Bestiary

The cultural association between bat and vampire stretches back as far as folklore itself. Some claim to have seen the deathly cold visage of a Vampire Lord striding within the swirling maelstrom of these nocturnal nasties, but those people just wanted attention. They’re bats, and nothing more.

Foul ichor seems to ooze from every pore of this creature’s slick skin, leading many to believe that it bathes in the blood of the freshly slain. Closer study reveals their fur is simply red, however. They’re bats, and nothing more.

Sorcerous experimentation sought to discover if a skeleton, once rendered animate, could toil more efficiently were its head and body split into two separate entities. The answer is no. Of course not. These former farmers, unable to lift the rakes and hoes they so loved, can now only gnash their teeth in eternally silent frustration.

Skullinos that longed to be red in the misguided belief they would float faster. Lacking hands of their own, Skulorosso grip brushes between their teeth and paint each other. The last one holding the brush is usually abandoned, and returns to the ranks of the Skullino with a little less faith in the world.

Bones made of blood. Or blood made of bones. There’s blood involved somewhere. These rufescent ruffians are out to spill even more of it.

What army of darkness would be complete without skeletons? They are highly disciplined, incredibly vengeful, and very unionized!

“Why simply work the smallfolk to death? Work them beyond it!” This, the Cardinal’s necromancers laughed as they turned to the grave for a cheap alternative to labor that needed rest and food. Sadly for them, while their new workforce slept not, feeding was a whole other matter.

The Mudmen of the Mad Forest were once ordinary villagers, but cultural disagreements over whether it was acceptable to cover one’s self in mud and beat passing heroes to death led them to found their own society - a society where it’s acceptable to cover one’s self in mud and beat passing heroes to death.

Said to have first sprouted during a total eclipse of the sun, these blighted blooms appear when they are least needed, which is to say they appear all the time.

Gem bones, gem bones, gem dry bones! The Experience Gem it’s fused with grants enhanced tactical instinct and strategic knowledge. It’s smart enough to briefly consider its options before running directly at Survivors.

A pure fabrication, the idle fantasy of brains gripped with fever or boredom. There’s simply no such thing as ghosts, and the mere suggestion is to be mocked as ridiculous. These particular apparitions are probably just a trick of the light. Tricks of the light can have hit points too!

Said to have evolved from verminous creatures that flocked from a world trapped in time. Their lupine nature has been called into question, but if you ask for their opinion, they’ll tear you to shreds with a most uncommon brutality. They must be sensitive about it.

If knowledge is not known, it ceases to be knowledge. The Inlaid Library’s virulent swell of forbidden lore yearns to inscribe itself into an open mind. Left for decades with only dust for company, that lore made a home for itself. Fortunate are we that the Dust Elementals have no tongue to speak it.

Some say these many-limbed beasts descended from a great Lord of Hell, whose domain is the healing arts and philosophy. A noble lineage claimed for what was clearly the result of some drunk necromancers and a sewing kit.

Behold, the blasphemy of lactomancy! These homogenized horrors were formulated to pulverize and pasteurize in the name of their intolerant Milk Mages. Any who’ve tried to cream them end up torn in half… and half! This entry has been condensed for those who prefer to skim.

When a shrimp yearns to be a dragon above all things, the Horned Shrimp may take pity on it and bestow a form most mighty. Or rather, a form almost mighty. It turns out that being the patron god of all shrimp doesn’t let you make anything much more intimidating than this, but the shrimp are happy!

There are works so incomprehensible in theme and meaning as to fracture the reader’s very grasp of reality. Torn from the material world through sheer force of their disbelief in it, these scholarly fools are only one last thought away from volatile oblivion.

There’s a perfectly rational explanation for this. Perhaps these items are the product of a mage’s trickery, or automata dreamed up by Gallo’s gibbering scientists. Maybe each one is filled with a colony of vindictive ants that push them around from inside. Let’s eliminate those possibilities before we mention ghosts.

Colder than their own teats, these matriarchs of magic love being ugly, terrifying crones. They genuinely can’t get enough of it. The cackling, the cauldrons, the calling of young maidens “my pretty.” If there’s a stereotype you could attribute to hags and the hag-based lifestyle, these women live it without shame. Good for them.

The Futile Scribe’s quest for truth ended with nought but babble and madness. Still, there are those that claim to see wisdom in even his most erratic scrawlings. Whether charlatans or fools, it cannot be questioned that, for those with a thought to wield it, there is power in madness.

Far from true mummies, both spiritually and geographically, their sorcerous creators justify the appropriation of other undead cultures by claiming they just really like the aesthetic and that real mummies should take it as a compliment rather than being so offended all the time.

Ranked among the most detested creatures in the land, they find crude sport in pushing unsuspecting victims from ledges when they’re most vulnerable. Faced with an enemy that neither jumps nor climbs, however, they find themselves rather powerless.

Brooding in vast nest colonies at the crown of Gallo Tower, these harpies delight in dragging prey high into the sky and ripping them in twain with frighteningly strong talons. To maintain this incredible lower body strength, they never skip leg day.

