Crea­tures, ene­mies, and the rules cor­re­spond­ing them.

Mon­sters die dif­fer­ent­ly. They have a vital­i­ty stat that depletes when they are wound­ed, los­ing points equal to wound severity—1, 2, or 3 per hit. They suf­fer malus per their malus stat every X vital­i­ty lost. At 0 vital­i­ty, they die. 6-dam­age wounds kill instant­ly.

Mon­sters have unique hit loca­tion charts. Chart­ed body areas fea­ture their armor and the wound effects caused by hit­ting them; these are list­ed in ital­ics and occur if the mon­ster’s wound resist roll fails (For­ti­tude - sever­i­ty.) Sever­i­ty 1 wounds incur no effects.

Wound effects are not stress­es. Some are sim­i­lar to the wound effects expe­ri­enced by cut­ters. They include:

Peo­ple nev­er have a vital­i­ty stat. They die com­plex­ly, as cut­ters do. This can make them more dan­ger­ous.

on statblocks

The more inhu­man or excep­tion­al an ene­my is, the more it breaks the rules. These diver­gences makes them faster for you to run and more unpre­dictable to the cut­ters fac­ing them.

Some ene­mies:

• Don’t roll to hit. “No atk roll” attacks can’t be aimed at body areas.
• React dif­fer­ent­ly to your defens­es, forc­ing wise reac­tions. Some defens­es are more effec­tive than oth­ers. Oth­ers less so.
• Act unpre­dictably and more often in the ini­tia­tive order.

Guide for read­ing stat­blocks:

• “✓” means “suc­cess”
• Every­thing after the “:” describes an attack­’s hit effect
• [Brack­et­ed] text described how defens­es inter­act with an attack.
• Reach mat­ters. Oppo­nents with supe­ri­or reach get an edge when defend­ing.
• Ene­mies can block, dodge, and coun­ter­at­tack like cut­ters. Their block stat is equal to their main weapon’s dam­age stat.
• Ene­mies can abuse the same edges as cut­ters.
• Ene­mies die when they suf­fer death and dis­mem­ber­ment.

Amoeba

Mono­cel­lu­lar slimes. A com­mon sub­ter­ranean nui­sance. Amoe­bas advance blind­ly, attempt­ing to sub­sume life, dan­ger­ous in their sin­gle­mind­ed­ness and inci­den­tal stealth. Eas­i­ly evad­ed, but eas­i­ly stum­bled upon. Most amoe­ba species ambush at close range, pre­fer­ring to drop on tar­gets’ heads.

Top­ic: Mon­sters -2: Griseat­ic amoe­bas, AKA grey slimes. Com­mon in climes nat­u­ral­ly rich in griso­date salt, name­ly around the Bay of Grey. These slimes absorb nutri­ents from oth­er life­forms by par­tial­ly or ful­ly engulf­ing them in their cel­lu­lar mem­brane.

Top­ic: Mon­sters -2: Chalk­stone amoe­bas, AKA col­loid amoe­bas or smoth­er­stone. Infa­mous adver­sary of sub­ter­ranean explor­ers. Filled with min­er­als eat­en off cave walls, they exhib­it shear thick­en­ing, hard­en­ing, impe­ri­ous to dam­age when struck. They are attract­ed to move­ment, espe­cial­ly to breath­ing, which they can sense at dis­tance, attempt­ing to enve­lope the source. Infa­mous for suf­fo­cat­ing sleep­ers in deep caves.

beastman

Prop­er­ly known as ekheinum, beast­men are the ter­ri­to­r­i­al sor­cer­er-min­ions of Idra. They are robust humanoid brutes with deer or elk-like heads full of human teeth. Their yel­low eyes gleam with a vul­gar approx­i­ma­tion of sapi­ence dri­ven by dom­i­nance, the rut, and appalling dis­plays of ter­ri­to­r­i­al vio­lence.

