This guide gives a slightly more fun take on the races. If you’re after the serious lore and cold hard stats, check the racial descriptions on the character creation screen in-game.
Half-Trolls
Ugly. Strong. Stupid. Tougher than old boots.
Origin: Half-Trolls are what you get when a human makes some *very* questionable life choices around trolls. The outcome? A hulking brute with arms like tree trunks and the social grace of a brick wall. Even Half-Orcs do a double-take and cross the street. But hey, who needs charm when you can punch through stone?
Traits: Half-Trolls are absurdly strong — enough to make other races jealous (or nervous). Brains? Not so much. They’re slow, clumsy, and about as subtle as a collapsing cave. Great warriors, terrible priests (don’t ask them to read prayers). Searching, disarming, stealth, perception? Let’s just say they try. The good news? Their strength is always sustained, they regenerate faster than most, and they’ve got fair infravision to spot things in the dark.
Nutrition: Half-Trolls eat a lot. Like, *a lot*. Their idea of fine dining? Maggoty bread, preferably in bulk. Don’t expect them to savor the taste — if it fills the belly, it works. On the bright side, they don’t complain. Ever. By level 50, they still eat like trolls (because they are), but at least their stomachs get a bit more efficient. Slightly.
Humans
Just people. Nothing fancy. But somehow, they’re everywhere.
Origin: Masters of “meh, good enough,” humans are the definition of average. They don’t breathe fire, can’t see in the dark, and won’t live for centuries. They don’t excel — but they don’t fail either. Other races look down on them. Their short lives mean they rarely become legends, but hey, they take things slow, gaining levels at a relaxed pace and looting dungeons with leisurely curiosity. Other races look down on them. Until they need a farmer. Or a trade deal. Or an army.
Traits: Humans are balanced, versatile, and pleasantly boring. They don’t have infravision (so maybe bring a torch). But stick with it, and at level 50, they get a humble reminder that slow and steady actually *does* win the race (plus a bonus to all stats). Oh, and their stash is bigger than most — perks of being the race that runs the towns and gives themselves a little extra space.
Nutrition: Rumor says some dark overlord cursed the land — crops rot, fields are dust. Hunger is the real endgame boss. But hey, at least humans begin the game with a cookie.
Ability: Can patch themselves up, restoring constitution with the ‘y‘ key (costs energy) with a sigh: “Alright, let’s try that again”.
Half-Elf
Half here, half there. Never quite at home…
Origin: Half-elves live in the in-between. Not fully human, not fully elf — a little bit of both, a lot of neither. They’ve heard it all: ‘too reckless’, ‘too aloof’, ‘make up your mind already’. But maybe that’s their strength. They’re curious, restless, always on the move, chasing something — maybe a place where they fit, maybe just the next adventure. From their elvish side, they get quick reflexes and sharp minds; from humans — stubbornness and grit. It’s a package deal.
Traits: Quicker and sharper than humans, though not as strong or wise. Magic? They pick it up faster. Stealth, disarming traps, spotting hidden stuff? Yep, they’re good at that too. Archery? Absolutely. But shove them into a brawl, and it might not be their best moment. They can see a bit in the dark (thanks, elves), and they won’t get their dexterity drained — ever. And when they hit level 50 they get a little faster. Because running away gracefully is a skill too.
Nutrition: Half-elves travel light. A bit of bread, maybe some cheese… but really? They thrive on *elvish water*. Crisp, clear, probably with a hint of mystery (or at least they like to think so). Keeps them going between adventures.
Ability: Can spark a heroic surge with the ‘y‘ key (costs energy), giving them that extra push in a fight. Sometimes you’ve just gotta remind the world you’re more than ‘half’ of anything.
Elf
Time moves, they don’t.
Origin: Elves glide through life like they’ve got all the time in the world — because, well, they kinda do. Centuries come and go, and they barely blink. They’ve seen empires rise and fall, watched forests grow from saplings, and they’ll never let you forget it. Mysterious? Sure. A little smug? Maybe. But there’s no denying their charm — they walk like poetry, talk like riddles, and smile like they know something you don’t.
Traits: Sharp minds and quick feet, but don’t ask them to lift anything heavy. Elves shine at spotting hidden things, slipping past traps, moving silently, and firing arrows with unnerving accuracy. Magic? Flows through them as easily as air. But up close, in the heat of melee? Eh, not their scene. They shrug off bright light attacks and never lose their dexterity. Can see decently in the dark (not bat-level, but solid). Hit level 40, and they move even faster. Grace upgraded.
Nutrition: Elves don’t *eat*, they *dine*. A nibble here, a sip there — preferably something aged for a few centuries. Elvish wine? Oh yes. Smooth, refined, and just mysterious enough that you wonder if it’s enchanted.
Ability: Can call upon a blessing with the ‘y‘ key (costs energy). Because even elves need a little extra sparkle now and then.
Halflings
Comfort. Pipe. Quiet evening. But sometimes… dragon’s eye poking.
Origin: Halflings, also known as hobbits, value simple pleasures: a cozy chair, a cup of tea, and maybe a second breakfast. Gold and glory? Not really their thing. But now and then, one of them gets a bit too curious, steps outside the Shire (or whatever they call home), and finds themselves in rather unexpected adventures. It’s always ‘just this once’ — until they’re dodging dragon fire.
Traits: Halflings excel at shooting and throwing. They’re masters of stealth, searching, disarming, and perception. Saving throws? Strong. But up close, in melee — not their best day. They’re weaker than humans in raw strength but make up for it in agility. Fair infravision helps them see in the dark. Their life force is surprisingly sturdy, giving them resistance to life draining. And mushrooms — oh, mushrooms! They can identify them at a glance (and they love them). Occasionally, they can dodge melee attacks with a nifty sidestep.
Nutrition: Halflings enjoy a good meal — or five. Breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses… You get the idea. But the real secret to their contentment? A pouch of good pipe-weed. By level 50, their bodies get a bit more efficient (finally), so they don’t need to eat quite as much — but the pipe stays. Always.
Ability: Spend some energy (‘y’ key) and trust those hairy feet to carry you safely over the trap.
Gnomes
Always two steps ahead — or sideways.
Origin: Gnomes sit comfortably between dwarves and halflings in size, though they’d argue they’re above both in cleverness. They live underground, in snug burrow-like homes, always tinkering with something or brewing up a new spell. Some even say gnomes invented magic just to avoid manual labor — and honestly, it’s hard to argue with that. Practical, inventive, and a little eccentric, they love finding shortcuts where others see hard work.
Traits: Gnomes make excellent mages, with sharp minds and very solid saving throws. They’re also quite handy at searching, disarming traps, perception, and stealth — not bad for someone with a lantern on their head. Physically, they’re not the strongest — weaker than humans — so melee isn’t their strong suit. But they have good infravision and are naturally resistant to paralysis and slowing effects. Gnomes are excellent with wands and staves, and can identify them on sight. Plus, they dig through earth surprisingly well for their size (some secret dwarf envy? who knows).
Nutrition: Standard appetites, no odd dietary needs — though they *do* enjoy a good mushroom stew now and then.
Ability: They can clear hallucinations (‘y‘ key) by spending some energy. Handy when those mushrooms hit harder than expected.
Dwarves
Stone in their bones. Fire in their blood. Ale in their belly.
Origin: Dwarves are born for the underground — it’s not just home, it’s destiny. They’ve been digging, mining, and smashing skulls for longer than most races have been counting years. Dungeons? That’s their playground. Whether as warriors, priests, or paladins (their favorite combo), dwarves bring muscle, grit, and more than a little stubbornness to the table.
Traits: Dwarves are stronger and tougher than humans, but also a bit slower and not as brainy. Still, their willpower makes them resistant to hostile spells. They have excellent infravision and are immune to blindness. Digging? They’re the best. They can even sense nearby buried treasure — like it’s calling to them. Wisdom comes with age, but don’t expect them to be quiet about it. They’re known to argue loudly, sing battle songs at full volume, and challenge shadows. You’ll hear a dwarf long before you see them.
Nutrition: Dwarves eat hearty. Thick stews, roasted meats, bread that could stop a blade — that’s the good stuff. If it’s been cooked in a cauldron or roasted over fire, they’re happy. No fancy spices, no garnish — just solid, honest food. And of course, nothing goes down better with a meal than a good pint of fine ale. Or two.
Ability: They can detect treasure (‘y‘ key) by spending some energy. The range of this ability grows as they level up. Because if there’s one thing dwarves love more than a fight — it’s shiny stuff.
Half-Orcs
Too human for the orcs. Too orc for the humans. Hate too much talking.
Origin: When a village burns and the strong survive, a Half-Orc is born. Caught between two worlds, never fully accepted by either, they learn early that life is about surviving, not fitting in. They’re tough, stubborn, and not here to make friends (though they might make *enemies* just by showing up). Their orcish blood makes them intimidating, but it also means they pay more in town — appearance tax, you could say.