Cursed by vengeful librarians for the crime of sneezing too loudly, they are perhaps the most pitiable of all wretches. Congealed for all eternity, to slay these victims of disproportionate retribution is a mercy. You’d probably get good karma for doing it if there were such thing as a morality system.

Mischievous demons who specialize in tomfoolery, shenanigans, and all fourteen disciplines of nonsense. Known for practical jokes, rude limericks, and the occasional cheeky mass murder.

Incredibly self-conscious about their appearance due to a glaringly obvious abnormality. If you’re unfortunate enough to meet one, on no account should you ever point out they’re not wearing shoes.

Faustian and furious! Low ranking Devils march upon the enemies of Hell armed with infernal pitchforks and an encyclopedic knowledge of the harshest places to shove them.

Boys possessed of prodigious magical talent are regularly sent to Gallo’s esteemed Academy of Alchemia. Here, they hone their powers, learn devastating spells, and perfect the art of lacemaking.

The Sisterhood of Witches keeps secrets that could topple dynasties. Four fifths of these secrets are sex scandals. The influx of noble bribe money ensures that no witch goes without a fancy hat.

Giovanna resented being assigned Mage at birth, and proudly took up the way of the broom and pointed hat. Her sisters, who claim they want to “protect witches’ spaces,” have sworn to oppose her and all who fight by her side. Maybe one day they’ll accept that anybody can be a Sassy Witch if they truly want to be.

The twisted result of science and sorcery, these animated suits of armor were mass produced at Gallo Tower as one of its most profitable creations. The sword’s size is terrifying, but woefully impractical, rendering it too heavy to be swung. That hardly matters when it can still mash you like some sort of genocidal butter churner.

A deluxe model Archon featuring the exact same stats at twice the price. Sold as a luxury defense option, its sheer size and impressive strength do much to hide the fact it’s mostly made of recycled infantry helmets and old buckets.

Serpentine seductresses whose hypnotic gaze can lure even the most willful of scholars to an early grave.

Wreathed in shadow, eyes glowing red, such oversized terrors that flap in the night must surely be the sign of a vampire’s approach, yes? Well, no. They’re bats, and nothing more. I’ll admit they’re really bloody big, though.

Gallo Tower’s early horticultural experiments yielded nought but horrifying mutants. These oversized mantids were bred in Lab 22 and subsequently dumped in the Mad Forest when it became apparent they couldn’t be trained and tasted terrible.

Despite appearances, these shambling cadavers change their bandages daily. Whatever’s going on underneath all those wrappings remains a mystery, but one presumes it’s thoroughly disgusting.

The center of this flower possesses an attractive feminine form, but it’s little more than a lure, cleverly folded petals puppeted by the carnivorous flower that houses it. Those prone to thinking with their britches are likely to become easy prey.

They reek of fish, drip saltwater everywhere, and talk with really off-putting gurgly voices. Striving to please their Damp God, the Mermen joined with the Lizards in their overthrow of the Dairy Plant.

Having grown envious of the mammalian ability to produce milk, the Lizard Folk staged a hostile takeover of the Dairy Plant and seized the means of lactation. Having slain the last of the Milk Mages, these creatures have instigated a campaign of udder despair.

While these sinister visages think independently, their shared digestive system necessitates a symbiotic reliance upon each other. One head can only consume solids. The other, only liquids.

Without these stalwart captains, the reptilian forces would never have found the iron discipline and brilliant strategy needed to sneak into a dairy and stab a load of milk-obsessed old men in their sleep.

A demonic variant of the Twin Snakes, hence the name Twin Demons. You can tell they’re demonic because they’re a bit red. Classic case of demonicism right there.

Favored pets of the Mermen, their tendency to sting everything within five yards, as well as their complete disregard for potty training, makes them unpopular with literally everybody.

These stealth operatives are among the most highly skilled of the undead armies. Their undercover tactics and specialization in sneaking missions are everso slightly undercut by an insistence on wearing brightly colored uniforms.

Makes up for the lack of a secondary head by being really, extra, super-duper demonic! They’re not overcompensating, they’re perfectly compensating.

The Milk Mages of the Dairy Plant devised these constructs as animated pales, for reasons that could only be described as stupid. Completely hollow inside, they can be filled with milk and deliver the cargo to destinations as far away as two miles. The journey takes weeks.

Yes, they’re bulls. Yes, they’re the source of most of the Dairy Plant’s milk. No, you really shouldn’t ask.

While their milk yields are sour, a Mignottaur’s famously tender meat commands a high price at market. Of course, the creatures’ would-be butchers tend to become butchered first.

An Archon model designed to respond to a wide variety of commands, provided those commands involve stabbing something with a long sharp stick.

The least fancy of all Archons, but perhaps the most effective. Marching methodically into battle with a big axe and shield might be boring, but it gets the job done.

