. That's a Wharf-Hauler. It's not a beast; it's a grudge, a walking, stomping tantrum made of the very ship that was scuttled with its crew still aboard. Through the gaps in its crate-and-timber body, you can see its heart: a single, glowing red coal of pure, furious vengeance. It doesn't want to eat you. It just wants to smash every pier and warehouse that reminds it of the masters who sent it to the bottom.

Rope Worms

A bit of practical advice for you. When you're walking the piers, and you see a messy, coiled pile of mooring rope, don't step on it. Kick it first. Most of the time, it's just rope. But sometimes, that pile will writhe into a swarm of thick, leech-like worms that will latch onto your leg and drain you dry before you can even scream. The Rope-Worms are one of the dock's most disgusting and efficient predators, a perfect camouflage artist that has mastered the art of being fatally underestimated.

Bilge-Hulk Mauler

The common Mauler adapts to its environment. The Mauler of the docks didn't just adapt; it became a grotesque museum of the port's entire, filthy history. Its skin is a patchwork of waterlogged pier timbers bolted to its flesh, its back a fused mass of rusted anchor chains. It smells of brine, rot, and a century of spilled ale. It swings a colossal anchor like a flail, a walking, stinking collage of every shipwreck and failed enterprise to ever grace the harbour. It is the living, breathing embodiment of a bad day at the docks.

Hull Breaker Crab

This one's a sadder story than most, and a good deal more terrifying for it. The tale goes that the first Hull-Breaker was a dockworker who betrayed his crew and was thrown into the sea for his trouble. Leviakh, in its infinite, cruel wisdom, gave him a new life. He is now a monstrous parody of what he once was, his "armor" the very wood of the ship he betrayed, fused to his flesh. He is drawn to the sound of creaking wood, forever seeking to destroy the ships he can no longer serve. Don't mistake the sorrow in its story for a weakness in its claws.

Ancient Battlefield

There is a profound and heavy silence on the Ancient Battlefield, a place so saturated with sorrow that even the wind seems to hold its breath. Shattered siege engines lie where they fell, and the dust is made more of bone than of earth. This is a graveyard of empires, haunted not just by the spirits of the dead, but by the very memory of the violence itself. To walk here is to walk through a story of a thousand forgotten last stands, and to feel the weight of every single one.

Exploring the Ancient Battlefield

Do: Walk softly and pay your respects. The dead are not truly dead here, and they have long, bitter memories.

Don't: Touch the old banners. The Banner-Wraiths are the collective sorrow of a thousand dead soldiers, and they do not take kindly to their final resting place being disturbed.

Carrion Cairn

In any other land, a pile of rocks marking a soldier's grave is a place for quiet respect. On the Ancient Battlefield, it's a hunting lure. The Carrion-Cairn is a lesson in the world's brutal sense of irony. It waits, sometimes for a generation, looking for all the world like a respectful monument. You'll approach to pay your respects, and the ground will explode as a dozen skeletal arms drag you down into the earth. Your bones and your piety are then added to the pile. A word of advice: on the battlefield, the only way to respect the dead is to stay away from them.

Banner Wriith

You don't hear these things coming. There's just a sudden cold, and the sight of a tattered, ancient battle standard floating through the mist, held aloft by a swarm of ghostly hands. It's not the spirit of a single man; it's the collected sorrow and failure of an entire regiment, forever bound to their last shred of pride. It isn't looking for a fight. It's looking for its army, and it will try to recruit you. Do not let it touch you. There is no worse way to die than being smothered in a hundred years of military failure.

Grave Gnawer

The battlefield's clean-up crew. These are what happen when a hyena's hunger meets a blacksmith's forge. They've spent so many centuries cracking open the armor of the fallen to get at the marrow that their teeth have become iron. You'll hear them before you see them—a faint, rhythmic clinking, like a bag of dropped nails. That's the sound of their iron fangs tapping together. They are patient, they are smart, and they see your fancy plate mail not as a defense, but as a challenge to their horrifying dentistry.

Siege Gorgon

The battle may be over, but no one told the artillery. A Siege-Gorgon is a walking, clanking grudge, the vengeful ghosts of a siege engine's crew who were so stubbornly devoted to their task that they just... kept going. It's an unholy fusion of a catapult, a shield-wall, and pure, concentrated fury. It doesn't hunt, it doesn't eat. It just continues its ancient, pointless siege, hurling massive chunks of rubble at fortress walls that have long since turned to dust. Getting in its way is a spectacularly stupid and entirely avoidable way to die.

