From the stone it watches—not with rage, but with purpose. The stalagmite was not there yesterday. Now it waits, tendrils twitching with hunger and something older still: memory.
It clings to walls, ceilings, and the scent of ancient death. Vlekkth is not a creature you see—it’s the thing that sees you melt from above.
Beneath the ruined temple, where light dare not reach and time forgets, it lingers—a glistening cube of sludge and secrets. But this one watches.
Gribbleshank lurks in the crypts of ancient ruins, expertly mimicking a worn but glittering treasure chest. Unlike common mimics, he possesses a biting wit, a nasty sense of humor, and an obsession with “deserving” tribute from those who enter his domain.
The right pair o’ boots can change your life—or at least how far you can run from it.
The land keeps no secrets. It just takes patience to read them.
Any fool can break a wall. Takes a craftsman to build one that holds through storm and sorrow.
Ink remembers what mouths forget.
Ale tells the truth quicker than any man does.
Dread horrors. Forgotten titans. Mind-bending enigmas. And now—they’re getting the spotlight they deserve.
In the cobwebbed archives beneath a shattered mage’s tower in Gloomshade, something watches. Varnyx is no mindless horror but a broken, whispering thing—once a master of divination, now a creature of single-minded obsession.
As the colony’s Synaptic Harmonist, Zhorr’Vael is entrusted with refining and organizing the collective mental chorus beneath the elder brain. Where other mind flayers conquer and consume, he orchestrates.