Vampire Weekend: "Playtime's over! Grant me power!"

    There's an event going on where a bunch of people post about vampires. You know who's a vampire?

This guy.

    Vampires as an institution have always tended slightly towards the goofy, but Castlevania's vampires (mostly just Dracula, but his underlings Olrox and Ca(r)milla and his predecessor Walter Bernhard have demonstrated similar abilities) are goofy in my favorite way: they suddenly turn into big silly-looking monsters for some reason.

The original 'transformed' Castlevania Dracula, and the sixteen-bit homage to it introduced in Rondo of Blood.

    The reasons why they can do this - or why they would choose to, other than to make the final battle seem more impressive (since most people seem to find the regular teleporting, fireball-throwing humanoid forms tougher) aren't ever explained in very much detail. It seems like Dracula himself may be more of a demonic possessee or antichrist than a vampire in the 'cursed undead' sense that we usually think of them - he was never actually bitten by anything, instead getting his powers originally from having a magic stone that captured the soul of another powerful transforming vampire, and also made the Grim Reaper his best pal. 

Look at this fucking thing. This is a vampire.

    In the Japanese manual to one of the NES games, it's proposed that Dracula struck a bargain with a forgotten evil god to resurrect its cult; when he reincarnates in the mid-2010s as a Japanese amnesiac, it's suggested that the cosmic force of Chaos has selected him to be a figure in direct and eternal opposition to god. It's never explained why this necessitates turning into a big freaky muppet-ghoul, though, or why other vampires can casually do it (presumably without being the earthly avatars of their own anti-deities), or why he has so many different 'true' forms.

(Although, interestingly, there IS a canonical explanation for why his pre-transformation human forms look different - Dracula 'resurrects' by incarnating his disembodied spirit into a suitable corpse, so it's literally physically not the same guy every time!)

    Still, it's a really iconic and fun ability, and one that I think there's potential to use in RPGs. If Bram Stoker and Tracy Hickman can invent their own vampire powers for us to iterate upon and exploit, why can't Hitoshi Akamatsu? With Wizards of the Coast's push towards cinematic spectacle and climactic adventure bosses, it's shocking that Strahd von Zarovich hasn't turned into some kind of giant skeleton-snake-mosquito or discount Satan. 

Things get especially hogwild on the Nintendo 64, where this lumbering thingamajig transports your hero from the foggy spires of his castle to some kind of wastelandish pocket dimension with a stormy yellow sky.

    It's not as if you're lacking for options mechanically to represent whatever doofus your vampiric villain turns into - if your party is formidable enough to stand up to a bear (and they probably should be, if this is the kind of confrontation they're getting into), the most common bulky-bat-men Draculas bear a striking resemblance to the Type IV Demon or Nalfeshnee, and a one-off form that your villainous vampire turns into is the perfect opportunity to test out that esoteric random generator or gimmicky stat block from your favorite monster book that you're not sure you want to canonize as a whole species in your world. I also can't help but think of Nick Whelan's encounter tables, and the idea that "2 is always a dragon, 12 is always a wizard" - a single NPC who can turn into, effectively, both, gives a way to construct such a table without overcrowding the dungeon environment with independent populations.

Naturally the g-g-g-g-giiiiirl vampire gets a bit hornier of a transformation than Drac himself, but it's still an amusingly inexplicable combat form, and I think that tangled spine-hair is a fun image.

    As for precisely why this happens, well..

    With my own weirdo lore about the Negative Energy Plane as a place of void, darkness, and unactuated potential, what if Vampires as Undead beings are less 'corpses' and more 'animated ideas'? If - as a certain frothing racist wrote - the oldest and most powerful emotion of all sapient beings is fear, then a vampire might be a bodiless consciousness from the Negative Plane, parasitically attaching itself to a creature's fear of ambiguous spookums that live in the dark to take on semi-corporeal form. Feeding on blood without completely killing and exsanguinating could be a way to maintain or strengthen this connection - a vampire's immortal brides could be captives it perpetually feeds upon every so often, not because it has any actual dietary or caloric requirements but to keep them in a state of awe and fear at the terrible hungers of the vampyr.