Fleshless and featherless, the Skelewing flies in the face of all aerodynamic convention. It is theorized that a Skelewing’s extraneous appendages are the grafted remnants of a Skullino’s discarded body.

Mighty warriors of the oceanic depths, Tritonts are famed for their stunning good looks and charisma. Their enigmatic haircare routine is one of the most treasured secrets in all the world, with entire nations having fallen in violent pursuit of the knowledge.

A resentful creature with the body of a lion, the tail of a scorpion, and the wings of something with wings. The poison contained within their barbs has a potent hallucinogenic effect, and they like to purposefully sting themselves to maintain their delusions that they can fly.

Gallo had long been haunted by frequent nightmares of being petrified slowly from the feet up to the head, but perhaps more frightening were his dreams of a gigantic predatory chicken. The Gallotrice’s birth was the moment he began to consider that scientific blasphemy as a form of emotional therapy might not be helping anybody.

Big, Big Golem! Put it together, and what do you get? The Big Big Golem Construction Set! Load it up! Truck along! Dump it out! Big Big Golem!

Following Gallo Tower’s abandonment by its founder, the scientist-sorcerers that remained were free to satiate their every curiosity, no matter how perverse or unhygienic. The Meat Golem is what happened when “Do No Harm” became “You Do You.”

They are not guardians that carry swords, but rather guardians of their swords. They jealously attack anybody who so much as looks at their mighty blades, which is practically everybody because look at the size of ‘em!

With a name like theirs, these colossal crustaceans were kind of railroaded into antagonism by a society that didn’t want to understand them. Would it surprise you to learn that Giant Enemy Crabs have an entire culture of their own? Schools of philosophy? Arts and education? Bigotry truly is a sad, sad thing.

A Molisano that’s sad.

A Molisano that’s happy.

A Molisano that you could introduce to your parents.

A Molisano that remembers when you were only yay high.

A Molisano that doesn’t really do much at all because it’s really, really dead.

Where are all the snowman when it's not the festive season? Here.

Fleeting visions of ghastly humans from a past far away. Some of them carry ancient memories, and might whisper to you some of the worst things they said when they walked the earth like "you have to pay us 20 gold per install". Today, nobody remembers them.

Sometimes there's so much greed summoned in the world that there aren't enough creatures, dead or alive, to contain it. When that happens, greed soaks into things and brings them to act, even the deep earth itself is raised into berserk elementals. Available in white and blue.

Despite appearances, a Madd-Onna is absolutely not a ghost, but just an illusion of a very angry woman who had lost every- actually she looks like she's singing now- no she's a dancer- wait is she sifting rice- could someone pause that animation loop please?

An enormous nine-tailed fox capable of summoning dire illusions, the Kizzune is a treacherous adversary that moves with formidable grace and speed, and hits heavily with its flaming tails. The Kizzune is heavily slowed down by snow and hates fire.

Santa Ladonna’s experimental alchemy often has unforeseen side-effects, such as these strange automatons. When one of Ladonna’s rituals went awry, she accidentally opened an angelic gate that spewed celestial magic onto a pile of her old VHS tapes, spawning this clanking cadre of retro robots.

“Why do angels keep invading that rusty, dusty old workshop? They’re supposed to be invading my church!” After making a cavalcade of such envious complaints, the Cardinal finally opened up their vast coffers and paid these Bounty Hunters to prevent anyone from getting into or out of the Laborratory. They’ve been prowling the corridors of Santa Ladonna’s old haunt for a few years now, each trying to figure out a way to escape without the others noticing.

What is the most dangerous game? This interstellar apex predator has scoured space and time to discover the answer to this question, hunting elk, alien mega-bears, and even defeating several futuristic virtual hunting simulators. Now, they’ve determined that the most dangerous game of all is hunting vampire hunters in an abandoned alchemist’s lab.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Unless you ask for the same thing 13 times, then you know what happens? Mecha-Gyorunton!

Tired of being expected to surrender a tenth of their eggs to humankind, the chickens launched a violent rebellion. Perhaps the hen tithe was a mistake. Now it is we who shall be sent to the other side as the world becomes a clucking hell.

Anyone who refused to take the poultry rebellion seriously received a wake up call when these guys appeared. Each cock is a hardened gallus and happy to crow about it, commanding the chickenfantry so humanity’s hubris may come home to roost.

Initial waves of chicken violence went unreported as nobody wanted to admit they’d just been savaged by a gang of adorable baby birds. One man bled to death rather than admit his arms had been chewed off, insisting he still had both hands even as they digested in the belly of the brood. They’re so cute though!

These crack troops are often used as ordnance, their shellfire creating a yolk of suppression. Always in the vanguard, they arrive before the chickens do. Even if we’re overthrown by killer birds, it’s nice to have settled that debate.

Particularly zealous chickens may undergo “Roastification” - plucked, gutted, and cooked with an onion shoved up themselves, alive and aware the entire time. Posing as tasty floor food, they devour any who eat them from the inside out. Fear the army that marches in your stomach.