Echoes of Battle

This is the one that even the old hands fear. You can't see it, you can't hit it, and you can't outrun it. The Echo is the battle's own ghost. It's a sentient soundscape, the psychic residue of a thousand dying screams given a hateful consciousness. It will find you, and it will replay the final, terrifying moments of a dozen different soldiers directly into your skull. It is the purest form of terror on the battlefield, a weaponized memory that will kill you with the pain of men who died a hundred years ago.

Grave-Plate Mauler

The common Mauler is a brute of rock and muscle. This one is different. It is a walking tombstone, a sorrowful giant whose hide is a fused carapace of the very shields, blades, and grave markers of the heroes who fell here. Every step it takes sounds like the clatter of a thousand forgotten battles. It's not an aggressive beast, but if you trespass on its territory, you will face the grim, unyielding determination of every dead soldier whose armor it now wears. To fight it is to fight the battlefield's own, sorrowful history.

Carrion Rider

The crows of the battlefield are fat and old, and they remember every death. The Carrion-Rider is their king. You'll see it on the horizon, a whirlwind of black feathers and yellowed bone. It is the animated, skeletal remains of some long-dead warlord, but the thing in the saddle is no man. It is a shrieking, sentient murder of crows, a hive-mind of ancient scavengers that acts as the creature's eyes, ears, and cruel, tactical mind. It is a grim omen, and the master of the battlefield's endless feast.

Scrapyard Shanties

You can hear the Shanties before you can see them—a constant, manic symphony of grinding gears, hissing steam, and the occasional, deafening explosion. This is the domain of the Scrap-Tek Horde, a vertical city built from the refuse of the world, all under a permanent, smog-choked orange sky. To live here is to embrace chaos, to navigate rickety walkways a thousand feet in the air while feral, machine-pests skitter in the walls. It is a testament to the mad genius of Krank, a place where the only law is that if a thing works, it doesn't yet have enough modifications.

Exploring the Scrapyard Shanties

Do: Look up. The real danger in the Shanties doesn't come from in front of you, but from the screeching Shard-Wing Flock diving from the rust-towers above.

Don't: Lean on anything. Ever. The entire city is a failed experiment held together by rust and the mad will of the Scrap-Tek Horde. The only thing more likely to collapse than the structure you're on is the one right above you.

Rust Rot Ferrets

The Scrap-Tek Horde, in a moment of what I can only assume was drunken genius, tried to create a self-repairing machine. What they got was this: a chittering, skittering pack of ferrets made of rust and wires, driven by a corrupted instinct to "fix" things. Their idea of a fix is to chew the rusty parts off your gear and replace them with parts from whatever—or whoever—is standing next to you. They're not evil; they're just a terrifyingly efficient, mobile maintenance crew with a very loose definition of the word "repair."

Scrap-Heap Golem

Leave enough junk in one place for long enough, and eventually, The Sink will get bored and decide to give it a bad attitude. A Scrap-Heap Golem is not a creature; it's a toddler made of a hundred tons of rusted iron. It's a mindless, lumbering brute that wanders its chosen junk pile, smashing things out of what seems to be sheer, geological boredom. Don't try to fight it. You can't reason with a sentient rubbish heap. Just tip your hat and walk the long way around.

Oilslick Amalgam

You'll see them at the bottom of the great junk piles: beautiful, shimmering pools of iridescent oil, a rainbow of toxic runoff. You might even spot a half-sunk cog or a piece of armor in the muck and think yourself lucky. You're not. The oil is the monster. The Oilslick Amalgam is a patient, amoeba-like predator that waits for a greedy scavenger to get too close, then drags them down into the sludge. It will absorb your armor, your weapon, and your bad decisions, using them to form a temporary, monstrous body to hunt its next victim.

Furnace Maw

There are stories of great dragons sleeping in the hearts of mountains. The scrapyard has its own version, and it's a good deal less majestic. The Furnace-Maw is what happens when a dragon decides to make its lair in a derelict, still-smoldering industrial furnace and develops a taste for toxic smog. Its hide is a patchwork of fused slag and boiler plates, and it doesn't breathe fire. It exhales a superheated, corrosive cloud of pure, weaponized pollution that can melt a man to jelly in his own armor. It is a walking, breathing industrial disaster.

Shard Wing Flock

The Sump-Grotz, in their infinite wisdom, decided they needed messenger drones. The result was the Shard-Wing, a crude, bird-like construct with wings made of sharpened sheet metal. Of course, they immediately went feral and now infest the high-rises in screeching, metal flocks. They aren't much of a threat individually, but a whole flock diving down on you is like being attacked by a thousand angry, flying tin-openers. They are the tetanus-riddled pigeons of the scrapyard.