    Direct confrontation, then - or unshakable religious conviction, or the pure clear light of the sun - could force a vampire to stop being nebulous and take on a definitive form - still fearsome, yes, but ultimately knowable and slayable. Perhaps the misty form taken on HP depletion of the classic RPG vampire is even an instance of this - a vampire whose power was so lacking that it could not 'resolve' into anything, and dissipated into bodilessness, to either return to darkness where something else horrible might lurk or be banished forever back into the realm of potentia.

20 Dusts

Pigments for sale in Goa, India. Photo by Dan Brady, Wikimedia Commons.

1: Dust of Disappearance. The all-time family favorite for decades! Renders objects or creatures temporarily transparent to visual rays, causing them to be invisible.
2: Dust of Dispersal. Though physically lightweight, this magical dust is so dense as to distort the local fabric of space. Causes targets to teleport short distances in random directions.
3: Dust of Discussion. A soothing perfumed incense with a calming, soporific effect. While it burns, encounters have a greater chance to react favorably.
4: Dust of Disturbance. A potent hallucinogenic drug derived from crematory ashes. Induces terrifying visions, duplicating a Cause Fear spell.
5: Dust of Dismemberment. A metallic powder composed of countless tiny razor-sharp blades. Must be handled with a metal gauntlet or thick leather glove, as it wounds any exposed flesh.
6: Dust of Disgust. A horrible nerve agent absorbed through the skin. Causes itching, nausea, chills, loss of constitution, vomiting, and all manner of horrible physical symptoms.
7: Dust of Discovery. Each individual granule is painstakingly coated in gunmetal-blue wizardly ink. When cast at an invisible entity, the inky particles cling to it, allowing its silhouette to be seen.
8: Dust of Disrepair. The dormant sporelings of ravenous magical fungi, similar to yeast. They cannot feed on living matter, but will eat through any dead organic material - they can destroy a wooden door entirely (except its metal locks, hinges, &c.) in a single turn.
9: Dust of Disaster. Made from the crushed wings of that most dire of omens - the butterfly. In 1d100 months, a terrible natural catastrophe (hurricane, earthquake, vampire, thaumatomic bomb, &c.) will befall the location where it was sprinkled.
10: Dust of Disarray. The shed skin cells of brownies, domovoi, and other household spirits. Sprinkling over an organized assortment of items will cause them to immediately become jumbled at random.
11: Dust of Disconnection. Tiny, specialized spatial portals permeable only to living creatures. Sprinkling or rubbing on a joint allows a portion of the body (finger, arm, leg, head, and so forth) to 'detach' from the rest and move independently, an effect that is profoundly upsetting to the recipient.
12: Dust of Discordance. This is not a pitch-black, deathly cold dust left behind by concepts annihilated from reality. It is, however, a powder of crystalized fragments of pure sound, creating a terrible clamor whenever it lands against a surface other than its magical velvet carrying pouch.
13: Dust of Disembodiment. Shavings of skymetal from the astral plane, imported at considerable risk and expense (or so the merchants who command extravagant prices for it claim). Snort it, and you can project your consciousness into higher spheres - your body remains in the material world, however.
14: Dust of Disencumbrance. A substance so light, it actually has negative weight! Carrying a pouch will reduce the weight (but NOT the volume!) of your carried equipment.
15: Dust of Disintegration. Beware this agglomeration of miniature spheres of annihilation! Though the scale of the destruction they can inflict at a touch is smaller, it is just as utter and just as painful.
16: Dust of Disinfection. A society of generally cooperative Poindrones, the least of Modrons. If quickly applied to an envenomed or diseased creature, they can scrub the system utterly of toxins, curing the symptoms and leaving the area cold and unnaturally pale for several weeks.
17: Dust of Disorientation. A parasitic colonial organism that takes root in the inner ear. If blown or thrown at an opponent's face, it will burrow into them, disrupting their sense of balance and severely limiting their motor control.
18: Dust of Distillation. A fine sediment originally discovered in the vats of Siegmund, the first alchemist. When mixed with a potion, the liquid component is evaporated, leaving a solid residue with doubly potent effects. However, the process of properly ingesting this residue (by carefully applying to the gums and nasal membranes) takes a full turn.
19: Dust of Diseasedness. A culture of horrific deeply infectious hell-bacteria, causing a nightmarish contagious illness that causes the living skin to fall off like flaking dandruff. The bacteria and the contaminated victim's remains both linger in the air - unless a gas mask and full protective clothing is worn, it is quite likely to backfire on the user and any allies.
20: Dust of Disappointment. It's... just dust.

