Worldscar · Bestiary
The city kept walking after it died. Bone and rot and old hexes shuffle the streets of the Necropolis, and its priests still preach to congregations of the dead.
19 creatures catalogued
Bone that kept the shape of a charge.
Death took the rider and the mount and could not separate them, so they ride on as one rattling ruin. Poison finds nothing left to spoil — but fire and arcane light burn the binding-rot from its joints.
A blade and a grudge and not much else.
Picked clean and propped up by the Necropolis, it lunges fast and breaks faster. Mind the quick tell, then end it with flame — it has no flesh left to fear a blade.
It forgot how to fall down.
Barely held together by the corruption's habit, this one comes apart at a firm blow. Still, do not let the slow ones crowd you, and remember that flame ends them where a blade only scatters the pieces.
The city's dead, and still walking it.
The Necropolis does not let its citizens rest; they shuffle the old streets on errands they have long forgotten. Rot and poison are home to them now — but fire and the arcane unmake what shadow keeps animate.
It harvests what the city forgot to bury.
Wreathed in grave-dust and purpose, the bone-reaper drifts the tombs swinging a scythe worn thin by centuries. Shadow and poison are its allies; only fire and the arcane part it from its grim work.
It paints its hexes in old blood.
Robed in rust-red and muttering, the crimson hexer trades in curses that curdle the will. Its sorcery shrugs off rival magic, so do not duel it at range — a single blade closes the conversation.
It wears a devil's shape over a corpse's hunger.
Not a true fiend but a dead thing the corruption dressed in horns and spite, the demon stalks the Necropolis playing at damnation. Poison and shadow flatter it; fire and the arcane call its bluff.
It learned a little death-magic, and forgot everything else.
Rattling through half-remembered hexes, this one keeps its distance and flings cold malice from afar. Close the gap fast; fire and the arcane scatter brittle bone across the flagstones.
Bloated on a century of the grave.
Heavier and harder to drop, it swings with the dumb strength of dead muscle that never tires. Poison wastes itself against it — bring fire, or burn out your arm trying.
It calls things out of the cold ash.
From the burnt heart of the Necropolis it summons grey and grasping shapes, never spending itself when it can spend another. Spells slide off its wards; close the distance and strike the conjurer, not the smoke.
No name survived it. Only this.
Whatever it was, the Necropolis took even that, and left only the fact of it standing in the dark. It endures shadow and rot as if they were comforts — and answers, at last, to fire and the arcane.
It conducts the bone-choir from the front.
A skeletal magus that rallies the dead with raised staff and droning hex, its wards turning the arcane aside. But it is fragile bone beneath the bravado, and a blade through the chant ends both.
It marshals the dead by sheer dead weight.
Something in the rot still issues orders, and the shambling ranks lurch to obey this one. A bruise of a creature that shrugs off steel, it is best undone with a hex that scatters the procession's conductor.
It sees you from angles that should not exist.
A knot of eyes and weeping dark, the manyeyed-horror bobs through the Necropolis watching all at once. It has no armor to speak of — frost cripples its hover, and a solid blow ends the staring for good.
The shadow that circles the bell-towers.
It rides the dead air over the city on wings like torn banners, stooping on anything that dares the open streets. Ground it with frost, then break it — for all its terror, it is a fragile thing in the hand.
A dragon's ghost, jealous of the living.
Only the malice of the drake survived, and it haunts the high ruin as a coil of cold vapor. Blades pass clean through the wraith-drake; only the arcane and the shadow give it something to lose.
All eye, and all of it hungry.
It hangs in the ruined halls like a swollen moon of malice, and to be seen by it is to be marked. Frost numbs its drifting menace, and a hard strike can burst what merely floats.
It preaches a sermon only the dead attend.
Once the Necropolis had a high priest, and death only promoted him. The Pale Hierophant raises whole congregations of bone with a gesture, his wards turning the arcane to mist — so silence the sermon the one way left to you: a blade, up close, through the prayer.
An angel turned inside out by the dark.
It descends on the Necropolis trailing too many wings and a halo of absence, beautiful in the way a wound is beautiful. Frost fouls its terrible grace, and a heavy enough blow casts the seraph back down.