Traits: Half-Orcs excel as warriors and can handle being priests well enough, but magic? Eh, they’ve got other talents. Their stealth isn’t great, but at least they’re not dwarves. Bad at devices, magic, and noticing traps — but they outlast whatever comes at them. They’ve adapted to life underground, resist darkness attacks, and have just enough infravision to see trouble coming.
Nutrition: Half-Orcs are hardy enough to survive on scraps, bones, or whatever they can scavenge. Fancy meals? Not their thing. By the time they get old (if they get old), they barely need to eat at all — tough life builds a tough body. And when things get really rough? A good swig of orcish liquor burns away the pain (and maybe a bit of sanity too).
Ability: They can restore strength (‘y‘ key) by spending some energy. Because getting knocked down and standing back up is what they do best.
Dunedain
Ask a Dunadan for directions and he’ll give you three different paths, two hunting spots, and the location of his great-grandfather’s favorite fishing stream that ‘hasn’t changed a bit in 200 years.
Origin: Dunedain are the hardy folk of the West, an elder race of men. They’ve walked the long roads, seen kingdoms rise and fall, and carry the weight of ages in their bones. Their resilience is unmatched: time may wear down mountains, but not a Dunadan. They protect the realms of men, who mostly wonder why that tall fellow at the inn keeps staring dramatically into his ale mug.
Traits: Dunedain surpass humans in every way: stronger, wiser, hardier. Try lowering a Dunadan’s constitution and you’ll have better luck teaching a balrog to swim. They don’t have infravision, but with their worldly knowledge, they rarely need it. Levels come slowly, though. When you’ve seen as much as they have, it takes more than the usual dungeon crawl to teach them something new. They have a knack for finding sprigs of Athelas — rare herbs that heal both body and soul. They also have extra space in their storage for keeping items. Because when you’ve traveled far and wide, you know how to pack for the long haul.
Nutrition: Normal human appetites, but with that steady Dunadan metabolism — nothing too fancy, just fuel for the journey. And they’re always chewing on Athelas leaves for some reason… maybe that’s the secret to their long life?
Ability: Using ancient heritage and the ‘y’ key, they transform Black Breath into what smells suspiciously like “just ate lembas with garlic” breath.
High-Elves
Seen it all. Done most of it.
Origin: High-Elves aren’t just elves — they’re *the* elves. The ones who answered the call of the Valar at the dawn of time, before the sun and moon even existed. These firstborn children of creation dwelled in the Blessed Realm for thousands of years before returning to mortal lands, bringing with them ancient wisdom, remarkable abilities, and an impressive collection of vintage wines.
Traits: As nobility among elven-kind, High-Elves possess abilities that make other races wonder if the character creation rules were bent in their favor. They resist attacks involving bright light (sunlight? Meh). Their legendary infravision can spot cold-blooded and invisible creatures, which explains their uncanny ability to find that missing arrow in complete darkness.
Nutrition: They eat lightly, as if food is more ritual than necessity. Every bite is graceful, measured, and probably blessed by starlight. A sip of Miruvor — and they’re good for another century or two.
Ability: By expending energy with ‘y‘ key, they enhance their already superior infravision, also allowing them to see through your poorly constructed excuses for being late to the quest.
Kobolds
Kobolds wear armor rustier than a dwarf’s bathtub.
Origin: Kobolds are the underdogs of the underground — literally. Small, dog-headed humanoids (don’t mess with gnolles) who scurry through tunnels and chew through more shoes than rats. No one really *likes* kobolds. Townsfolk trust them about as far as they can throw them — which, to be fair, is pretty far away. Kobolds are light, after all.
Traits: Kobolds have excellent infravision and naturally resistant to all kinds of poisons. They are sneaky, wiry, and a bit too comfortable crawling through filth. They’re physically weaker than humans and, well… not exactly famous for their brainpower. Hit points? You’ve seen sturdier sandwiches. But if they survive long enough, they can even develop a faint hint of magical talent. Just don’t expect fireworks.
Nutrition: Kobolds can live on just about anything. If it’s edible (or used to be), it will do.
Ability: They can boost their poison resistance (‘y’ key) using a bit of energy. Useful when wading through something that smells like death (because it probably is).
Yeeks
Small. Furry. Surprisingly hard to hate.
Origin: Yeeks, often called Weaklings (ouch), are small, furry folk who look like someone crossbred a mouse with anxiety. They’ve spent most of their lives losing fights — especially as kids. But, hey, you fall down enough times, you learn to land soft. Literally.
Traits: Their stats are the lowest of the low, their health pool is more like a health puddle, and let’s not even start on combat. No one expects much from them, and that’s kind of their secret weapon. They’re too pitiful to be threatening, too harmless to provoke — they don’t aggravate others much, even if they wear some ancient powerful trinket that insults everyone. A Yeek can walk into a room and no one even bothers to growl.
Nutrition: Yeeks aren’t exactly gourmets. But toss them a beet — raw, boiled, or half-buried — and you’ll see the happiest little creature this side of the dungeon.
Ability: They can become bold (‘y‘ key) by spending some energy. Because even the meekest creature has a moment where they stand tall. For a Yeek, that’s a pretty big deal.
Ents
Slow. Steady. Tree-ish.
Origin: Ents are ancient — really ancient. They were around before most creatures could even spell ‘tree’. Spirits of the land, they were called to guard the forests of Middle-earth, and they’ve taken that job seriously ever since. Think of them as trees with opinions. Big, slow opinions. Eldest among plants and animals, they don’t rush (ever), but when they move, things happen. They’re strong, steady, and not in a hurry. The downside? They’re basically walking woodpiles, so fire is… a problem.
Traits: Ents are incredibly strong but painfully slow. Great fighters, priests, and paladins (as long as you don’t mind waiting for them to arrive). They don’t eat regular food — instead, they refresh themselves by drinking from magic fountains. Water from rivers or lakes helps a bit too, though it won’t fill them up. It does help heal wounds, though, so there’s that. Ents are immune to polymorph and can move easily through trees, blending in when they want. Stand still long enough, and they’re completely silent — just another part of the forest. But don’t expect them to be good with devices or ranged weapons; not their style. After level 30, they get even slower (huornish, some call it) — more tree, less sprint.
Nutrition: Forget food. Magic fountains are their main source of refreshment. Plain water works for a quick patch-up but won’t keep them going for long.
Ability: As Shepherds of the Trees, Ents can grow a forest around themselves (‘y‘ key) by spending satiation. The older (and bigger) they get, the easier it becomes to sprout trees wherever they stand. Because every Ent knows: more trees, better world.
Thunderlords
Hunt dragons. Sing loudly about it.
Origin: Ever wonder what happens when someone hunts dragons a *bit* too long? Thunderlords happen. Big, loud, and about as subtle as a thunderclap in a library. They strut down from their mountain crags all young and cocky, eager to prove they’re more than just walking lightning rods.
Traits: Their strength and vitality build up as they mature, but grace and charm? Not really their thing. Disarming traps, using magic devices, digging, ranged weapons — all pretty bad. Subtlety? You’ll hear them coming: battle songs echoing off the cliffs. But who are those massive eagles circling overhead? Not just for show — Thunderlords hunt with them to track dragons, which they can sense *telepathically*.
Nutrition: Frequent meals required — gotta keep up that energy for all the shouting and feeding their eagle.
Ability: They can electrify themselves (‘y‘ key) by spending some energy. Adds a little *zing* to their strikes — because hunting dragons isn’t dramatic enough on its own.
Dragons
Never laugh at live dragons…
Origin: Dragons are what bedtime stories warn you about (and what adventurers brag about). But here’s the secret — every towering wyrm once hatched as a scaly little noodle, barely able to roast a marshmallow. They grow, they molt, they eat questionable things. Over time, those flimsy wings? Full wingspan. Those tiny claws? Razor-sharp. Their journey is one of constant upgrades — from whelp to world-ending beast. But hey, even dragons have to start somewhere.
Growth: Dragons level up their bodies as well as their egos:
- Level 1: Newborn Dragon (still figuring out which end breathes fire)
- Level 5: Baby Dragon (finally gets a color, polymorphs into their true type)
- Level 15: Young Dragon (can fly without bumping into walls)
- Level 25: Fully Grown Dragon (intimidation level: decent)
- Level 35: Ancient Dragon (now we’re talking)
- Level 45: Mighty Wyrm (legends start here)
- Level 50: Ancient Wyrm (the stuff of nightmares)
Traits: Dragons don’t do swords. Or bows. Or really anything that isn’t teeth, claws, or terrifying roars. Their natural weapons get nastier as they grow. Stealth? Forget it — when you’re the size of a barn, sneaking isn’t really on the menu. But they float gracefully and shrug off nexus effects like it’s nothing.