The Seas of Heaven and the Moons of Hell

    Heaven has seas deeper and stranger than the world of men. Just as the land issued forth from the primal unformed waters, so did the pillared halls and wide promenades of Heaven rise from depths you could scarce fathom. Where the earthly sea grows dark, Heaven's grows ever brighter: you can see as clear as day whenever you are below, and as you dive deeper it grows so intense that you must wrap your head in layers of sackcloth to avoid going blind. At the very floor, the boundary between light and water blurs, dissolves - both are one, a sea of liquid brightness surrounding you as beings of graces far stranger than the ones on land swim and scuttle and writhe. The deepest of trenches lead directly into the Positive Energy Plane, the realm of pure Phlogiston, the axiomatic and undeniable substance. It is impossible to return from these deep vents if you return - to perceive Phlogiston's burning beauty is to be filled with the blessed and pure truth of it, and both your mind and body will turn to more of the perfect and colorless solid light.

Tranquil statues, not shaped by any human hand but merely present, are recognizable features of the shallows. Also commonly encountered is the bishop-fish.

Angelic fauna of the bright abyss (1d8):
1: Towering faceless humanoid formed of pure ivory. Ponderous footfalls. Occasionally digs into the glittering sand as if searching for something buried.
2: 50-foot feathered eel, with a serene death mask for a head. Pulsating veins of bright colors shift beneath its plumage.
3: Immaculately formed septopus, each arm bearing a tablet with the name of a forgotten god. Each can be used as a scroll of a 5th-level clerical spell, but mortal men turn to clay after 1 such use.
4: Five-mouthed colorless flame, razor teeth dribbling gold venom. Save vs. poison or be purified of sins you have no word for.
5: Man-sized barnacle in a shell of marble, filigreed in gold. Its cirri could be used as bladed whips. May portend a phlogiston vent.
6: Scuttling silver crustacean, four eyes alive with terrible energies. Speak a command in an ancient tongue, and it will unerringly seek out 1 living creature anywhere in creation.
7: Predatory fish, stained-glass skin pulled taut over intricate metallic skeleton. The beautiful scenes it depicts do not ease the pain of the deep lacerations it can inflict.
8: Gelatinous colonial organism of morally pure subsapient souls. Though its form is malleable and of many bodies, most often it is shaped like a gentle hand.

    Hell is the place where Negative Energy moves from potentia into definite physical form. The boundless black sky of the void is a place of pure might-and-could-be - anything COULD lurk in the darkness - but to become real, it must shed some of its purity and take on a true and knowable shape. This process is strange and often upsetting to the minds that descend from the Negative Energy Plane to become demons - if their efforts are not rudimentary and feeble, they are liable to be hideously distorted, loathsome both to look upon and to occupy. It is said that the great lights of the countless moons in Hell's eternal night are the eldest to have passed into Being, and they swirl and jockey for position in the firmament in an elaborate and endless dance of celestial politics.

The names of countless moons are recorded in Hell's chronicles - Allabar, Remina, Atropus - but some are known by many courtesy names, and some are long-dead or yet to be born.