Scrap Heap Mauler

The common Mauler is a brutish but natural beast. This one has spent too much time watching the Scrap-Tek Horde and has, through sheer, animalistic cunning, decided to "improve" itself. Its hide is a dangerously unstable mess of jagged scrap metal, broken engine blocks, and other bits of junk it has crudely bolted onto its own flesh. It is a walking junk-heap, a grotesque parody of a Mek-Boss, that swings a massive piston-hammer with all the subtlety of a collapsing building.

Junk Goliath

This isn't a creature that was born or made. It's something that simply... happened. Leave enough sparking power conduits next to enough magnetized refuse, and eventually, the scrapyard grows a tumor. The Junk-Goliath is a mindless, shambling monster of pure, magnetic instinct. It wanders the wastes, silently drawing more and more scrap to its ever-growing form, crushing whatever organic matter is unfortunate enough to be in its path. It doesn't want to kill you; it just doesn't notice you're there.

Defiled Ruins

This place was once a bastion of order, but now it is a cancerous wound upon the land. The Defiled Ruins are where the cosmic filth of The Sink has bled through reality, creating a landscape of pure body horror. Stone weeps with a bloody ichor, the ground pulses with grotesque, fleshy pustules, and the air is thick with the psychic screams of a reality in torment. The creatures here are not just monsters; they are mockeries of life, the horrifying, half-formed thoughts of dead gods given flesh.

Exploring the Defiled Ruins

Do: Get in and get out. Fast. The very air in this place is sick, and the longer you stay, the more the ruin's madness will seep into your bones.

Don't: Trust a pile of rubble. It might just be a pile of rubble, or it might be a Grave-Tide waiting for you to get close enough to pull you under. It's not a gamble worth taking.

Blood Gnawer

The common Grave-Gnawer is a pragmatic scavenger; it kills to eat. You can understand that. The Blood Gnawer is something else entirely. It's what happens when a simple predator gets religion. Touched by the madness of Leviakh, its iron teeth now weep a constant, foul ooze, and it hunts not for sustenance, but for the sheer, joyous spectacle of the kill. You can see the frenzy in its eyes. It's no longer just a hungry animal; it's a true believer, and that makes it ten times more dangerous and a hundred times more unpredictable.

Blight Ape

There's a unique kind of dread that comes with traveling through the high places of the Defiled Ruins. It’s the feeling of being watched by something that is utterly, philosophically miserable. That's the Blight-Ape. These things are a grotesque fusion of gluttony and despair, hauling their bloated, sore-covered bodies up the sheer walls to sulk in the shadows. They're not frenzied hunters. They wait with the profound patience of a creature that has already accepted the worst, and when you pass below, they simply let go. Your end isn't a chase or a battle; it's a sudden, crushing impact of immense weight and sadness.

Gore-Weaver

Most spiders are content with silk. The Gore-Weaver, on the other hand, is a connoisseur of the grotesque. It doesn't spin webs; it curates nightmares. It will collect the dead from the battlefield, render them down into a thick, glistening ichor of blood and despair, and then build its vast, sticky nests. To stumble into a gore-web is to be trapped in a tapestry of a hundred different violent endings. It's a patient, disgusting artist, and its medium is the very essence of a violent death followed by a slow, inevitable decay.

Weeping Ironrose

The ruins have a habit of creating beautiful, terrible things, and the Ironrose is their masterpiece. From a distance, it looks like an exquisite sculpture, its petals forged from the weeping, rusted armour of a thousand fallen warriors. You'll be drawn to it, perhaps by its strange beauty or the sweet, cloying scent of sorrow it puts out. Get too close, and you'll discover that its petals snap shut with the speed and finality of a bear trap. It is a living monument to the idea that the most beautiful things in this world are often the most effective at killing you.

Shattergeist

ou don't see a Shatter-Geist. You hear it first. It's the sound of the battlefield's last, dying scream, a sound so full of pain and rage that it has gained a hateful consciousness of its own. It's a sentient whirlwind of splintered bone, shattered blades, and pure, weaponized trauma. It doesn't bite or claw; it envelops you. It tears you apart with the very shards of the weapons that fell a century ago, all while screaming the last moments of a thousand dead soldiers directly into your soul. It is the most honest monster on the battlefield: it is the battle itself.

Gore-Hide Mauler

The Maulers you find elsewhere are brutal, but they are natural. This one is a tragedy. It's what happens when a simple creature of rock and instinct wanders too close to a leaking patch of The Sink and gets utterly corrupted. Its stony hide is now fused with grotesque, fleshy pustules and weeping, rusted iron growths from some forgotten, violent god. It is a walking, agonizing tumor, a living embodiment of the ruin's pain, driven completely mad by its own constant, horrifying transformation. Don't mistake its suffering for weakness; it is the most desperately furious and unpredictable of all its kind.