Is it a god, is it a demon, or is it just a chicken that got really, really big? Science has suggested the latter, but contractual obligation to make this book as spicy as possible suggests some fowl combination of the first two things, thus satisfying the further obligation to refer to at least one creature from the Coop as “fowl.” Who doesn’t love a bit of birdplay?

The finest of the feathered fiends, moving gracefully even while stamping on their victims’ skulls with such brutality we coined the term “head porridge.” Many heads have been porridged, and at least one was mueslied, in the merciless march of the Abraxas Crown. Despite their advanced intelligence, they can still be fooled by a leaf-covered hole and a sign reading “free bird seed.”

Chicken Wizardry is one of the oldest forms of magic a sage can perform. Some say it’s just regular magic with a tenuously shoehorned bird theme, but take not lightly the dark powers of peckromancy. Not only can it make chickens run around after losing their heads, it gave rise to the most dreaded monster of all - a palette swap with buffed stats!

A bio-engineered alien soldier, based on nature's perfect predator - the bat. Unfortunately, the aliens who designed this warrior were not informed as to the existence of tennis rackets.

All rabbits live on the moon, it is known.

Within a generation, duck society has moved with unprecedented speed. Developing technology for locomotion, weaponry and aeronautics, they've investigated some of the most pressing questions in science and the humanities. But the story of the ducks has barely even begun.

The Space Ants build complex networks of tunnels within planets and moons, lit by crystals, oxygenated by mushroom colonies. However, their perfect and orderly society has done little to dissuade other beings from dubbing them the basement dwelling losers of the cosmos.

Ancient scrolls discovered in the deep subterranean temples of their home planet foretold that these beings would conquer the world. They did not, in fact, conquer anywhere, but got chased away by an astronomer wielding a blowtorch.

These blobs are actually super friendly and just want to deliver you a pleasant Experience. Unfortunately, they aren't aware that their bodies are composed of a slightly acidic slime.

Burner of libraries, champion of crashes, hogger of memories, this puzzle box is made to look smart and appealing while it's actually full of half-digested piles of sludge that slowly seep through its surface, making anyone who fell for its enticing presentation and dared to touch it end up sticky, icky, slow, frustrated, bombarded by soliciting attempts, and suddenly be charged hidden fees. Also a necessary evil.

After a pair of Twin Snakes die, their skeletal remains may mysteriously reawaken. They’re generally not pleased with this, because being a Twin Snake wasn’t particularly thrilling to begin with. They look happy though, so at least they don’t bring the mood down.

Nobody knows where these massive laughing skulls first came from. Nobody’s stopped to ask, because they’re massive laughing skulls and they eat horses.

When a panther’s hunger is so great that not even death can satiate its ravening, it returns to feed once more. It doesn’t know that its tummy has long rotted away, however, and is forever confused as to why it can’t keep down its prey.

The answer to the question, “What if skeletons were big?” The Cardinal would ask this question daily to his necromancers in that whiny tone of voice that suggested he really wanted them to make some, but was too embarrassed to outright ask for it. They eventually just made some.

More skeleton per skeleton. Skeletons that skeleton harder than the average skeleton. Hobbies include being skeletons, thinking about skeleton stuff, and casual skeletoning. God, the word “skeleton” is weird.

Said to be the result of attempts to create a “Bone Moon” for reasons that defy all sense and logic. Driven by hundreds of minds with a singular purpose, it is drawn to places of high skeletal activity with the intent of adding to its chittering mass and growing ever bigger. How would a Bone Moon even work? Pray this horrifying absurdity never comes to pass.

Powerful guardian of a race long thought extinct. Its mask represents the Sun, giver of life, subject of worship, and friend to ice cream sellers everywhere.

Powerful guardian of a race long thought extinct. Its mask represents the Moon, bringer of tides, object of mystery, and something to look at when you’re bored at night.

Powerful guardian of a race long thought extinct. Its mask represents advanced civilization, mastery of the world, social order, and littering.

Powerful guardian of a race long thought extinct. Its mask represents fire and fury, the rage of the natural world, seething heat and opposition to a man named Joe.

Beautiful but baleful, it is unknown whether these delphic entities are true living Atlanteans, magical constructs of a fallen civilization, or something even more curious. They’re not ghosts, so let’s eliminate that nonsense from the possibilities. Their masks are alluring, but none survive the demise of the wearer.

Known among reptilian experts as “the long mover,” they are happy little noodles and very adorable. So that nobody has to feel guilty mowing them down in the tens of thousands, let’s say they really enjoy being mowed down in the tens of thousands.

The ghastly consequences of experimental pesticide. Despite the name, they are not related to traditional garlic, making them useless as wards against the surely inevitable appearance of a vampire.

Crossbred by a trio of berry farmers, this offshoot of the Garlic is delicious but deadly. The farmers found this out after trying to make berry milk from its poisonous deposits. It was a ridiculous way for them to die.

Their woeful existences are similar to that of Sig.ra Rossi, but they’re significantly more depressed about it.