Which Moon shines brightest in this part of Hell? 1d8:
1: Nicator, coldest and most covetous. Spilt blood freezes into blades.
2: Urb'luu, whose solemn green light shrivels tongues. No words may be spoken under it.
3: Murmur, the forgiving and timeless. Whenever a roll is made, roll twice and use either result.
4: Gurthang, darker than the night sky around it. None who die beneath it can ever return by any means.
5: Zkauba, clamorous self-devouring catastrophe. Any damage prompts a morale check as the wound erupts into writhing gore-tendrils.
6: G'broagfran, patron of poisoners, arsonists, and weavers. In your dreams, you see a masked and bound figure. You may ask one question of them - their answer will be a lie.
7: Quine, who calls thousands of thousands of beetles to coat all available surfaces. They bite at exposed skin.
8: Sárku, thrice-shattered mirror. Its sickly purple glow turns organic forms into rigid angles.

La-Mulana, Tomb of the Serpent Kings, and Multi-Layered Tutorials

    I'm one of those people who never shuts up about one specific video game, specifically GR3 Project's 2006 freeware metroidvania La-Mulana. This is surely due, in large part, to having seen Deceasedcrab's let's play of the game as a tiny, dumb child, and it thereby being my first exposure to those genres (both of video game and of video). Yet besides my own personal nostalgia, I maintain that the game is an extremely clever, atmospheric, and well-made example of its genre, and is one of the standouts of the early-mid 2000s indie scene. My feelings on the 2012 commercial remake are significantly more negative, for various reasons - some relevant to this piece, some not. The important part is, I regularly play through the game (as I would recommend you go do when you get a chance - it's on archive.org, though you might need to do a little bit of troubleshooting running it on modern computers due to its age).

It's a good game, yall.

    It was on one of these playthroughs recently where, during the early areas I had long since mastered and memorized, I found my mind wandering to how they served as implicit introductions for concepts that would inform the rest of the game, without ever actually becoming a formal player-facing tutorial. It occurred to me, then, that this was the same thing the famous Tomb of the Serpent Kings does (or attempts to do) for tabletop roleplaying. And, much like La-Mulana, Tomb of the Serpent Kings has structural divisions within its text and paratext that form layers of instruction for play that build on each other.

    So, y'know, since I've had a mildly original thought (a rare occasion), might as well write it down and see if anyone gets anything out of it.

The First Layer: the Enclosed Instruction Book

    The most important thing I, or any other person recommending the original La-Mulana, would tell prospective players is to read the included manual. Not only does it provide the controls and some explanation of systems that might be mildly confusing - the basic mechanical levels on which you interact with the game - but it's also just a neat little feelie that plays into the game's two intertwined theses (the feeling of archaeological investigation, and the experience of gaming on the MSX computer system). There's even (minor spoiler) an important puzzle solution included somewhere in there, and other information you'll want to know or be able to reference.

And it comes with illustrations and lore and shit! It's charming!

    The parallel is fairly obvious - the RPG equivalent to the manual is the actual rulebook of the game or system you'll be playing. Like the manual, it is not in and of itself the game - it doesn't contain the experience of play - but it introduces you to the game and the ways in which you'll play it, gives you a feeling of the game's atmosphere and tone, and encourages you to adopt mindsets that will be productive in approaching the game. And, much like the manual itself, you don't have to read straight through the whole rulebook of the TTRPG you're using (which can be a daunting prospect depending on the game!), but you can find the most relevant portions to understand what you'll be doing and how the procedures of mechanical play will work, the ways you'll be interacting with the game, and you can and probably should keep it on hand as a reference.

The Second Layer: the 'Safe' Outer Area

    When you start a new La-Mulana save file, immediately after a very brief introduction (literally 2 sentences), you're dumped right into the game's first area, the exterior of the ruins, the only direction or task you're given being that which you have from the manual (and your basic familiarity with, you know, the idea of a video game). You're here to find a marvelous treasure of some sort, but where and how you do that is up to you to figure out. So, you (most likely) start by checking out the door right next to you, receive very vague and cynical advice ('You can go into the ruins, if you'd like. You'll probably die like everyone else who's tried. Not that I care'), and are left to fend for yourself.

Also, like, tangent, but the surface is just such a good example of how good the game is at establishing a mood with its seemingly simple graphics and its music. The darkness of the surrounding forest and cliffsides, with just a little bit of sky peeking through at the top, makes the village feel isolated and vaguely portentous, but the chipper and upbeat 'Mr. Explorer' gives a feeling of optimism and enthusiasm for adventure, its grandiose melodies hinting at the hopes of finding something incredible.