Nutrition: Dragons start life small, with small appetites — a goat here, a sheep there. But as they grow? So does the hunger. By the time they hit Ancient Wyrm status, they’re walking stomachs with wings.
Breath Weapon: Starting at level 5, dragons unlock the iconic *breath weapon* (y key). It’s flashy, it’s deadly, and it burns through health and food (literally). Use it wisely. Alongside, they pick up resistances and perks tied to their element — fire, ice, acid, you name it.
Tips for New Players: Dragons sound awesome (because they are), but managing hunger, health, and breath weapon balance can be tricky. For an easier ride, pick the Monk class — it pairs perfectly with unarmed dragon brawling. Other classes? Maybe after you’ve stopped setting yourself on fire.
Hydra
One head is good. Two? Better. Fourteen? Now we’re talking.
Origin: Hydras are the stuff of legends — big, scaly, and always up for growing *just one more head*. Like dragons’ quirky cousins, they don’t stay the same size for long. Every few levels, they sprout a new noggin (with attitude), turning from a modest single-headed beast at level 1 to a majestic (and slightly terrifying) 14-headed hydra by level 50. It’s not a phase — it’s evolution.
Traits: No weapons? No problem. Hydras *are* the weapon. With every level, their barehanded attacks hit harder, stacking up extra dice like pancakes. As they grow new heads, they unlock the ability to breathe nasty stuff — poison, fire, acid — depending on the head in charge. And those heads come with perks: resistances, abilities, all the good stuff. But don’t get too cozy — cold really ruins their day, and their very presence annoys monsters from a distance (permanent aggravation at medium range).
Nutrition: Hydras aren’t picky eaters — but keeping all those heads fed? That’s on you.
Ability: They can breathe various elements (‘y‘ key) as they unlock new heads. Think of it as a scaly, multi-headed Swiss army knife. Handy!
Tip for New Players: Playing a Hydra for the first time? Monk is your best buddy. Other classes can get, well… *tricky*.
Black Numenorean
Pride. Shadows. Free will… and maybe a few questionable alliances.
Origin: Once noble High Men of ancient lands, Black Numenoreans chose a… different path. Not all of them were seduced by the Dark Lord’s gift baskets of doom — some just didn’t like being told what to do. Rules? Nah. Lectures about right and wrong? Double nah. They prefer to pick the team with the cooler outfits and bigger fireballs.
Traits: Starting from level 30, they don’t just *sense* evil — they straight-up sniff it out like a bloodhound in a haunted forest. Handy for navigating moral gray areas and actual dungeons. By level 35, they start shrugging off some damage and get better at digging. Because if you can’t fight your way through — dig under it. Or just tunnel dramatically into the shadows. Very aesthetic.
Ability: Detect evil creatures (‘y’ key), burning a bit of energy to sweep the area — wider than their usual ESP. Because sometimes you need to double-check the shadows.
Damned
Immortality? Cute idea. Until the curses start raining down like it’s monsoon season.
Origin: Some whisper they’re Highlanders, others claim they made deals with forbidden gods. The truth? They didn’t ask for forever — it just sort of… happened. But eternal life comes with strings. Big, ugly, divine strings. The Damned are cursed souls who walk the world endlessly, looking human but feeling far from it. The price of immortality? Constant divine pestering, misfortune on repeat, and a general sense that the universe has it out for you. But hey — they’ve got style and stamina to burn.
Traits: The Damned don’t age, don’t shrivel, and bounce back faster than you’d expect. Their regenerative powers are off the charts. They’re immune to life drain and fear (been through worse), and even magic has a harder time cracking them. Still, those divine curses? Real. And relentless. They’re always on edge, surviving what should’ve ended them centuries ago.
Nutrition: They don’t need food the way mortals do… but try telling that to their stomach at midnight. Old habits die hard — even when you don’t.
Ability: They can block creature summoning (‘y‘ key) by channeling energy — but only if they’re alone on the level. No witnesses, no loopholes. Just a quiet, cursed little moment of peace.
Merfolk
Scales, songs, and splashes. Graceful swimmers — but don’t expect them to dig a tunnel.
Origin: Merfolk are human-shaped water-dwellers who prefer the northern shores of the Big Step coast. But let’s be real — any river, lake, or sea will do, as long as it has waves and maybe a dramatic sunset. These folk are born with sea breeze in their hair and fish as their neighbors. They chat with water creatures like it’s no big deal and draw their magic straight from the deep. Glug-glug — spell ready.
Traits: Excellent resistance to water-based attacks and solid infravision — not bad for folks who hang out in kelp forests. They heal faster than the average landlubber, and while they won’t win any underground digging contests (no offense, Dwarves), their connection to water makes up for it. Drinking from magical fountains gives them energy, and even plain ol’ puddles offer a little sustenance. Not enough for a meal, but it keeps the gills moist.
Nutrition: They’re not picky drinkers either: sip from a magic fountain, or even a puddle, and they’ll soak up a bit of nourishment (though they’ll still be eyeing your rations).
Ability: With a splash of energy, Merfolk can cure poison ('y'). Because nothing spoils a seaside stroll like feeling green around the gills.
Barbarian
Magic bends the world. Steel breaks it.
Origin: Barbarians hail from the untamed North — wildlings forged in frost and battle. When the undead rose during the Dragon War (you know, as they tend to do), these tribes spread across Tangaria, seeking new lands for their people. At first? All fire and steel. But after locking horns with the Magic Council (big robes, bigger spells), they learned that diplomacy can sometimes save a bit of bloodshed. These days? Still rough around the edges, but they know when to sheath the axe… mostly.
Traits: Poison-resistant — survival in the wild means eating *anything* that won’t eat you first (and sometimes even that). Fearless to the core. Their bodies toughen over time, blows start to glance off like rain on stone. Stick around long enough, and they even need less food — call it efficiency, call it stubbornness, either way it works.
Nutrition: Barbarians have a simple food philosophy: if it moves, it’s dinner. If it doesn’t, maybe still dinner. But with age and battle scars, they need less to keep going. Legendary metabolism.
Ability: Got lungs? Use ’em. Barbarians can unleash a mighty yell (‘y‘ key) that aggravates every creature nearby, pulling them into a reckless brawl. Subtle as a hammer, but way more fun.
Black Dwarf
Tradition is a fine thing — until it chains your feet…
Origin: Black Dwarves once branched off from a long-forgotten dwarven clan — not fans of deep, echoing caverns. Hills, daylight, and open skies? More their style. Naturally, that didn’t sit well with the mountain folk. Outcasts among their own kind, they turned outward, trading with eastern human caliphates and striking deals with other misfits. Apparently, they’re not at war with goblins (disgraceful, I know), which only made things worse with their mountain cousins. Family reunions? Yeah, those invites stopped coming a long time ago.
Traits: Exposure to the surface world — especially after that whole messy Dragon-Titan war — darkened their skin and toughened their spirits. But hey, they gained resistance to disenchantment magic (ruination, be gone!). Like all dwarves, they’ve got a knack for tunneling and can sniff out ore veins once they get some mileage under their boots. By level 10, they even learn to move a bit quieter — not elf-quiet, but decent for someone lugging around that much beard.
Nutrition: Standard dwarf diet: hearty and heavy. But unlike their mountain cousins, Black Dwarves might swap an ale for a cup of strong eastern coffee now and then.
Ability: Spend some energy to scout out nearby entrances (‘y‘ key). Handy when you’re navigating the wilds or looking for the nearest tavern. Or, you know, an escape route.
Goblin
Quick hands, quicker feet. Might nick your lunch.
Origin: Goblins get a bad rap. People say they sneak around and take stuff that isn’t nailed down — and even then, they might take the nails too. Sure, some of that’s true, but hey, stereotypes hurt. Sure, they might swipe your gold, your sword, and your boots if you’re not watching — but they’ll leave you the socks.
Traits: Don’t let the size fool you — a goblin hits where it hurts (and where it’s least expected).. They’re lightning-fast, agile, and tricky to catch. Goblins are resistant to darkness (home field advantage), and despite their wiry build, they’re pretty solid at digging tunnels, holes, and creative escape routes. As they grow stronger, they develop a sixth sense for tracking down orc-kind — helpful for… reasons.
Nutrition: Whatever fits in their mouth. Bonus points if it wasn’t theirs to begin with.
Ability: By spending some energy, goblins enter bloodlust (‘y‘ key) — and get a little meaner than usual. Guard your kneecaps.
Half-Giant
Built for breaking things. Usually on purpose.
Origin: Half-Giants are the hefty offspring of ancient Titans. Somewhere along the line, a mortal got bold (or unlucky), and now we’ve got walking mountains with a temper. They still carry fragments of that colossal power, but their massive size messes with teleportation magic — squeezing all that bulk through space-time isn’t exactly elegant. Still, they laugh in the face of gravity, crush enemies with raw force, and can tank hits like it’s their day job (It is).