Did you know that when you put a lot of crabs in a bucket, they actually don’t try to pull each other down to stop any single one from escaping? That was something we projected onto them based on our own cynical and selfish attitudes. Just another example of anti-crab propaganda that your humble author hopes to challenge.

I can’t see them, but they see me. I can feel them. Watching. Always watching. The pressure of their gaze pushes down on me like earth on the grave. Who’s paranoid? Me? I’m not paranoid. You’re paranoid. Who’s looking at me from behind those lidless orbs?

The Interns of Eternity, they’ll reap anything but a paycheck. Really though, isn’t the work experience enough? Many are the apprentices of the Grim Maschera, each hoping to impress Lord Death enough that they may finally harvest souls on commission.

Beautiful and deadly warriors, the Tetrabrachia act as footsoldiers for Cappella Magna’s pious ruling class. They claim they can never be ambushed or surprised in a fight, because four-armed is forewarned.

An automated soldier with a tendency to overheat and catch fire. Rather than fix the problem, Gallo Tower claimed it was a feature instead of a bug, and sold these flame-wreathed safety violations to a cabal of demons who gave them great user reviews.

The Succubi came to Capella Magna in hopes of sowing seductive discord and bringing down the Most Holy Order from within. Their efforts have been met with complete frustration, however, as you cannot corrupt that which is already rotten to the core.

“When in doubt, make the sword bigger.” This design philosophy was key to the creation of the Rame, which also boasts the upper body strength required to lift said sword more than a foot off the ground.

When the Most Holy Order began ordaining literal demons, some suggested that perhaps the integrity of the system had been compromised. What foolishness. The system had no integrity to begin with.

Former personifications of innocence, their harmonious chorus once sang the glory of the Heavens. Now they sing of despair and destruction, of infidelity and indecency, of torment, torture, and mixing trash with recycling.

Porcelain faced miscreants that chant incessantly and ring their bells when others are trying to sleep. Even before their turn to evil, they were famed for being annoying and just a little bit creepy.

Angelic abominations whose beauty belies a malevolent intent. Soaked in vice, their every whim is a sick contradiction of the virtues they once extolled.

Gilded automatons drafted into service by the Most Holy Order to keep the peace. They didn’t so much keep the peace as keep breaking all the fancy stained glass with their mindless lumbering. They’re as expensive as they look.

Moved into Cappella Magna after the Order’s decisive fall. Spreading depravity and debasement wherever they roam, the Demon Beasts satisfy every wicked desire that crosses their lewd minds. Seriously, these guys are into some nasty, nasty stuff.

Big. Red. Horny. It really doesn’t get much more demonic than that. Arch Demons strive to exemplify all that it means to be a demon, and they’re diabolically good at it. They swear a lot, too.

Created to reach the stars, but she's gone much, much farther than that. She tore a hole in our universe, a gateway to another dimension. A dimension of pure chaos. Pure… evil. Look at her, isn't she beautiful?

“How many heroes have fallen now? How many campaigns have blazed a trail to power unimaginable and ended with a weak, pathetic bleating? Fight us if you will, forget us if you can. You soon shall be just another one of us. Defeated.”

Run from him. Defy him. Maybe even kill him, should you prove so arrogant. No matter the outcome, Lord Death always wins in the end. You can close your eyes, turn your head, and scream into the void, but with time you all shall wear his mask.

A Reaper that specializes in murder by illusion. Treasure hunters especially fall foul of the Trickster’s deadly jokes, eagerly pocketing the gems it manifests and learning all too late that they’ve stuffed their pantaloons with supernatural explosives. Loves to be the death of the party.

A Reaper that can’t take a hint. Once they set their eyes on a victim, nothing can dissuade them from an obsessive campaign of terror. Many of the Stalker’s victims die from exhaustion or simply surrender after years of pursuit. Beware should it take an interest in you. Wherever you go, it follows.

A Reaper that loves to make it rain. Stories claim that it once did so for forty days and forty nights, simply to impress a guy. In battle, the Drowner is a master of wet work, preferring to dampen the spirits of its adversaries with a torrent of abuse. Don’t fall foul of the original dead pool.

A Reaper whose true form lies beyond the edge of sanity. Bearing the power to alter reality itself, it exists to confuse and disorient, and feeds on the mental anguish inspired in its victims. When robbed of its ability to beguile, however, it falls prey to the very fear and bewilderment it causes in others, its very sense of self overridden by sheer panic.

A Reaper that considers itself a true visionary. It’s able to cast a veil of darkness around any hero it lays an obsidian finger upon, but every time it turns up for a fight the battlefield is already so full of particles, colors, and special effects that nobody can see a damn thing anyway. It contents itself by watching those heroes desperately hunt for floor chickens amidst the colorful chaos.

When the power of friendship goes planet. The ultimate personification of oblivion, The Ender encapsulates all aspects of true despair - Death, Madness, Obsession, Deceit, and Being Wet. Its arrival signifies true futility, a final warning to those who’ve embarked on a doomed quest and refuse to understand that what they seek is not here, in this world or the next.