Num­ber appear­ing: 2d4+2 beast­men, if orga­nized. Equal parts does and stags. If found on patrol: 1d6+2.

bat

Large bat species are a com­mon nui­sance in aban­doned cas­tles and moun­tain val­leys. They are a com­mon reser­voir of dis­eases, which they are immune to but read­i­ly spread to oth­er mam­mals. Gul­ly bats in particular—AKA Bal­tese moun­tain bats—are ter­ri­to­ri­al­ly aggres­sive and car­ry a bat­tery of sick­ness­es.

Dis­eases: Con­tact with gul­ly bats risks ague, blight, or split­ting sick­ness.

Num­ber appear­ing: Gul­ly bats live in small colonies of 6–12 ani­mals. The males depart the roost to raid intrud­ers (1d6+2 bats.)

centipede

All cen­tipede species are poi­so­nous. Large species are heat sen­si­tive, a trait they use to hunt down sub­stan­tial­ly larg­er prey.

Top­ic: Mon­sters -2: False-carmine cen­tipedes are com­mon arthopods found in sandy areas. Their bril­liant red col­or indi­cates matu­ri­ty and cor­re­sponds with the full devel­op­ment of their ven­om glands. Despite this col­or, the cen­tipedes are not a source of carmine dye; the red fades in their tis­sues short­ly after death. Their poi­son, how­ev­er, while not potent, keeps indef­i­nite­ly.

crab

Large species of crab are endem­ic Coast-wide, and near­ly all of the are edi­ble.

lemure

Spir­its, they say. Lemures shirk sun­light, pre­fer­ring sea­caves, abbat­toirs, and moon­light fish­mar­kets. They are scav­engers, but may attack oppor­tunis­ti­cal­ly if pestered.

Rare, healthy lemures acquire the abil­i­ty to cob­ble skele­tal mus­cle into their bor­rowed physiques, mak­ing them larg­er, more struc­tural­ly dis­tinct, and vast­ly strong. These “carnous” lemures are not squea­mish like their less­er brethren: They brachi­ate about on crude arms, will­ful­ly attack­ing livestock—and people—for their infe­ri­ors to scav­enge.

mandrake

A par­a­sitic humano-assump­tive pro­to­car­ni­vore. The man­drake roots in human brains, lat­er pilot­ing the corpse to seek out fer­til­iz­ing flesh. Its weapon is a ultra­son­ic cry, lethal at close range.

Defend­ing against the man­drake’s cry

Sim­ple hear­ing pro­tec­tion (wax or corks in ears) lets you ignore the first effect of every cry. Advanced hear­ing pro­tec­tion (iso­la­tion suit, shoot­ing muffs, being deaf) allows you ignore the first 2.

manticore

Sor­cer­ous ter­ror units. Sus­tained by sor­cer­ous half-life, but infa­mous for a habit of devour­ing human prey. Hunger dri­ves them. Hunger unre­al, inca­pable of sati­a­tion. Many heraldic myths con­fuse lions with man­ti­cores, attribut­ing to the big cats a delib­er­ate vicious­ness and hate­ful demeanor unearned.

plague

ragwretch

rattleshake

A rat­tle­shake haunts killers, col­lect­ing its share of bones. When the bones run out, the hunter becomes the mon­ster’s next meal.

stryge

topple

A mature dust­bun­ny. An adult dox­bell. A cautelous and furtive pol­ter­geist. Not mere­ly a house­hold pest, but an over-turn­er of domes­tic life.

wag

The folk of the coun­try­side fear and despise the wag, called also the gan­grel or the fairy-dog. It is a mil­i­tant force of the oth­er­world: While sprig­gans are a reminder that the oth­er is near and work­ing sub­tly to expand, the appear­ance of a wag (or wags, for they always come in packs) is notice that you are being active­ly col­o­nized. The cack­le of the wag—their con­stant, seem­ing­ly-mean­ing­less expres­sion of glee, yapped con­tin­u­al­ly to each oth­er while at play or at mischief—is a hat­ed sound in the night­time woods, for it means they are wreak­ing their mis­deeds; heard but unseen, simul­ta­ne­ous­ly hid­den and con­fi­dent­ly glee­ful in their ras­cal­i­ty.

