Worldscar · Bestiary
Where the corruption took root first. Beneath the green, the grove remembers what it was, and grieves it — beasts run feral and the old spirits will not lie still.
16 creatures catalogued
Small, starving, and never alone.
The grove's hunger wears a hundred small bodies, chittering up out of the bracken in packs too quick to mourn. Fire scatters them — a torch to the underbrush is worth more than any blade.
It learned to walk where the moss rots.
A lumpen thing of bog-moss and old appetite, the gurkle drags itself between the trees on knuckles gone green. Dry rot remembers how easily it once caught, and so the creature fears an open flame.
Hunger that hunts between the trees.
A lean predator the Worldscar sharpened into something crueler than any wolf. It runs the half-dark of the treeline and flinches from one thing only — the light of a fire.
Patient as the rot that made it.
Bark and bramble have fused to its ancient shell, and it will outlast every blow you spend on it. But the dry thatch across its back takes to flame all too eagerly.
The first to charge, the first to fall.
Runts of the warren, flung forward to blunt a Warden's blade. They die easily — but a careless swing only invites the pack, and the pack does not tire.
The forest's grief, given antlers.
Where the woodland rotted first, the deer did not die — they hollowed. It walks the treeline on legs of black bark, two cold lanterns for eyes, and a blade finds nothing to bite in a thing already emptied of itself.
Grown bold on the bones of the careless.
A goblin that has lived long enough to feed well, thicker of hide and meaner of eye. It drives the smaller ones ahead of it and feasts on whatever they drag down.
Beauty soured into something wrong.
Its coat is still white, in the way bone is white. The pale unicorn drifts the glades it once blessed with its horn lowered, and what was holy in it now answers only to hexes and shadow.
The grove's nightmare, given a shape.
No one agrees what The Beast was before the corruption found it. It moves like the memory of an animal, and honest steel slides through it like fog — only the arcane leaves a wound.
It runs down what it cannot forgive.
Half-man, half-stag, all fury, the wildhorn centaur thunders through the undergrowth on the trail of anything that still breathes clean. It is fast and proud, and it had never once feared fire until it met one.
It burns cold, and rises wrong.
Death cannot keep the emerald phoenix, only twist each return a little further from grace. It blazes with a green, joyless light that steel cannot quench — but the arcane and the shadow can finally let it rest.
Green coils in the old, deep wood.
It slid out of a barrow no one remembers digging, scaled in lichen and patience. Its own venom is nothing to it — but the cold creeps into a serpent's blood and slows the strike.
It wears a crown of antlers it did not grow.
Every warren bends to the largest skull, and this one clubbed its way to the front. It bellows the pack into a frenzy; cut the chant short and the rest lose their nerve, for steel alone barely troubles its hide.
The canopy's jealous guardian.
A lesser drake grown vast on tainted sap, it nests in the high green and falls on intruders like a thunderclap of wings. For all its bulk, the old fear of the forest still lives in it: flame.
The grove's oldest wound, walking.
When the corruption first took root it seized the largest thing it could find, and Bramblewrath has been growing around that rot ever since. Mountainous and slow, it shrugs off any blade; only a hex spoken into its hollow heart will bring the timber down.
It remembers the forest before the scar.
The last of the great wakeful trees, the Elder Treant stands rooted in grief at the heart of the grove. Axes only anger it — but the spirit bound in its rings is bared to the arcane.