Traits: Physically unstoppable, magically… eh, not so much. Complex devices confuse them, stealth is a joke, and their idea of subtlety is ‘hit it harder’. But they can knock enemies senseless and dig through solid rock with brute strength. At their peak, Titan blood stirs — and dragons hit the ground harder.
Nutrition: Mostly meat. Maybe a boulder or two. Eventually, they get so tough they barely need to eat — though good luck finding a table big enough for dinner.
Ability: Channeling their inner Titan, Half-Giants can spend energy to become resistant to magic (‘y‘ key). It’s not elegant, but it works — and if that fails, there’s always smashing.
Ogre
Big and clumsy, but surprisingly good at magic (don’t laugh).
Origin: Ogres — or swamp trolls, depending on who’s telling the story — are ancient creatures, rumored to be the original troll-blooded folk. Slick-skinned and dripping with swamp water, they’re not exactly winning any beauty contests. But beneath the muck? Not all bad. Some Ogre families have traded the swamps for city life, swapping clubs for spellbooks. Turns out, they’re not half bad at shamanic magic — weaving spells the old, earthy way. Thick skin, thicker skulls, but surprisingly sharp minds when it counts.
Traits: Built like a big-bellied battering ram. Ogres swim like they were born in the water (because, well, they kinda were) and boast a natural resistance to mental collapse. Try breaking their will — you’ll get tired before they do. And despite their bulk, they *sometimes* manage to move quietly. Don’t ask how — just chalk it up to swamp magic.
Nutrition: Whatever’s floating in the swamp stew. And swamp mushrooms — the slimier, the better. Toss in the occasional frog or bug for texture.
Ability: While resting (but staying alert), Ogres can restore a bit of mana (‘y‘ key). Just picture a giant green brute humming softly, recharging their magical batteries. Weirdly calming.
Troll
Hit hard. Eat after. Smells like trouble (and maybe something worse).
Origin: Trolls are basically walking boulders with legs. Big, tough, and not exactly philosophers. Their skin? Good luck piercing it — even sharp blades struggle. Sure, they’re slow, but who needs speed when you’ve got sheer unstoppable mass?
Traits: Very healthy, very hungry, *very* hard to kill. Trolls regenerate so fast it feels unfair. Resistant to magical shards and poison. They hate light, are awful at shooting, and if you ask them about flying… well, don’t. Not even magic can get them airborne. Terrible with fighting techniques — but strong enough not to care. They’re not bright, so if any extra-sensory powers happen to kick in — don’t expect a detailed monster list.
Nutrition: They’ll eat anything (seriously, *anything*). If it fits, it sits (in their stomach). Rocks, beasts, unlucky travelers — trolls aren’t picky. Always hungry, always munching.
Ability: Trolls can harden their skin (‘y‘ key), spending some energy to become even more unbreakable. Think of it as turning into a walking fortress. If they can’t find the door, they’ll just *make* one — straight through the wall.
Orc
Swords chipped, shields splintered, still standing.
Origin: Orcs, the greenish-skinned bruisers of the southern Banlands, just want a piece of fertile land to call home. But the Empire of Strength? Yeah, they’ve got other plans — and those plans don’t include peaceful orcish farms. So, the struggle continues. Orcs are a stubborn lot, fighting for their place under the sun (even if it scorches their backs and blinds their eyes).
Traits: Resistant to darkness and poison (they’ve survived worse), and tough enough to take a hit — or ten. Traps, magic, and fiddling with devices — that’s how orcs lose fingers. Thinking things through? Also… optional. But here’s the twist: the longer an Orc survives, the wiser they get. Battle-hardened wisdom, the kind you can’t teach.
Nutrition: Meat. More meat. The source? Best not to ask. Maybe a root vegetable if no one’s watching.
Ability: Orcs can summon a warg companion (‘y‘ key) by spending some energy. Because nothing says ‘don’t mess with me’ like riding into battle with a giant wolf at your side. Oh, and at higher levels? They move faster and quieter than you’d expect — for something that size, that’s impressive.
Forest Goblin
Related to hobbits? Maybe. But don’t bring it up.
Origin: Forest Goblins are tricky. At first glance, they might seem like harmless little woodland critters — all wide eyes and curious grins. And sure, some are friendly, offering berries or pointing out safe trails. But others? Not so much. It all depends on the tribe. Whether kind or cruel, they blend into the forest like shadows, darting through underbrush faster than you can blink.
Traits: Not the strongest folk, but fast and clever — unusually wise for “goblin”-kind. These little tricksters can dodge melee blows now and then, slipping out of reach just when you think you’ve got them cornered. They’re sneaky by nature, and the forest is their playground.
Nutrition: Berries, roots, small game. And maybe a shiny trinket or two, if you’re not watching closely.
Ability: Forest Goblins can spend energy to cover their tracks (‘y‘ key), vanishing into the greenery like they were never there. Try chasing them — and enjoy getting lost.
Dark Elf
Not the hero of the story. Never wanted to be.
Origin: Dark Elves dwell in the southern reaches, just past the Roaring Mountains. Rumor says they live underground, hiding from the sun — probably because of their pale, dusky skin. But that’s just gossip. Truth is, they’re hermits, carving out a harsh existence wherever they can. They’ve got little in common with the ‘green’ forest elves — no tree-hugging here. In fact, most of their own kind wiped each other out long ago, torn apart by endless family feuds. No dragons, no wars — just dinner arguments gone too far.
Traits: Skilled fighters, resistant to darkness, stealthy and able to see the invisible — but shine a light too bright, and they’ll flinch (nobody’s perfect). Everyone says they hate dark elves — right up until they need one in a fight.
Nutrition: Whatever they can hunt, scavenge, or steal in the dead of night. They’re not picky, but they *are* efficient.
Ability: By spending some energy, Dark Elves can coat their weapons with poison (‘y‘ key) — a little something extra to remind enemies that messing with them was a bad idea.
Werewolf
A struggle between man and beast — and the beast is winning.
Origin: Werewolves are a strange, secretive folk from the eastern edges of the Golden Forest, up in the north. Call it a curse, call it a disease — either way, it burns in their blood. They can’t resist the pull of the wild, the call of untamed nature. Some fight it. Some embrace it. Either way, they live as outcasts, hiding from those who’d see them exterminated the moment their secret’s out.
Traits: When night falls, the curse takes hold. They transform into hulking wolf-humanoid hybrids — faster, stronger, more terrifying. Their claws rip through flesh like paper, but their grip on weapons and tools? Sloppy at best. They regenerate quickly, feel the presence of animals nearby, and share an unspoken bond with the wilderness. Light magic burns them, so they avoid it like the plague. But as they grow stronger, nearing their peak, they embrace the darkness within — becoming highly resistant to it. And sometimes, under the moon’s pull, they can’t help but howl, announcing their presence to anyone (and anything) nearby.. which can be pretty annoying.
Nutrition: Meat. Raw, cooked, doesn’t matter. The beast gets hungry.
Ability: Werewolves can spend energy to revert to their human form (‘y‘ key), holding back the beast when the timing’s not right for claws and fangs. Control is everything — unless you like waking up naked in the woods.
Undead
Dead, but not gone. Ugly, but still kicking. Somewhere between corpse and conqueror.
Origin: The Undead have claimed much of the far north as their own, and unlike the drooling, brainless zombie hordes out in the Wildlands, these ones can actually think. Some of them, anyway. They’ve even built their own country — which, fun fact, constantly has to fend off the less-civilized undead masses at the borders. Being dead is complicated.
Traits: Immune to life draining (go figure), tough to poison, hard to freeze. They start with nether resistance, and by level 50 they’re fully immune to it. The trade-off? Slow, clumsy, awful at stealth and searching, with lousy magic resistance. They don’t heal naturally — no cozy campfire regen here. To recover, they feast on humanoid flesh. Yep, it’s as gross as it sounds, but hey, it works. Fire and light magic sting, but not as much as you’d expect.
Vision: Seeing in the dark? Easy. In fact, light sources *reduce* their vision range. The older (or deader) they get, the sharper their night sight becomes.
Nutrition: Flesh. Specifically humanoid flesh. It keeps the bones moving and the mind (mostly) intact.
Ability: By spending some energy, Undead can detect nearby living creatures (‘y‘ key). Handy for knowing who’s sneaking up on you — or who’s next on the menu.
Vampire
Elegant. Immortal. Thirsty. Scary stories? They probably wrote half of them.
Origin: Vampires dwell north of the Honor Empire — reasonable folk, all things considered. But reason doesn’t stop other races from quaking in their boots at the mere mention of them. Can’t really blame them — Vampires pack serious power. After the devastation of the Last War, only a few remain, keeping to their lands, living quietly (or as quietly as ancient blood-drinkers can manage).
Traits: No regeneration, no normal food — Vampires restore their strength the old-fashioned way: drinking the blood of fallen humanoids. As they grow older (or more infamous), they gain resistance to poison, nether, darkness, and even time itself — and know no fear. Perfect infravision lets them read the darkness like an open book. But digging? Please. That’s for peasants.