Your favorite monsters like you’ve never seen before… BIG!

Was the last season of BIG monsters not BIG enough for you? Well, try these BIG monsters on for size! They’re so BIG!

How are you not impressed by how BIG these monsters are? They’re so BIG!

Its father was a great beast that arrived to this world within the belly of a meteor. Its mother was a fish. Each head has its own personality, core values, and political affiliation.

All that glitters is not gold. Sometimes it’s bats. While such a rare creature might seem to herald the coming of something truly momentous, it might surprise you to learn that, despite appearances, they are bats, and nothing more.

Boundless gifts. Sights beyond reality. Glimpses of the unthinkable.

Creatures of the stars, attuned to the syncopated rhythms of the cosmos. Untouchable to those not aligned with the correct astronomical wavelengths. Either that, or they’re just a bunch of mad lads who like to boogie down.

Those aware of the rare corner of the astral realm in which matter and soul blend into fair new configurations have learned to fear the Astral Chair. To share the air of the dread Chair is to invite wear and tear on the body bare. But what do you care?

There are rumors about these robes being sentient demons, capable of entangling unsuspecting bystanders and forcing them to do their devious bidding. They are said to appear when someone forgets to close the windows in very tall towers.

In this astral plane, the fire of the Infernas reaches into the minds of cosmic entities, driving them into a frenzy of harmonic discord. A veritable disco inferno, if you will. You won’t? That’s very fair. Strike that bit from the record.

Some portraits contain the souls sold by certain witches to obtain eternal youth and health. But let's talk about the Poetrait instead. As Poe becomes ever more aged and garlic scented, this elegant portrait becomes ever younger and smells increasingly of lavender. Who wouldn’t clamour for A Picture of Poe to Display?

Some see death as the great equaliser - the inevitable levelling of humanity that strips away rank, wealth, and creed. Those people will still have to report to Lord Ghost in the afterlife, paying spectral tithes to his spectral lordship. Or so it would be, if there were such things as ghosts.

When the great many-faced god of all things encountered the empty void, the void spoke thus, “Canst thou provide substance? Canst thou provide form?” And the many-faced god answered thus, “As a tonic for thy formless sorrow, I shall create a beginning of things. An embryonic gift, thinly shelled in the atomic matter of a new universe, and containing a concentration of reality.” In modern english: “Can I offer you a cosmic egg in this trying time?”

Even as infant demons, these gore-craving boors would graffiti the word "BLOOD" on the walls of the underworld and carve it into their satanic schooldesks. Among the most irritating of all hellspawn, they constantly chant about their abounding bloodlust, loudly proclaiming that they just cannot get enough of that vital red stuff. Frequently on the forefront of any infernal invasion force wherever reality intermingles with their evil nether-realm, these demons are always sent to the frontline, mostly because everyone just wants them to go away.

Have you ever read the tragedy of Seiu Darkasso the Sly? It’s not a story many who fight the forces of hell would tell you. It’s a vampire legend. Seiu was a warlock thrall, one so mighty and sly that they could control blood through occult incantations, manipulating life itself. This warlock had such knowledge of hemomancy, they could even prevent death… though, yes, mostly they used these powers to kill people. Seiu became so mighty, the only thing they feared was losing their sanguinary power. Eventually, of course, they did. They taught their neophyte every dark art they knew. Then the neophyte killed them while they were taking a power nap. Isn’t it ironic? Seiu could prevent death, even reverse it, but not for themself. Anyway, Ju Darkasso is the neophyte that killed Seiu Darkasso. Honestly, the less said about this warlock weirdo, the better.

Technically shapeshifters, these unpredictable terror-dogs have all chosen to maintain the form of a horrible hell-hound, finding perfect for mauling their enemies and enjoying demonic belly rubs. Though typically deployed as sentinels guarding the gates of important hecksites, some scheming Foo’Ori Darkassos are known for their abilities to posess mortals to complete secretive missions - if they don’t get distracted by any particularly appealing dog food first.

Once the prophetic terrors of the tides, these primordial shapeshifters were unable to predict their final fate - bewitched by the stone-sorcerer Bomarzo and bound to an eternal battle for Room 1665.

Animated by the devilish stone-sorcerer Bomarzo, these diabolic golems are composed of ogre dieties caught in a moment of intense embarrassment. Before their petrification, these ogres feasted on the flesh of liars, but all came to the same end - caught mid-bathroom-break by Bomarzo and transformed into automatons of his wicked will.

After witnessing mortal heroes “dual-wielding” two weapons at once, devilish fleshcrafters decided to one-up their corporeal enemies, creating these demonic golems capable of quad-wielding four forsaken hellblades at once. Due to an unreasonable infernal deadline the fleshcrafters didn’t actually have time to make them any weapons, leaving the Eh’Lleve-Teh Darkasso unarmed with a minor case of impostor syndrome.