    The surface - or its equivalent in Tomb of the Serpent Kings, the False Tomb - is a chance to apply and experiment with the things you learned from the manual. It's a simple area that gives you a few hints, a few goals to keep in mind as you move forward (gotta save up money to buy that software!), wide open spaces to move and jump in as you get used to the physics, and fairly simple enemies to kill and examples of the game's primary recurring simple elements (breakable pots with loot, signs to read, pedestals to activate mechanisms) to ease you into the act of playing the game. At the same time, it's not something you can completely and effortlessly clear out - there's danger, things you'll need to come back later to deal with, things (fairly clearly signposted) that will kill you quickly, a treasure chest you'll need to figure out how to open on your own. The set of interactions it gives you with the game world are limited, but it still expects you to take that world seriously, and teaches you that if you don't - if you try to fight the giant blue invincible guy with your leather whip, or jump unprepared into the rapids of the waterfall, or just bump into too many enemies without saving - you'll face genuine consequences, up to and including death.

The Third Layer: You'd Better Learn

    If you live long enough to solve the simple not-really-puzzle at the entrance on the surface, then you're rewarded with passage into the thing the game is actually named after - the ruins of La-Mulana themself. This is where the game starts being serious, showing you the formula major areas throughout the game are going to have - solve puzzles, decode clues, eventually get the pieces you need to fight a boss - then beat it, hopefully. Also, much like Tomb of the Serpent Kings, La-Mulana seems almost to be going out of its way to teach you a specific lesson in each room.

The lesson of this room is "Don't fall for obvious traps"!

    In fact - and this might be a contrarian viewpoint - La-Mulana might do better on its room-by-room teaching style than TotSK. While it's discussed as a goal in the introduction, and maintained to a degree throughout, a lot of rooms don't actually have much of a lesson to them, or are lessons only specific to the dungeon itself (or even just a limited part of it), like the 'statues hide secrets' idea. In contrast, the things you learn in the Guidance Gate are going to be ideas you build upon throughout the course of the whole game. Still, the approach they have to these lessons is generally the same: you're never actually outright told anything, as a player. Instead, you learn the lessons from this area organically, in the course of play and doing the interactions with the world that seem either obvious or implied. You feel clever for figuring things out, even though the environment is designed to make you figure those things out.

Over-Tutorializing - Get Me Off Your Fucking Mailing List

    I do not care for the remake of La-Mulana. I am very vocal about this. I am also, generally, alone in holding this opinion - the remake is far and away more popular, was the only version to get a sequel, and is usually considered a major improvement over the original. Certainly it's indisputable that on a technical level, the graphics and music are more detailed and impressive (though I have plenty to rant about on how the new graphics actually undermine the themes and atmosphere of the game). But what feels a lot less like an unqualified improvement is the changes to the way the game teaches you things early on.

Screenshot taken from raocow's playthrough, because like hell am I gonna download this version again.

    In the remake, Elder Xelpud (fun fact: "La-Mulana", "Xelpud", and "Lemeza" (the main character's name) are all Japanese-language reversals/rearrangements of the developers' usernames - "Naramura", "Duplex" and "Samieru"), the character who told you to go off and die, takes a much more... active role, in the gameplay. He'll be sending you in-game emails throughout the course of play, and these things are - more or less - direct hints or instructions on how things in-game work. Now, figuring out how things work isn't a matter of going "Hm, the signs outside and the notes on these explorer skeletons are readable, but the stone tablets inside just display this weird cuneiform - I wonder if that's related to the Glyph Reader rom for sale in the village?", it's a matter of Xelpud emailing you the moment you see or interact with your first tablet and directly telling you "Hey, you need a Glyph Reader to read these."