Night & Day: As creatures of the night, daylight weakens them, makes them feel… off. But they can handle it. Barely. Light magic stings, but it’s the price of walking among mortals.
Forms & Flight: Vampires can transform into mist or a bat — because sometimes style matters more than brute force. Open water? No thanks — unless they’re flying over it. Speaking of which, they can spend energy to take flight (‘y‘ key), soaring over trees, rivers, and obstacles like the elegant predators they are.
Vision: Like their undead cousins, Vampires see perfectly in darkness, and light sources actually *reduce* their vision range. The older they get, the sharper their night sight becomes.
Nutrition: Blood. Preferably fresh.
Maiar
Ancient spark. Mortal coil. Power waiting to awaken (with enough XP)..
Origin: Maiar are the distant echoes of ancient powers — the kind of beings that legends barely remember. Walking among mortals? That’s their training ground. But don’t expect them to shine right away. Early on, they’re fragile, like a candle flickering in a storm. Their true strength only ignites after they’ve soaked up enough worldly experience.
Traits: Tough to kill? Oh, absolutely. Maiar are resistant to all sorts of nasty things — fear, life drain, even blinding light (though they’re not big fans of darkness). With time, they gain the sight to pierce invisibility, the grace to levitate, and they carry an inner light that never dims. Their blows devastating against the forces of evil. But don’t count on speed buffs — they’ve got their own pace, and they’re sticking to it.
Nutrition: Food is for mortals. Maiar eat because they *choose* to, not because they have to (though, let’s be honest, bread’s still nice).
Ability: When the arguments run out and convincing didn’t work — lightning will (‘y‘ key).
Demonic
Every story needs a villain. Lucky us.
Origin: Demonic? Yeah, corrupted spirits. Cousins to the Maiar — same ancient lineage, just… took a darker path. They serve the First Gods, the ones polite company doesn’t talk about. If Maiar are a flicker of divinity, these guys are the embers smoldering beneath.
Traits: Poison? Chaos? Darkness? They *eat* that for breakfast. Well, not literally — they don’t really do breakfast. But painfully sensitive to light (don’t expect them to enjoy a sunny day). Floating above the ground (because walking is so… mortal), peering through invisibility, and laughing in the face of fear (because they literally can’t feel it) — all standard. Life drain doesn’t touch them either. Their attacks drip with poison, and they’re fast out of the gate, quicker than most. But here’s the catch: the stronger they get, the more the world pushes back. Power attracts trouble, and for these folks, that means becoming a little… unstable.
Nutrition: Who cares? They’ve got darker cravings — blood, power, maybe a good soul or two. (Just kidding. Probably.)
Ability: Summon demon-slaves (‘y‘ key) to fight by your side. It takes a moment and, oh yeah, a bit of demonic blood as a sacrifice. Your blood. No one said dark magic was easy.
Balrog
Can’t exactly blend into a crowd (unless it’s *running*).
Origin: Balrogs aren’t exactly a race — more like a *force* that decided walking around in a body was a good idea. Titans’ muscle in the war against dragons, these fiery beasts turned battlefields into cinders. But dragons fought back with more than just fire (which Balrogs laugh at) — and not many Balrogs walked away from that mess unscathed. The survivors? Yeah, they’re the stuff of nightmares. Over the centuries, though, some Balrogs have mellowed out (just a bit). Learned to rein in the whole ‘flaming demon’ thing and even shapeshift into something more… socially acceptable. Rumor has it there’s a Balrog archmage teaching at a Magic Academy. Don’t ask which class. Makes you wonder what Parent-Teacher night looks like.
Traits: Fireproof? Obviously. Poison and life drain? No effect. But cold and light magic? That stings. At level 35, they don’t just resist fire — they *are* fire. They can see invisible creatures and float above the ground, because walking is for mortals. But here’s the downside: Balrogs are slow to react in battle, weighed down by overconfidence and the occasional urge to monologue. As they age (and they’re bad at dying), they get cockier, soak up more damage, and let’s just say finesse isn’t their strong suit. Don’t hand them magic devices either — that’s not their thing. Their presence alone heats up the battlefield, boosting the fire damage they deal, especially when they’re feeling themselves at higher levels.
Nutrition: They *rarely* need to eat. Fire and fury are enough most days.
Ability: Unleash a fiery whip (‘y‘ key) with a crack that makes enemies rethink their life choices. Costs a bit of energy — but totally worth it for the drama.
Celestial
Don’t pray to them, they won’t help. On the contrary…
Origin: Celestials… People like to call them ‘angels’ — but don’t let that fool you. No fluffy wings, no gentle guidance, and definitely no singing choirs. These beings are pure will, wrapped in light, and they’ve got their own agenda. And trust me, it’s not about helping anyone. No wings, no halos, just cold ambition and divine wrath. Thankfully, there aren’t many left, most having perished in their eternal war with the Balrogs. The world breathes easier because of it.
Traits: Celestials come packed with Charisma and raw Strength. But early on? They’re a bit of a mess — clumsy, frail, not the brightest candle in the temple. Resistant to gravity, they float naturally above the ground (because of course they do) and barely need to eat. Their bodies digest food at a crawl, and even under pressure, their Wisdom stuck steady (not the most flexible worldview). With experience, they gain the sight to see the invisible. But they’ve got a soft spot (if you can call it that): time-based effects can mess them up. Their very presence sheds a faint glow, enough to light up the dark corners. They’re especially good at turning undead into ash.
Nutrition: Food’s more of a hobby than a necessity. They get by on light and stubbornness.
Ability: Unleash a holy blast (‘y‘ key) — the kind of light that leaves scorch marks.
Nephalem
Proof that angels make mistakes too.
Origin: Imagine an angel had a bad idea one night and that bad idea had horns. That’s a Nephalem — the extremely rare offspring of divine and demonic forces. They live among us, mostly unnoticed. Your quiet neighbor? Could be one. You? Maybe. That strange craving for lava-flavored steak? A sign.
Traits: Nephalem are walking contradictions. Balanced, but with unpredictable surges of power. Early on, they’re painfully vulnerable to both light and dark magic — kind of like wearing sunscreen and getting burned anyway. But with time, they build up resistance to both. They have an innate sense for demons and hit them like they’ve got personal beef (they do). Their downside? Constant hunger. And not the pizza kind. It’s more like soul-hunger. Not easy to be around at a buffet.
Nutrition: Always hungry. Doesn’t matter what. Or when. Or how much. Their metabolism is a cosmic joke.
Ability: They can place a Glyph ('y' key) — a blood-crafted ward that blocks summoning and forces enemies to destroy it before reaching you. Downside? It costs so much blood, you’ll be left looking like you lost a fight with a blender. Use wisely, or prepare to nap forever.
Gargoyles
Ugly as sin, tough as rock. Because they are rock.
Origin: Gargoyles aren’t born. They’re made — carved from rock, animated by wild arcane storms when magic gets a little *too* rowdy. It doesn’t happen often, but every few centuries or so? Boom. New Gargoyle. Rare, but not *balrog* rare. You’ll spot one before you see a demon lord. They’ve been lurking in Tangaria’s shadows for centuries, staring at you from rooftops, judging your life choices.
Traits: Made of solid stone (literally), Gargoyles grow tougher with age — developing natural armor that shrugs off fire, electricity, poison, and shards like a champ. Acid, however? Total nightmare. Obsidian looks tough — right up until it starts hissing. They levitate (thanks, inner magic). But… they’re about as nimble as a brick in a dance contest. Dexterity? Miserable. Though, with time, they stop tripping over their own wings.
Forget ranged weapons — their aim is laughable. But they’ve got good infravision (stone-cold stare) and their stats can’t be lowered. Ever. Physically, they’re a force of nature. Mentally? Wise like a mountain. Smart like a mountain, too. And yes, they’re as ugly as a rock with teeth.
Ability: By spending some energy ('y' key), Gargoyles can anchor themselves against space/time disruptions. When you’re made of stone, you don’t move unless you *want* to. Ever tried to teleport a boulder? Exactly.
Fun Fact: Some wizards tried making their own gargoyles, but at best they end up with clay golems — close, but no granite cigar.
Golems
Move. Only. Straight. Other. Movement. Denied.
Origin: Golems aren’t born. They’re built — conjured up by mighty wizards who wanted obedient muscle without the backtalk. Simple, right? A hulking mass of stone or metal that does exactly what it’s told. At first, that’s all there is. Move rock. Guard door. Smash intruder. But give it enough time, and even a golem might start asking dangerous questions. Why am I here? Who says I have to take orders? There was a time when golems pushed back — a rebellion that left more than a few towers in rubble. Since then, some golems can earn their freedom… eventually. Decades of hard labor first, of course. But hey, freedom’s freedom. Unless your master ‘forgets’ to mention that last part.