Glimmer Hound

There are things in the ruins that don't follow the rules. The Glimmer-Hound is not a creature of flesh and bone; it is a walking, hunting paradox, a piece of another, more colourful reality that has bled through into ours. It pains the eye to look at, a shimmering, iridescent beast that seems to vibrate at a different frequency from the rest of the world. It is terrifyingly fast and utterly silent. The worst part is, it doesn't bite you. It doesn't even kill you in a way your mind can comprehend. Its touch simply "un-writes" you, dissolving your flesh, bone, and history into a shower of beautiful, harmless motes of light. It is a ghost from the future, come to erase you from the past.

Hountains & Mills

The first thing you notice is the noise. It is a constant, deep, grinding hum that travels up from the soles of your feet and settles in your teeth. It is the sound of the great Mills, the sound of a mountain being slowly and methodically devoured. The air here is sharp and thin, and it carries two scents: the clean, cold smell of pine and high-altitude rock, and a strange, chemical tang that stings the back of your throat—the unmistakable taste of raw Alka-Hest. Every path is steep, every shadow is deep. Up on the peaks, you can see the strange, beautiful lights of the vents, but down in the valleys, all you can hear is the ceaseless, hungry grinding of the machines.

Exploring the Houtains & Mills

Do: check the tremor forecast before setting out. If the ground is shaking in a steady, rhythmic pattern, that's not an earthquake. That's the Ore-Wyrm, and it means your scenic hike is about to be reclassified as a "subterranean dining experience."

Don't: Assume a pile of rocks is just a pile of rocks. Sometimes it's a pile of rocks. Other times, you're its dinner, or its target.

Mill-mite swarm

Meet the world's most aggressive form of industrial hearing loss. These fist-sized, chittering iron-bugs are drawn to the thunderous noise of the Mills like moths to a flame, presumably because they hate peace and quiet. On their own, they're just a clanking nuisance. In a swarm, they become a moving, grinding carpet of serrated mandibles that can strip the armor from a warrior and the fillings from their teeth in about thirty seconds. They are, in short, the universe's way of telling you your factory is not up to code.

Crystal Horned Alkalope

The first time you see one, you'll think you've found a miracle. A graceful, crystalline goat, shimmering in the thin mountain air as it leaps from crag to crag. It's a beautiful sight, right up until it sees you, gets annoyed, and casually headbutts a cliff face, burying you and your entire warband under a thousand tons of rock. They are the mountain's cruelest joke: a creature of impossible beauty that is also a skittish, walking, and highly explosive landslide trigger.

Slurry Lurker

There are many terrible ways to die in this world. Being dissolved in a pit of industrial sludge by a creature that is, for all intents and purposes, a sentient puddle of toxic filth has to be one of the most undignified. The Slurry-Lurker is the laziest predator I've ever encountered. It doesn't hunt, it doesn't stalk, it just is the deadly mire. It waits for some poor soul to slip and then... it digests. It is a slow, pathetic, and deeply unpleasant end, a final testament to the sheer, unglamorous filth of this region.

Phase Bat

Fighting a Phase-Bat is a deeply frustrating and paranoia-inducing experience. You'll have it cornered in a cave, your shield up, your sword ready... and then it will simply fall through the floor and attack you from behind, through a solid wall of rock. It's a winged nightmare that treats physics as a mild suggestion. It doesn't abide by the rules of a fair fight because it exists in a state where things like "walls" and "cover" are merely quaint, temporary concepts.

Ore Wyrm

The Gnashers and the Haulers think they're the masters of this land, fighting over their noisy Mills and their glowing pits of goop. They're wrong. The mountain is the only master here, and the Ore-Wyrm is its heart. This is not a beast you hunt; it is a geological event you survive. You'll feel its approach in your bones, a deep, grinding tremor that shakes the very foundations of the world. It is the mountain's own fury given form, and you are nothing more than a soft, crunchy nuisance in its path.

Shale-Skin Mauler

This isn't so much a creature as it is an angry rockslide that learned to hold a grudge. Formed entirely from the shale and granite of the mountainside, the Mauler is a slow, implacable engine of destruction. It doesn't hunt, it simply grinds forward, its elemental mind focused on the singular, meditative purpose of smashing things into smaller things. It wields a club with a massive, rectangular block of granite strapped to the end, a tool it uses for what can only be described as percussive redecorating. To fight one is to engage in a geological dispute, and the mountain always wins.

Slag Bear

You almost feel sorry for this one. It was a normal mountain bear until it made the mistake of sleeping too close to an Alka-Hest leak. Now, its hide is a prison of molten, agonizing slag, and it is in a state of constant, furious pain. That pity will last right up until the moment it sees the heat of your campfire—or the heat of your life-force—and decides it wants to soothe its agony by rolling all over you. It's a walking, self-heating cautionary tale about the perils of industrial waste.