    

    This sounds like a minor quibble - and to a degree, it is - but it happens with everything early in the remake. Find a differently-shaped stone tablet and wonder what's up with it? You get an email saying "Hey, you can teleport to those with the Holy Grail." Solve a puzzle and pick up some shurikens? You get an email saying "You can find sub-weapons in the ruins, you use them with the sub-weapon button, they consume ammo that you can buy or find in pots." Fall into water and start losing HP? "Water hurts, you'll need to find an item to enter it without damage." You're not being trusted to figure out or intuit anything on your own, even the most basic things - so when the point comes that you're expected to do actual complex puzzles, rather than being confident in your ability to interpret or synthesize information yourself, you've been put in a mindset of expecting Xelpud to do it for you. You can, to be fair, unequip the email software if you really want - but how many players are going to think to do that on their first playthrough? Particularly when they can see there's an achievement for getting all of them? Oh - and progression is tied to reacting to these emails at one point (Xelpud gives you a clue that you won't get anywhere else), so you can't actually really do that anyway. The game, through this feature, is training you to be worse at playing it.

Ibid.

    Other features in the remake teach you lessons that are deleterious to your experience, too. Whipping certain things in the ruins will cause you to get struck by lightning. It's painful, and sudden, and it can feel unfair at first, but after a while you start to get a handle on the rules behind it - essentially, things that trigger a lightning bolt are always going to be either 'sacred' objects of particular religious importance or major recurring features you need to deal with in other ways (aside from one really weird wall in the Mausoleum of the Giants that, as far as I know, is unrelated to anything). But evidently this was considered too harsh for Wiiware gamers, or beyond their capabilities - so the remake adds the Eye of Divine Retribution. See that blue eyeball up there? Now, in every single room of the game where attacking something can get you struck by lightning, that eye is there as a 'hint'... except the eye remains even if whatever can trigger the lightning disappears (which is a frequent occurrence!). Now, instead of the player learning a first-hand lesson to treat big holy relics with respect, the eye is teaching players to be cowardly, promising danger even when a player who had learned to develop their intuition in the original would realize there's none there. One of the very few improvements the sequel to the remake made (alongside making lots of things even worse) was make the eyes close once nothing in the room can trigger them.

    There's one last thing for me to gripe about, and it feels really inexplicable. The original La-Mulana was a game that expected you to take notes, or else have a really prodigious and specific memory. There are specific numbers, rituals, orders, locations - all kinds of things - that you, the player, need to write down or remember. You can always go back to reread a clue - if you can find where it is. It demands a careful and detailed approach. The remake teaches you this skill doesn't matter, while at the same time demanding it more from you. Another piece of in-game software you can find lets you record the text (and diagrams) of any readable object or NPC dialogue, and reference it later indefinitely. The obvious message from this being a feature is "you don't need to make your own notes, this item will take care of that." Yet one of the few new puzzle elements the remake of this puzzle game introduces is one that demands note-taking - certain clue tablets are indecipherable, even with the Glyph Reader, until you've found an arbitrary number of rosettas stone in other later areas and backtracked to them. But because note-taking up until this point has become a process of just 'press button for screenshot', a new player isn't in a mindset to take their own notes on where they'll need to return to - so the point where you need the clues from these indecipherable tablets becomes an exercise in frustrated wandering through areas you've already explored.

    What points or insights do I have here?

    None. Goodbye! Play La-Mulana.

The Monster (Pod) Manual

 (Being an entry for DIY & Dragons' Summer Lego RPG Setting Jam)

Heroica, the Lego group's short-lived vaguely RPG-inspired board game subtheme, is fondly remembered by many fans, and revivals/remakes to the line are regular fixtures on Lego Ideas. Less well-known, or at least less-discussed, is Lego's brief foray in the early 2000s into the world of the miniatures skirmish wargame.

"X-Pods" were a kind of thematic precursor to the 3-in-1 Creator sets that grew more common in later years. Each was a collection of various assorted parts in a common color scheme, and came with instructions for 3 different builds in the same 'genre'. The Wild Pod (above), for instance, featured building instructions for a dragonfly, a bird, and...

Yeah, I don't know, either.

