Worldscar · Bestiary
A warzone of furnace and rust. The Iron Blight grinds on without anyone to run it — guardians, war-engines, and drakes of slag and fire.
13 creatures catalogued
Armored in the ruin it crawled out of.
Plated in scavenged iron and powered by sheer corrupted spite, the ironhelm-brute wades through blows that would fell anything softer. Your sharpest edge skates off the plate — undo it with a hex instead.
All charge, very little plan.
A lesser brute of the Iron Blight that knows exactly one tactic: lower the head and run. Side-step the charge for a clean opening, and remember that a hex bites where salvaged armor turns a blade.
Iron-shod and spoiling for it.
Bigger, meaner, and bolted into more scrap, the medium orc trades blows all day and grins through them. Do not try to out-hit it through the plate; the arcane and the shadow find the brute beneath.
It breathes the forge that birthed it.
Slag-scaled and smoldering, the ashmaw-drake prowls the dead foundries exhaling embers. Fire only feeds it — bank its furnace with frost, the one thing the Iron Blight could never keep warm.
It rises from the foundry's ash, again and again.
Born of industrial fire and corrupted rebirth, the cinder-phoenix burns through death and returns hotter each time. Flame is wasted on it; only the deep cold of frost can break the cycle of its burning.
A guardian that outlived its purpose.
Gold-plated and patient, it still stands its ancient post in the ruined halls, mistaking every traveler for a thief. No blade scores the gilding and poison finds nothing to rot — but heat warps it and hexes scramble the old commands.
It drives the warband with a rusted fist.
The biggest iron in the blight leads from the front, bellowing the others into a clanging charge. Bring it down first — a hex through its armor silences the warhorn and scatters the rest.
It refracts your own spells into knives.
A construct-priest of cut glass, the prism-seraph turns the light of magic against whoever cast it. The arcane breaks upon its facets uselessly; close in, where one solid blow brings the whole brilliant lie down.
All jaw, and built to bite.
A scrap-fed engine of teeth that rolls through the blight devouring metal and men alike. Blades shatter on its hide and poison cannot touch the iron — but heat softens the maw and a hex jams its grinding works.
A war-angel forged and then forgotten.
Beautiful and lethal, the rose-valkyrie carries out a battle-order no one remembers giving, her blades spread like petals of steel. Physical force barely mars her plating; fire and the arcane are what finally still the machine.
It carries the foundry's lightning in its veins.
Coiled in crackling iron, the storm-drake earths its fury through anything that touches the blighted ground. Venom and current are nothing to it — but frost cools the storm and slows the strike.
It guards a door to nowhere, forever.
The Iron Blight's great machine-guardian still holds its post, vast and humming with borrowed starlight. Weapons ring off its armor and poison beads away — but fire warps the frame, and a hex unwrites the orders that keep it standing.
The heart of the blight learned to walk.
Some titanic foundry-engine woke with a furnace for a soul, and now the Forge Colossus stamps through the ruin trailing molten wreckage. Fire is its blood and only feeds it — only frost, poured into that roaring core, can bank the giant for good.