Traits: Golems are walking fortresses. Immense strength, tough as nails, and surprisingly good at digging. They’re slow, sure, but try paralyzing a pile of enchanted stone — good luck! Poison? Barely a nuisance. They can resist magic, take 10% less damage, and when overloaded with loot, they don’t slow down quite as much as fleshy folk. Breathing? Optional. Stealth? Well… early models sound like a forge on legs. But the tuned ones? Whisper quiet. Almost. Their combat skills? Brutal. Malicious spells? They shrug off a fair share. Food? Nope. But they *do* need oil.
Fuel: No sandwiches for these guys. Golems run on oil — the fresher, the better. Found a lantern? That’s dinner. Use the ‘_‘ key to sip from a flask (just don’t stand on a fountain — you’ll look ridiculous). Magic lanterns? Premium fuel. And if you’re desperate, oily plants like Petty-dwarf roots or Slime Molds will do in a pinch. Even some mushrooms — Stoneskin for a nibble, Shadows for a real top-up.
Limitations: Golems can’t move diagonally. Straight lines only. So much for those fancy anti-summon corridors, huh?
Ability: Golems can create walls (‘y‘ key) by burning through some energy. Handy for blocking off pesky enemies or just flexing your construction skills.
Escalation: Let your oil drop below 5% (or 10% if you’re playing hardcore) the golem taps into raw terrain energy, draining the earth itself while digging. Handy.
Pixies
Tiny. Magical. Deadly if you blink at the wrong time.
Origin: Pixies are those mischievous little sprites you hear about in bedtime stories — the ones who steal socks or rearrange your furniture just enough to make you think you’re going mad. Most mortals have never actually *seen* one (except maybe as a blur), but if you’ve ever felt like someone sprinkled glitter in your hair or stole your last cookie, now you know who to blame.
Traits: Pixies are lightning-quick and sneaky — the kind of sneaky that makes rogues jealous. Melee combat? Eh, not their cup of nectar. Think ‘sneeze and they’re gone’. But spells? Oh, their magic never fizzles. Offensive spells tend to beam right through enemies rather than just zap them. They float effortlessly above the ground, completely ignoring traps — because why step on something when you never really touch the ground? They’ve got a knack for magic devices and a touch of resistance against magic and time effects. Occasionally, they’ll dodge a sword swing with a graceful twirl.
Nutrition: Rarely hungry, and as they grow older, food becomes an optional aesthetic choice.
Ability: Pixies can turn invisible (‘y‘ key) by spending some energy. Great for avoiding trouble… or causing it.
Carry Light: A word of caution! With their low Strength, Pixies aren’t exactly built for hauling loot. Stuff their pockets too much or strap on heavy armor, and they’ll slow down like a goblin in quicksand. Pack smart.
Draconians
Used to be baby dragons. Now they grill giants for breakfast.
Origin: Draconians are an ancient offshoot of dragonkind — humanoids with a draconic twist. Once a peaceful people, nearly wiped out by titans in a war no bard dares sing about (too depressing). The survivors fled to remote mountain caves, raising their young in secrecy. They hatch as tiny, squishy whelps — not the most intimidating start — but with time and tough love, they bulk up into fearsome draconic warriors.
Traits: Early on, Draconians are physically strong but… let’s say mentally distracted. As they mature, they gain natural resistances to fire, cold, acid, and lightning — the full elemental package. They’re not great with sneaky stuff: stealth, traps, weird mechanical devices? Meh. Their speed’s a bit sluggish early on, but with age comes momentum (and a tailwind). By level 50, they hit hard — especially against anything giant-sized.
Nutrition: Young Draconians eat a lot. Like, *a lot a lot*. But as they mature, their metabolism calms down. Less hangry, more zen. Just don’t touch their jerky stash.
Ability: Tap into your inner dragon by pressing ‘y‘ to unleash a fiery breath attack. Great for clearing rooms or making a dramatic entrance.
Titans
Big. Loud. Full of thunder. Subtle as a wrecking ball in a pottery shop.
Origin: Titans are the stuff of legends — towering beings crackling with raw power, touched by the storm gods themselves. Why didn’t they just flatten the world and call it a day? Well, turns out, their sheer presence messes with space itself. Teleportation magic? Nope. Dimensional travel? Not happening. They’re stuck walking, one booming step at a time. Though quite fast after level 30.
Traits: Titans don’t pop out of the earth fully formed either — they evolve. Starting off as humble hill giants (okay, not that humble), they can grow (literally and figuratively) into mighty greater titans. Titans channel lightning like it’s part of their bloodstream, gaining resistance and zapping their enemies with shocking blows. But finesse? Yeah, no. They’re clumsy, noisy, and their footsteps alone could set off seismographs. Devices and magical doodads confuse them, and their enormous size means they chew through food like a buffet on legs. But hey, they’re rock-solid: resistant to stunning, immune to knockbacks, gravity tricks? Forget it.
Enemies: Titans *hate* dragons. Like, ancestral, world-beginning, never-gonna-let-it-go levels of hate. Expect fireworks when these two meet.
Nutrition: Titans eat more than pretty much anyone else. Giant size = giant appetite. If there’s food around, they’re taking thirds (and fourths). No shame.
Ability: Wall crush (y key). Spend some energy, smash through walls like they’re paper. Who needs doors when you *are* the door?
Wood-Elves
Shoot first and ask questions never
Origin: Wood-Elves, also called Silvan or Green-elves, trace their lineage back to the Nandor of Telerin descent. They’ve made their homes in the shadowed depths of Mirkwood. Unlike their city-dwelling cousins with their polished armor and formal hairstyles, Wood-Elves are forest folk, blending with the trees, sipping fine elven wine, and hitting bullseyes from ridiculous distances. Subtle, agile, and a bit smug about it.
Traits: Wood-Elves boast excellent night vision and a razor-sharp sense of perception. If there’s something sneaking around out there, chances are the Wood-Elf already saw it and is halfway through a sarcastic internal monologue about it. They’re master trackers and even better archers — the kind that hits moving targets through branches from two forests away. But digging? Oh no. Hand them a shovel and watch them sigh dramatically. They’re nimble, quick, and not particularly strong, but they don’t need to be. At level 30, their elven grace levels up — more speed, more sneak, more sass.
Nutrition: Forget bland rations. Wood-Elves start with fine elven wine — because life’s too short for bad food. And yes, they’ll remind you.
Ability: With a bit of energy and a tap of the ‘y‘ key, they can detect invisible creatures.
Elementals
Stable as a campfire in a hurricane
Origin: Elementals aren’t *born* in the usual sense. They emerge — tiny sparks, faint breezes, drops of acid that somehow want to *be*. At first, they’re barely holding together, unstable and weak. But give them time, and they grow — stronger, wilder. A rare few might even juggle all the elements at once (though that usually ends in some spectacular explosions). Most folks? They keep their distance. Unpredictable things, Elementals.
Traits: Early on, Elementals are a mess — no stealth, no stability, and absolutely terrible at using devices or digging (try handing a shovel to a thunderstorm). They struggle with traps and searching too — scattered focus, you know? Vulnerable in their minor forms, they slowly build resistances as they evolve. Folk don’t trust them, either. It’s hard to make friends when you might accidentally electrocute someone with a handshake.
Nutrition: They don’t eat. They *absorb*. Flames, frost, static — whatever fuels their inner storm. Just don’t offer them soup.
Ability: They can fire off beams of elemental energy (‘y‘) by spending some of their own. Think of it as venting — because sometimes, you just need to let it out.
Frostmen
Cold-hearted. Literally. They make snow trolls cry (then freeze the tears).
Origin: Frostmen are ancient beings born of ice and silence, still haunting the frozen North where the wind howls and the sun forgets to shine. Descended from the first men of ice — the kind who once raised undead armies for fun — they now call themselves Norse (sounds friendlier): fierce, magical barbarians with a serious grudge against snow trolls. They’ve hunted trolls for generations, know all their tricks, and probably have troll skulls decorating their tents.
Traits: With skin magically hardened against the cold, Frostmen laugh at blizzards but wilt in the heat. Their melee style? Brutal. Think frozen fists fueled by icy rage. But don’t hand them a magic wand. Devices, traps, and resisting spells — not their thing. They lack intuition too, that little voice that warns you ‘maybe don’t poke the dragon’. Most living beings steer clear of Frostmen — partly fear, partly survival instinct. Yet their bond with the dead runs deep, letting them sense undead presences like a sixth (very creepy) sense.
Nutrition: Meat. Raw if needed. Frozen preferred. If it crunches, even better.
Ability: Raise dead (y key). Spend some energy to pull skeletons and corpses back onto the battlefield. Because one more zombie friend never hurts…
Centaurs
Half horse, half human, all attitude.