Hell operates on a trickle-down treasurenomics system, and these tiny troublemakers are sick of demonic inequality. The Levatee Darkasso collective have seen right through the unfair structure that constrains them, benefitting the treasure chest hoarding “Bosses” while leaving nothing but a few scant gems for regular enemies - but no longer! These goblinoid thieves are redistributing stolen treasures amongst the demonic masses, so please don’t disturb them.

Greed incarnate, these baneful balls are the final fate of those that succumb to the ancient idiom “eyes bigger than belly”. Hoard roast chicken at your peril, lest the foul magics of Room 1665 transform you into an unholy optical orb, a mouthless being cursed with insatiable hunger. Unless you’re a cat - cats are immune to this, for whatever reason.

Some say they’re the cursed souls of business owners who profited greatly by paying their workers a pittance and keeping millions for themselves. After amassing fabulous wealth, they jettisoned their laborers to pocket just a little more for themselves. This idea has been dismissed as mere myth, for surely no human could be so thoroughly cruel.

They resemble a common undead monster but are in fact a hybrid of plant and mineral. While this floral ore is aggressive, it’s worth cultivating for the precious golden yields. If they’re growing in your garden, it’ll be the only time you celebrate having Piles.

When a jellyfish eats too much gold, a terrifying transformation takes place whereby it turns from a living jellyfish into a dead jellyfish. Kind of obvious, really. A jellyfish shouldn’t be eating any amount of gold. No idea what these things are, by the way.

Renardo the Necromancer made a lot of money after selling Edna’s genome to Gallo Industries. Pressured to deliver another killing machine, he developed Edna II: Gold Bug. He definitely didn’t just nail a cheaply painted plastic head to a dead insect and cash in before anyone noticed.

Their hearts are harder than diamond, they’ll club you to death, and they’re not afraid to call a spade a spade. Know when to fold ‘em if you hear one shuffle your way, lest it deck you. You’ll collapse like a house of dominos.

Barms are sworn to protect scrolls of great literary significance, though the parchments they guard all feature drawings of dubious educational value. It’s best not to describe the pictures, so let’s just say major credit card companies are pushing to have them censored.

The accursed casino has a strict “no rotting body parts” policy. To comply with the flesh code, pestilent ghouls are encased in a gilded carapace that contains their foulness. Most of them work the tables until they go irrevocably mad from no longer being able to scratch their itchy infections.

Brownies are unaffected by the Cursino, retaining their free will and physical autonomy. They soon felt left out, however, since losing one’s free will and physical autonomy became the hot new trend. They pretend to be as enthralled as everyone else, hoping to stave off the most dreadful curse of all - FOMO.

Female and fem-presenting dragons who assist the Barms in their safekeeping of tasteful adult media. They’re completely loyal to the sauce material.

There’s this guy selling keychains of these things who keeps asking me to make them “a thing.” I refuse to burn my integrity by contriving merchandisable horror “lore” for these weird goblins. They’re just stinky little guys, and there’s nothing deeper to them.

Unlike their risqué cousins, these palette-swapped scrollkeepers guard a treasure trove of holy scriptures, straight edge lifestyle guides, and family friendly stories full of moral lessons. Their library is roughly ten thousand times less popular than the one with all the cheeky doodles.

They’d like you to pick a card, any card. You’ll lose no matter your choice, for every single one has been swiped up the Gamblin’s moist buttcrack. A laugh at your expense is the cheapest thing Westwoods has to offer.

Legend has it that a Jastor is born whenever a writer struggles to come up with a pun involving playing cards and clowns. It’s such a highly specific scenario that these creatures are exceedingly rare. Anyway, I once saw one kick a cat’s head off. True story.

When a gambler’s too successful for management’s liking, they may find themself forcibly frisked by furious forest fungi. The Cursino uses these mushroom bouncers to enforce a cap on winnings.

Any adventurer foolish enough to desire entry into Westwoods has got to pay the troll toll to get in. At least, that’s what the naive Toll seems to think. It’s a forest, you can just walk into it from any direction.

The heart of the cards, unless that phrase is trademarked, in which case it’s the primary circulatory organ of 52 rectangular pieces of polyethylene-coated paper commonly used in games such as poker, blackjack, and garlic rummy.

The squirrels of Westwoods knew nothing of money before the Cursino took hold. Now they hoard cash over cashews, demolishing their cute hovels to live in canopy penthouses. This newfound avarice hastened the forest’s fall to gentreefication.

On reflection, the keychain guy might be onto something. If I write a bunch of vague nonsense and arbitrarily redact half the words, we’ll be knee deep in fan theories and selling plush dolls by the boatload. I bet the dimwit proles will eat it up. (Note to self: remove this incriminating note before sending the latest volume for publication)

Torinos come from a pocket dimension famous for its wildlife tours, a sort of “safari” zone if you will. The Milk Mages tried to catch them all after learning how delectable their creamy drippings were. Many instead caught a pair of horns with their all-too fragile ribcages.