Besides the main builds included in the physical instruction booklets, however, Lego's website also had rules and factions for a board game called "X-Pod Playoff", where two players built little units out of a handful of pieces and maneuvered them on a printed grid. These have since been deleted from the official site, of course, but Joe Wreschnig has preserved PDFs of all the boards, starter sets, and expanded unit lists. In particular, the purple-green-white "Monster Pod" (official set #4338) has 20 little weirdos who I thought could use some lore. Much (almost all) of this text previously appeared on my tumblr, but they're now presented here with original illustrations by my exceptionally talented wife, minimal stats, and brief mechanical descriptions of any unusual abilities.

d20:

1: Big Mouth

2: Bucky

3: Creepie Crawly

4: Dizzy

5: Eyeball

6: Eye Beamer

7: Eyestalk

8: Frightful

9: Gremlin

10: Gremlin Hotfoot

11: Gremlin Porter

12: Gremlin King

13: Hoppy

14: Hypno Thing

15: It

16: Jumpy

17: Monster Surgeon

18: Nurse Scarem

19: Slither

20: Smiler

Big Mouth: A primitive subterranean relative of the ogre, the Big Mouth resembles a gorilla or other large ape, but its hindlegs are reptilian and it has a stubby serpentine tail. The pronounced fangs of its lower jaw inject a numbing venom, allowing it to devour helpless prey at its leisure.

D10A0, bite attack prompts save vs. paralysis as ghoul.

Bucky: A manic demihuman with elongated teeth honed to a razor-sharp edge. These teeth are used both to scrape the bark from colossal underworld fungi and to defend themselves from predators, compensating for their lack of arms. They sprint through darkness with astonishing speed, serving as couriers for an unknown intellect.

D4A1, triple normal speed. Wounds and damage do not appear until 1d4 turns after initial attack (see 'Kamaitachi' in The Monster Overhaul). 

Creepie Crawly: Largely harmless vermin that live in magical caverns. More the 'idea' of an insect than an actual insect - they are chitinous facsimiles composed of all the parts humans fear most, and their insides are almost wholly raw magic.

Noncombatant. Presence may inflict minor penalties on arthrophobes.

Dizzy: An eerie horned creature most easily recognizable by its total lack of limbs. It revolves around the donjon on its dish-shaped underside, drawing slow lazy loops. The sight is strangely fascinating, and the magic contained in its beady black eyes enhances the effect - weak-willed targets abandon combat to stare in perplexed fascination at the Dizzy's spinning.

D6A1. If visible, save or become fixated. Eyes may be averted, as with basilisks &c.

Eyeball: A luminous fungal creature originally adapted to the caverns used to house the Tarrasque, the King Caesar, and other massive beasts; it is adapted to mimic these creatures' eyes staring from the dark, hoping to make the simple-minded flee in the belief that they have encountered a more dangerous being. Often found in mated pairs.

Noncombatant, or D2A0. Portends potential danger nearby...

Eye Beamer: A relative of the infamous beholder, crossbred with a humanoid through means that are best left unconsidered. It has lost the flight and versatility of its evolutionary ancestor, but reproduces faster, and its single beam is projected continuously as long as its eye is open.

D8A2. Choose or roll 1 eye beam from standard Beholder list - directable at 1 creature/round.

Eyestalk: A single hooved leg terminating in an unblinking green eye, hopping aimlessly through the underworld. Poetically termed "Little One Eye" by Dverger, for whom they are a staple food source.

D6A0. Animalistic intellect.

Frightful: When immobile, this magical construct is indistinguishable from an eerie and elongated wooden mask. They are created by magic-users as spies and guardians - their gaze is telepathically linked to the wizard's mind.

D4A2. Low morale. Camouflage, psionic link to master.

Gremlin: Like a goblin, but more outright wicked than pathetic. Consider themselves the intelligentsia of the dungeon, and refuse to hear any evidence to the contrary. Distinguished by their signature pointed caps, the making of which is a closely guarded secret.

D4A1. Other variants appear in sufficiently large groups, according to number, like most demihumans.

Gremlin Hotfoot: Gremlins are exceptionally sensitive to ley shifts, causing them to frequently mutate. The Hotfoot is a gremlin with elongated, muscular legs, and they are considered the warrior caste among their kind, for however little that means.