Origin: Centaurs combine the strength and speed of a horse with the mind and arms of a human — basically the best (and worst) of both worlds. Fierce in battle, passionate in love, and stubborn as a mule when it comes to their freedom, centaurs roam where they please. They’re adventurers at heart, galloping across the wilds, guided by curiosity and pride (lots of pride).
Traits: Running speed is their middle name. Their connection with nature gives them plenty of perks out in the wild, and rumor has it, you *cannot* confuse a centaur — mentally, that is. Physically, they’re too big to fit in small places, and digging tunnels? Don’t even ask. Their hooves echo loudly through dungeon halls, so stealth isn’t their forte. Also, flying? Forget it — even magic can’t lift that much horse. Centaurs are wise and curious, often knowing more about the world than they let on. They can spot an edible mushroom in the darkest cave (no, they won’t share). But magical devices? Meh. And yes, they take offense easily — that pride runs deep.
Nutrition: Grass? Nope. Give them proper food. They eat like humans — but with a horse’s appetite. Twice the body, twice the breakfast.
Ability: Charge attack (y key). Spend some energy to barrel into enemies like a runaway cart. No brakes. No apologies.
Spiders
Eight legs, zero friends. Silent, deadly, and really good at ruining picnics.
Origin: Giant spiders love the dark. The darker, the better. They’re not your average web-spinners either — these spiders are intelligent, venomous, and sneaky enough to creep up on even the sharpest ranger. Some elder spiders even dabble in magic. Their big weakness? Fragile exoskeletons. Those spindly legs might be great for creeping around, but they snap like twigs if you swing hard enough.
Traits: Spiders excel at stealth and sniffing out hidden things — they’re masters of the long game. Their venomous bites weaken enemies, slowly turning the tide in their favor. But swords, wands, traps? Nah. Even though they’ve got eight legs, none of them good for delicate work. Bright light stings their eyes, so they stick to the shadows, where their infravision helps them hunt unseen. And yes, pretty much *everyone* hates spiders — but that just makes the hunt more fun.
Nutrition: They don’t *eat* so much as *drain*. A little venom, a little patience, and voilà — dinner’s served (liquid form only).
Ability: Web weaving (‘y‘ key). Costs a bit of energy, but they prefer their prey wrapped up nice and neat in silk.
Djinn
Curious fellas. Most Djinn aren’t trapped in lamps — they just crawled in to see what’s inside.
Origin: Djinn are mythical beings of raw magical energy — the kind that slipped through cracks between worlds and decided to stick around. Freed from ancient bindings, they drift into this reality carrying enough power to rewrite the rules (or at least bend them until they squeak).
Traits: Boots? Don’t fit. Quick recovery? Out of the question. But hey, when you can silently float above the ground and summon miracles, who’s complaining? Even the youngest among them resist time and poison, and as they grow, they shrug off fire, frost, acid, and lightning like it’s nothing. Curious to a fault, Djinn automatically identify magical items (because why *not* poke every artifact?). They never feel fear — which sounds cool until they stroll headfirst into disaster. Naturally stealthy, they can spot invisible creatures, but their raw magic tends to mess with devices — expect the occasional magical hiccup.
Nutrition: Djinn don’t really *eat*. They soak up ambient magic, ideas, and occasionally the odd misplaced wish. Call it an energy-efficient diet.
Ability: Create wonders (y key). Simple.
Harpies
Feathers. Fury. Cliffs that make your knees weak. And the screech? Unforgettable.
Origin: Harpies aren’t exactly your friendly neighborhood birds. Born from ancient storms and cursed winds (someone really upset the weather gods), they roost in high cliffs and crumbling ruins where no sane traveler wanders. Picture a winged humanoid with a temper sharper than their talons. Try to take their treasure? You’ll hear about it. Loudly.
Traits: Harpies are light as a feather (literally) and have mastered the fine art of falling without breaking anything important. They hit their stride when fully grown — becoming lightning-fast predators. But strong? Not really. Agile? You bet. They strike quickly, vanish faster, and their darkvision lets them see you long before you see them. Blind them? Nice try. Oh, and mushrooms? They know which ones won’t kill you. Handy, right? They’re also sharp-eyed, excelling at searching and spotting things others miss.
Nutrition: Harpies aren’t exactly gourmets. They snack on the go, prefer raw over cooked, and if it crawls — even better.
Ability: Harpies hate being slowed. Press ‘y‘ to throw a tantrum and speed back up.
Minotaur
Echoing footsteps in stone corridors. Horns scraping the ceiling…
Origin: Minotaurs didn’t exactly choose the labyrinth life — it chose them. Cursed long ago to wander endless tunnels, their ancestors paced those stone halls forever searching for a way out. The curse may have lifted, but the bloodline remains. They are not the friendliest neighbors. They live in mountain caverns, and honestly they like it quiet. Strangers aren’t welcome, and, to be fair, strangers don’t really want to visit.
Traits: Mature Minotaurs? Absolute units. Constitution of a mountain. You can try to stun or confuse one — good luck with that. But nimble? Not really. Ranged weapons feel like toothpicks in those hands. Their bulk makes them slow to heal, slow to dodge, and absolutely terrible at disarming traps, fiddling with devices, or even spotting a hidden lever. Brains and wisdom? Let’s just say they charge first, think later. But… Minotaurs might be stubborn as a rock, but they’ve got a code. No stabbing folks in their sleep. If they’re about to smash you, they’ll at least say hi first.
Nutrition: Red meat. Lots of it. Preferably fresh. They chew like they fight — slow, steady, relentless. Vegetables? Maybe as garnish. Maybe.
Ability: Hit ‘y’ to burn some blood and rush like nothing can stop you. Because walls are just suggestions.
Troglodyte
Damp tunnels. Gnawed bones. A whiff of something you’d rather not identify.
Origin: Troglodytes hail from the world’s damp and forgotten underbelly — ancient caves untouched by sun or soap. Time moves slower down there, and so do they. Not powerful, not pretty, but stubborn enough to survive by chewing on whatever didn’t chew back. They’re not evil — just… unpleasant.
Traits: Most Troglodytes don’t have eyes. Who needs ‘em underground? They “see” with other senses and have solid resistance to blindness. Some tribes wandered to the surface and kinda-sorta adapted — though bright lights still give them a headache (or worse). With age, their instincts sharpen, but don’t expect them to find secret doors or read ancient scripts. They regenerate quickly (nature’s apology?), and their legendary stench tends to alert every creature in the dungeon before they even arrive. Magic, devices, traps, or fancy weapons? Forget it. They’re sneaky in their own grimy way, fantastic diggers, and about as magical as a soggy potato.
Nutrition: Always hungry. Always. Their digestive system fears nothing. At level 10, they start regenerating — less chewing, more healing. By level 35, they can handle hunger better than most. Their idea of a snack? Dirt-covered cave fungus.
Ability: When hunger strikes underground, Troglodytes strike back. Press ‘y‘ to munch whatever’s handy and refill some food. Dirt counts.
Naga
Charmed by a Naga? That’s not charm — that’s the venom kicking in.
Origin: Origin: Nagas are the wayward children of the Serpent of Chaos — think desert winds and jungle shadows woven into something vaguely humanoid, looking like they just walked off a heavy metal album cover. Shiny scales, hypnotic eyes, and absolutely zero impulse control. The women? Gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that starts wars — and ends them with someone’s head bitten off.
Traits: Nagas aren’t winning any speed contests, but good luck stopping them. Paralysis? Doesn’t work. Their reflexes are lightning-fast, letting them slip in an extra strike mid-fight — like getting bit when you thought the snake was done. Forget about boots (obviously), and flying’s not on the menu either. But they *see* heat — tracking prey in the dark with infrared precision. Problem is, their presence tends to rile up everything nearby. Calm dungeon run? Not with a Naga around. Something about their presence just irritates everything nearby — snakes do that. They’re clumsy with traps, gadgets, and ranged stuff — and thinking ahead? Not their style. Extrasensory perception? Kinda narrow. But who needs smarts when you’ve got such glare?
Nutrition: Warm-blooded, preferably still moving. Nagas don’t do salads.
Ability: Nagas can slip into an offensive stance (‘y‘ key) by spending some energy — ready to strike harder, faster, meaner. Because sometimes one bite just isn’t enough ™.
Gnoll
Hyena laughs in the night. Ale on their breath. A grin full of sharp teeth.
Origin: Gnolls are what happens when a bunch of mages decide it’s a good idea to mash together man and beast. Spoiler: it wasn’t. The mages are long gone (probably eaten), but their furry mistakes still roam the world. Picture a humanoid with a dog’s head, attitude to match, and a knack for turning any gathering into a rowdy pub fight. Left unsupervised? Expect drinking, howling, and songs that would make even an orc blush.