A pack of wags wreaks no direct vio­lence on humankind: They will not hunt or will­ing­ly kill peo­ple. Instead, they embark on elab­o­rate mis­sions of ter­ror and nui­sance, tar­get­ing crops, live­stock, and prop­er­ty. They craft and wield sim­ple tools—such as self bows, in which they are frus­trat­ing­ly proficient—and raid spar­o­d­i­cal­ly. They steal chick­ens, bespoil crops, mur­der farm dogs, block up out­hous­es, and—most notably—assemble traps in wood­lands. They do it all unseen, if not unheard, dis­pers­ing imme­di­ate­ly when con­front­ed. If found in their ter­ri­to­ry, in the wilds, they have no con­fi­dence what­so­ev­er: They play skit­tish and guilty, or behave as if they are being pros­e­cut­ed. They will tell as much, for gan­grels, in their lim­it­ed cog­ni­tion, can speak human words—though they do so non­sen­si­cal­ly and with no regard for the truth, com­pre­hend­ing only the present tense.

Top­ic: Monsters/Otherworld -2: As in all real fairies, black blood runs in the veins of wags. They are hurt by iron. Fear of it fuels their guilty and avoidant nature. Addi­tion­al­ly, wag anato­my makes them unable to tru­ly stand erect: When at archery, they shoot from a low, hunched pos­ture with a reversed grip. When mobile, they hold any weapons or tools in their mouths and dash low over the ground. For this pos­tur­al quirk, they are loth to engage in melee with larg­er com­bat­ants.

wolf

130 years ago, the last grey wolves were shot in east­ern Leah. These were the world’s own wolves, who hunt­ed long before humans ever named it Nôren. Hat­ed for all his­to­ry as maneaters and sheep-steal­ers, they were vicious­ly and final­ly extir­pat­ed come the Indus­tri­al Enlight­en­ment. Only pelts remain of them.

What wolves stalk the hin­ter­lands now do not belong here. The remotest echo of their song por­tends as much: Deep­er, sin­cer­er in slaugh­ter­ous intent than ever the grey wolves sang. The mere glimpse of one a val­ley over spells a rav­ish­ment of the heart and sens­es, a long instant of ter­ror dif­fi­cult to escape. They are a shape and an affect unmeant for the Coast, thor­ough­ly dis­turb­ing: The long cross-step lope. The low­ered venat­ic skull. The atra­men­tous eyes vivid with intel­lect.

These are the black wolves of the Oth­er­world. Long checked by the late autochthon­ic greys and con­tained to the East­ern reach­es, they prey now upon the wider Coast. Their depre­da­tions do not stop at sheep. They do not respect the ter­ri­to­ries of man or beast. They claim trav­el­ers from the for­est paths with can­dor and hard­ly shirk at gun­shots or fire. They bleed black as fairies do, but unlike them gorge on the red flesh of Coastal folk and ani­mals unburned by the iron. They devour hun­dreds, year­ly.

Named for their jet coats and eyes, black wolves are clever, pow­er­ful, and ruth­less. Their ears are long and keen. Their skin tough and reluc­tant to spill its black blood. Their pelts often adorned with woven embell­ish­ments bestowed by fairies, who love them dear­ly. Stand­ing boun­ties pay for any black pelt deliv­ered, just as they did long ago for the endem­ic greys. None can tal­ly the pelts redeemed against the wolves’ kills, though—the wolves con­sume them bones and all.

Black wolves always appear in packs of 2d6 mem­bers.

Some black wolves turn tita­ni­um-white in win­ter and nev­er turn black again. These white wolves are clos­er to the oth­er­world than their kin: They turn invis­i­ble as älves do. Typ­i­cal­ly, white wolves rapid­ly assume the role of pack leader and spawn lethal packs of invis­i­ble chil­dren.

1-in-6 chance for any wolf­pack to con­tain 1–2 white lead­ers.