D8A1, double normal speed, double normal pride.

Gremlin Porter: A gremlin whose arms, rather than legs, have mutated to become astonishingly muscular. However, a curious anomaly in their brains makes them timid and nearly incapable of violence, so their fellow gremlins mostly use them as beasts of burden rather than the brutal fighters their appearance might suggest.

D8A2, carrying capacity as stone giant. Will not intentionally attack, but can be tricked.

Gremlin King: An especially rare variety of gremlin, the King towers over its lesser kin at nearly 4 and a half feet, and is by far the wisest of the species. Their arms and legs are both well-developed, though not to the extent of the lesser castes, and they typically fight with twin daggers.

D10A1, attacks two targets/round. In their presence, lesser gremlins will not flee, but may simper.

Hoppy: A mollusc adapted to live in pit traps and chasms, they leap with truly astonishing force from the depths of their homes to surprise adventurers passing nearby, hoping to startle them into falling, at which point they are fed on by the Hoppy. Known for its headcrest - actually a tendril of exposed nerves - and for its cry of "BOOGA-BOOGA-BOOGA!"

D6A1. Jumpscare: hops when prey passes its lair; unsuspecting creatures have 50% chance of falling.

Hypno Thing: A scuttling crablike thing, originally bioengineered by mind flayers/serpentmen/Predecessors/some other race that would do that. The intent was to create a being that would subtly manipulate the population's thoughts to keep them docile, but the psychic effect was made too strong. Now, prolonged eye contact is enough to physically melt the brains of onlookers.

D4A0. Eye contact with hypnotic pattern inflicts 1d8 damage/round, save vs. spells negates.

It: A daemon that appears in the night, sitting on the chest of sleepers and whispering frightening things to them in the hopes of causing them to act rashly or sinfully. "Why are there so many eyeball creatures?," you may very well ask. I know I do.

D6A3. Only approaches if no watch posted during camp. Victim perched on must save vs. death or receive no benefit from rest.

Jumpy: A flightless bird whose legs have fused into a single, powerful limb. Used as mounts by some of the braver and more diminutive races of dungeon humanoid, but they are exceptionally hard to steer and stop.

D8A0. Double normal speed, but only in straight lines.

Monster Surgeon: Undead with stitched skin and coats marked with dark medical crosses. They are the consummate Igors, offering their effective but dubiously safe/legal/sane medical care without regard for clients' allegiances. Payment taken in organs (hopefully redundant), potions, cadavers, literature, or gems if all else fails.

D8A2, regenerates 1 HP/round. Can heal any wound or ailment, with time and funding - but the process indelibly stains the soul and/or psyche.

Nurse Scarem: Artificial beings created by Monster Surgeons, something like eels with exposed vertebrae and elongated snouts like some kind of lizard. Surprisingly nimble, making them more than adequate for their positions as their creators' assistants. Wear jaunty and mildly anachronistic hats, the minute variations between which are the signs of family lines - confusing one clan of Nurse Scarems' hat for one from another clan (which is nearly identical) will draw grave outrage.

D6A2, saliva can numb or induce pain (nurse's choice).

Slither: A runt of the Penanggalan litter, unable to fly. Thus, it slides around on its viscera like a snake, snapping at anything that gets too close. Wretched and self-pitying, but its misanthropy is stronger (barely) than its melancholy.

D4A2. Rises again every midnight unless purified or major organs buried at separate crossroads.

Smiler: Enigmatic bogeymen with grins the size of kite shields, these creatures of the night live to sink their many teeth into warm flesh. They delight in ambushes and the taste of live (or freshly dead) prey. Disarmingly charismatic and civil once the first victim has been killed, until their hunger returns.

D8A1, attack from ambush. First dead opponent quenches bloodlust for 1d6 turns.

Bonus: Lego's somewhat confusing naming conventions lead to a brief mix-up in art briefs in preparation for this post. Meet the midpoint between the Jumpy and the Hoppy:

Statistics, behaviors, and lore for the Jaloppy are left as an exercise to the reader.