A Torino that has evolved through fetamorphosis. Their milk rapidly matures along with them, developing into a potent cheese. Too solid to be extracted through their udders, it must be surgically removed via brie-section.

A fully morphed Torino, artificially evolved by lactomantic magicks. While they no longer yield dairy produce, any milk they consume is processed in the digestive system and comes out as a delicious spreadable. The creation process may give a layperson pause, but let’s be honest, it ranks fairly low on the list of disgusting things a cheese connoisseur is willing to try.

What happened to the previous sixteen Colossi? They’re an urban legend, officially considered fiction despite persistent rumors. Why the heck did we start at number seventeen for this one, then? I’m seriously asking. We know one thing for sure - the Colossus is a beautiful and peaceful beast, beloved by all. Can you imagine ever hurting something so precious, so innocent, so dedicated to the art of minding its own adorable business? You’d have to be a world class coglione to even consider it. Almost as bad as letting a horse fall to its presumed death without bothering to see if it’s okay.

Sinister shadows fall over the generic Italian countryside, flapping, flaming, and freakishly bloody big. Some say that the first vampire was the child of a dragon, but as nobody thus far has ever conducted an interview or an ancestry test with a vampire, I’m inclined to believe “Bat Dragon” is just a title for a very large bat, and dragons aren’t real. What’s certain is that anyone bold or foolish enough to disturb one of these monstrosities is surely marked for death, as the Bat Dragon uses its size, speed, and sonar to relentlessly chase its targets until its thirst for their blood is slaked. The Bat Dragon’s hematophagy and use of sonar almost certainly confirm that they aren’t actually dragons at all - they’re bats, and nothing more. I hope.

Dragons have four legs, plus a pair of wings. Drakes only have two legs, plus a pair of wings. Both Dragons and Drakes are mythical, and Bat Drakelets are actually bats, and nothing more. Bat Drakelets seem to be summoned by Bat Dragons, so they may have some sort of symbiotic relationship. I hesitate to suggest that a Bat Dragon might in some way spawn Bat Drakelets, as they do seem to use them as meat shields, which would be abhorrent parental behaviour even for a malevolent creature of the night.

As above, so below. These strange seraphs rise from the depths of the lake bed, rumoured to be angels that fled the chaos in Capella Magna, only to find that not everything is better down where its wetter. Whatever their divine providence, their celestial song vibrates through water with perfect quality, harmonising with the rumbles of Deep Hams to form a choir that tugs and twists the soul.

Though their name suggests they’d make the perfect surf and turf, Deep Hams are too ethereal to eat, dissipating into cosmic mist the moment any type of tooth gets near them. Emerging from lakebed trenches, they possess an air of celestial intelligence, despite the way the float mindlessly into masses of projectiles with seemingly no sense of self preservation.

Considered a delicacy by absolutely nobody, these cutey-crawlies combine all the slimy wetness of a regular surface slug with the magical dampness of the lakebed. I don’t think they have any idea of the arcane significance of the Lycaeum, or that Moongolow is just around the corner - in fact, I’m not even sure they have brains.

Half-man, half-horse, half-fish, and fully confusing. They rail against the Damp God of the Mermen, choosing instead to spend their time studying the soaked tomes of the Lycaeum and independently developing underwater games.

Whoever named these moist monstrosities was clearly dehydrated, as they’re only found at the bottom of a lake and taste nothing like spinach. These leafy beasts swim around the Lycaeum aimlessly, taking issue with any intruders that disturb their ponderings on dimorphism.

This species of under-lake lizards once had eyes and a high standing in aquatic society before they somehow saw a strange forbidden sign that forever changed their minds, bodies, and souls. Some say they still search for their excised peepers, warped and enlarged to serve some cosmic force, but I reckon they’re just blindly attacking anyone nearby.

One would imagine the prehensile-grabby-hand-tail-thing of an Awizotl would be used to snag prey, but shockingly, these wet pets were created by the ancient arcanists of the Lycaeum to be excellent jugglers. Consigned to live underwater when the Lycaeum collapsed to the bed of a lake, they are completely unable to serve their ball-throwing purpose, causing immeasurable feline fury that they unleash at every opportunity.

If you put a frog in boiling water, it will jump out. If you put a frog in cold water and slowly heat it up, you're being weird. If you put a frog in the arcanely-tainted waters of the Lycaeum, it'll eventually turn into one of these big aggressive amphibians, yet another reason why it really isn't safe to be down there at all.

When this magical sub-species of jellyfish blushes, their translucent membrane turns completely sea-through. Unfortunately, they find having their innards on display in this way incredibly embarrassing, causing them to blush even more in a vicious (and potentially viscous) cycle of awkwardness.

Eldest and soggiest of all the Lycaeum's guardians, they pose riddles to all who dare trespass in those hallowed, sunken halls. Since nobody has figured out how to talk underwater, the only answer a Deep Sphynx has ever gotten to a riddle is "glub glub", which has made them so mad they've just started attacking people.