Traits: Gnolls aren’t exactly polished. They run a bit faster than most (especially toward trouble), and they shrug off confusion and chaos as they get older — life was confusing enough when chaos magic birthed them. Their darkvision is decent, but their magic resistance? Let’s just say spellcasters love them as target practice. Devices and traps? They’d rather chew on them. Communication? Mostly barking and growling. Over time, some gnolls get a bit smarter, maybe even wiser — but don’t hold your breath for deep conversations. They’re natural diggers, clawing through soft ground like it’s a pastime.
Nutrition: And when it comes to snacks? Rodents are a delicacy, offering extra nourishment in the dungeon. Just smash a bunch of them — and you’re good.
Ability: Fear leaves a scent. Gnolls spend energy (‘y’) to find it — the gnoll’s favorite seasoning.
Lizardmen
The gods took one look and said, “Good enough”…
Origin: Some whisper that Lizardmen stumbled in from another plane — lost souls who wandered a bit too far and ended up knee-deep in southern bogs. Whatever their origin, they’ve made the swamps their home. Covered in tough, scaly skin with bony ridges poking out like nature’s armor, they’re slow-moving but stubborn as the mud they wade through. Not flashy, not fast, but built to endure.
Traits: Lizardmen aren’t winning any tournaments outside the swamp. They’re fairly weak across the board — except when it comes to defense. Those bone outgrowths give them a bit of extra padding, and their heat-sensing vision helps them track warm bodies in the dark (which is pretty handy when everything looks like mud). Shields? They love them. No one blocks like a Lizardman. As they grow, they toughen up, becoming stronger, slightly faster than your average humanoid, and pretty decent diggers. But in towns? Not so welcome. Their reptilian vibe makes folks nervous — something about the unblinking stare.
Nutrition: Insects are their snack of choice. Ants, centipedes, anything crunchy that crawls. Caught in the dungeon? Extra nourishment. Who needs tavern food?
Ability: Lizardmen can manually regenerate (‘y‘ key) by spending some energy. Because sometimes you just need a moment to pull yourself together — scales and all.
Wisp
Even the smallest light can casts a long shadow
Origin: No one really *gets* Wisps. Are they lost fragments of ancient magic? Interplanar tourists? Failed stars? Legends from every world have their theories — guides, messengers, or just creepy little watchers that never blink. One thing’s for sure: you never quite trust a Wisp, and you never quite understand one. They’re just there. Glowing. Floating. Judging? Maybe.
Traits: Wisps don’t do the whole talking thing — they beam thoughts directly into your brain. No invasions, no mind games, just casual telepathy. Mature Wisps? They get a spooky sixth sense for nearby evil. Physically? Let’s just say they aren’t built for a bar brawl. Fighting, fiddling with devices, disarming traps — not their scene. But when it comes to magic, they’re tough as nails: resistant to raw spells, immune to light (makes sense), but darkness? Yeah, that’s their weakness. Feather-light, immune to poison and paralysis, barely need to eat (lucky). They’ve got loads of mana, casting spells like it’s going out of style — though over time, that mana pool shrinks, and physical hits hurt more than they used to. Their weapons? Always blessed — because if you’re gonna wield something, might as well make it glow. Charisma? Low. Mortals just don’t vibe with a floating lightball.
Nutrition: Eating’s more of a hobby than a necessity. They digest slowly, barely nibble at anything, and can go ages without a proper meal.
Ability: Wisps can flood their surroundings with bright light (‘y‘ key) by spending some energy. Because why carry a torch when you *are* one?
Imp
A flash of red. A cackle in the shadows. Something just moved your stuff.
Origin: Imps are what happens when chaos gets bored and starts doodling. Not quite demons, not quite spirits — more like the leftovers of a prank gone too far. They hail from a dimension so messed up it probably imploded from sheer nonsense, leaving Imps to scuttle through reality’s cracks. Wherever they land, trouble follows (or starts).
Traits: Weak? Absolutely. Fast and sneaky? Even more so. They slip through the shadows like they own the place. Fire? They laugh at it. Frost? Not a fan. Stick around long enough, and they’ll shrug off flames entirely. High magic resistance keeps them from becoming wizard fodder, and their mana pool starts big but slowly shrinks as they level up — mischief takes its toll. Also their mana regeneration is slow because even chaos needs a breather. Wise? No. Clever enough to be a menace? Oh yes. Most folks can’t stand them — too many pranks, too little charm. They’ve got a habit of teleporting randomly, just to mess with your plans.
Trick: And at level 50 they unlock ‘Stealth Mode’ ([shift+s]) — because sneaking is way more fun when no one can see you coming.
Nutrition: Whatever fuels that endless energy for mayhem.
Ability: Imps can teleport short distances at will (‘y‘ key) by spending some energy. Why walk when you can blink out and reappear behind someone’s back?
Wraith
You can’t ghost what was never really here
Origin: Wraiths are the ones who skipped the whole ‘rest in peace’ part. Bound to the world by curses, regrets, or really bad timing, they float between life and death, not fully committed to either. Mortals fear them, the dead ignore them, and therapists gave up years ago. You won’t see them at parties — mostly because they’re invisible in the dark.
Traits: Physically? Not impressive. Their strength is permanently low — think haunted curtain flapping in a breeze. Fighting, searching, using traps or devices? Eh, not their forte. But resistances? Oh yes — poison, dark, nether, time, fear — they shrug it all off like yesterday’s ectoplasm. Their digestion is glacial, their life force is locked tight, and they have an uncanny knack for dodging hits. Equipping items, though? Let’s say corporeal stuff is… complicated.
Vision: Wraiths thrive in darkness. No torch needed — in fact, using light makes things worse, shrinking their spooky sight. The older they get, the better they see in pitch black.
Ability: By pressing ‘y‘, Wraiths can drift through walls — no knocking required. But here’s the twist: they go temporarily blind while doing it. It’s hard to see when your eyes are phasing through stone, okay?
Other quirks: They can’t teleport between towns and dungeons like normal folk. Guess when you’re half-dead, fast travel is off the table. On the upside, they can sense their undead cousins. Family reunions must be a hoot.
Beholder
Every eye on you
Origin: Beholders like to think of themselves as the ultimate lifeform — the first, the last, the only one that matters. Every single one convinced it is the only true beholder and all others are flawed copies. Blame it on their cosmic paranoia. Some say they’re the fever dream of elder gods, others call it a curse gone very, very wrong. Either way, they float through life convinced everyone’s out to get them — because honestly, they usually are.
Traits: Picture a floating meatball with way too many eyes on stalks — seeing in all directions at once. Fighting, using gadgets, digging? Forget it. But hand them a shield, and they’ll surprisingly bash you with it. They’re fragile, not great at handling physical punishment, and absolutely hate bright lights. On the plus side, they resist amnesia (because forgetting things would really mess with the whole ‘perfect being’ vibe). They’re slow movers but quick to react, tracking heat sources. Finding hidden stuff? Easy peasy for all those eyes.
Mental state: Their minds exist in… let’s call it ‘multiple tabs open’ mode. Hallucinations happen — reality tends to glitch for them. But as they get older, they learn to keep the weird visions to a minimum. Mostly.
Senses: With time, Beholders get really good at sensing almost anything that moves, breathes, or lurks. Nothing hides from the eye squad and mindwaves for long.
Ability: Beholders can fire magic rays (‘y‘) that do all sorts of nasty things — disintegration, fear, zapping you into next week.
Ooze
Just a blob, trying its best
Origin: Oozes usually spend their lives mindlessly slithering through damp caves, slurping up whatever’s unlucky enough to cross their path. No thoughts, just vibes (and lots of goo). But every so often — once in a blue moon — one of them *awakens*. A spark flickers. Consciousness oozes in (pun intended). And with awareness comes hunger. Not just the ‘gobble up a rat’ kind of hunger — but a craving for power, life, and… well, everything.
You’re that ooze. Lucky you? Maybe. You creep alone, mumbling wet whispers to yourself, forever torn between slimy instinct and this strange new thing called a mind. Not quite beast, not quite something else. Deliciously confusing.
Traits: No fixed shape here — you wobble and morph constantly, which makes you immune to paralysis (try pinning down a puddle, I dare you). Movement? Slow and squelchy. But you regenerate faster than most. Fighting, disarming traps, fiddling with devices? You’re terrible at it. Searching? Worse. You can’t fly either, not even with magic. They resist poison like it’s seasoning, but bright lights and zaps of electricity — that’s the stuff of nightmares.
Defense: As you mature (age like fine… slime?), you get better at resisting pure magic, boosting your survival chances in a world that frankly has it out for gooey things like you.
Diet: Carnivore, herbivore, omnivore? You’re an *everything*-vore. Kill something? You absorb the nutrients. That’s the ooze way. Wet caves and dungeons are your home turf — and the buffet is open 24/7.
Ability: By pressing ‘y‘, you can split off minor copies of yourself — little blobs that attack and distract your enemies. Because why face danger alone when you can send your gooey cousins to do the messy work? Doors? You just slither under them. Locks are for suckers with bones.