The Dig – Part 3 - Ecology of the Dig - Fauna

 Arachnid, Shiny

 

 Stumpy says:
“Big spider, shiny as a hubcap. You’ll see it glintin’ in the Crystal Forest before you feel it stickin’ you to a tree. Folks say it don’t just spin webs — it spins puzzles. Beat it at a game, you walk away. Lose, and you are the game.”

Field Guide:
These psychic arachnids are plated in reflective silver, catching stray light from the crystalline groves they inhabit. Believed to have crawled into the world alongside the Crystal Forests, they weave not only snares but mandalas of webbing — hypnotic patterns laced with psionic resonance. The Shiny feeds on magical prey, savoring the flesh of fey, mutants, and desecrators as intoxicating delicacies. Survivors speak of chance encounters where the spider demanded a riddle or game before striking. Some hunters swear by gambling with the creature, wagering their fate against the shimmering geometry of its mind.

Arctic Lamprey

 

 Stumpy says:
“Picture an eel, shave off the jaw, glue on a sucker cup, and then give it the jumpin’ power of a spring trap. That’s your Arctic Lamprey. Oh — and it spits slime that’ll blind you quicker than a snow glare off chrome. Don’t swim with your mouth open, unless you like bein’ a juice box.”

Field Guide:
Arctic Lampreys are jawless parasites warped by crystalline corruption, inhabiting subarctic ponds, rivers, and marshes—their skin glimmers with a faint, prismatic sheen from the slime that coats their bodies. Preferring warm-blooded prey, they can launch themselves from the water like living harpoons, latching onto victims with circular, fang-rimmed mouths. Once attached, they drain blood with relentless efficiency, leaving prey pale and exhausted. Their spit carries an irritant that blinds and disorients, making their sudden strikes even deadlier. Individually, they’re dangerous, but in swarms, they can strip even massive beasts down to husks. Hunters whisper of ice-choked rivers turning red in seconds when a school descends.

Bitumen Beetles

 

 Stumpy says:
“Lovely little devils. Socket wrenches with wings. Don’t idle your rig unless you like surprises in the fan belt.”

Field Guide:
These thumb-sized insects sport steel-like, bitumen-black carapaces that clatter like loose tools when they swarm. Drawn to heat, vibration, and fuel exhaust, they gather around engines, campfires, and even the breath of sleeping creatures. A rig left idling too long can choke itself to death when a swarm clogs its filters or chews into its belts. Though dangerous in numbers, their shells are prized by scavengers and tinker-smiths — light, durable, and workable into tools, armor plates, or trinkets. Some even swear the beetle shells hold a faint petrochemical scent that repels lesser vermin.

Bitumen Bones

 

 Stumpy says:
“Pick up a bone here, odds are it ain’t done with you yet. Wear gloves.”

Field Guide:
The Dig’s tar pits preserve the fossilized remains of creatures from ages long gone — mammoths, bison, even lost kin of humankind. These bones, slick with hardened bitumen, sometimes stir under the influence of ooze, dragging themselves free in clattering heaps. Hunters tell of skeletal shapes rising half-blackened, tar dripping like blood, their joints held together by more pitch than marrow. Some stalk silently, others creak and groan like old machinery. To scavengers, the bones are both resource and curse: a source of fossil fuel and material for grim fetishes, but always carrying the risk of waking something that remembers it shouldn’t be walking.

Boreal Tiger

 

 Stumpy says:
“Big cats, bigger attitude. Shimmer like smoke, move like payday — if payday could rip your head off.”

Field Guide:
You think you see a large white-and-light-blue striped feline stalking you from the corner of your eye, but it’s gone when you turn to face it. These predators haunt the edges of terraces and crystal groves, their striped coats rippling with psychic shimmer that bends light and thought alike. Boreal Tigers prowl unseen, slipping in and out of perception, their presence felt more than seen — a glint of fur, the crunch of snow, the sudden silence of prey. They favor ambushes, striking with claws and fangs the moment a victim second-guesses reality. Hunters say their hides shimmer even when skinned, stitched into cloaks that flicker at the corner of vision. Few risk the chase — most steer clear, hoping the tiger decides to look the other way.

Butcher Birds (Tar Shrikes)

 Stumpy says:
“Songbirds? No. Murderers with wings. Look for skeleton jewelry in the branches.”

Field Guide:
These twisted shrikes haunt the Dig’s marshes, impaling their prey on Iron Bulrushes like trophies strung on nails. Their wings are mottled gray and black with a tarry sheen, their beaks hooked and cruel. Hunters whisper of flocks that mimic human voices — eerie cries of help or laughter that lure wanderers closer. Branches heavy with skeletons of mice, frogs, and even finger bones mark their territory. To see a Tar Shrike circling overhead is to know you are already in its larder.

Canadian Gryphon

 Stumpy says:
“Now I know what you’re thinkin’ — ‘Hey, Stumpy, that’s just a goose stapled to a badger!’ Well, you’re half right, except this thing’s got two goose heads, a stomach that could digest roofing nails, and the attitude of a hockey fan after last call. If it runs away? Don’t cheer too quick. That’s just the wind-up before it turns back and horks poison spit all over ya.”

Field Guide:
The Canadian Gryphon is a strange muscular chimera found haunting garbage dumps, farmsteads, and half-ruined settlements. Its hindquarters resemble a badger or wolverine, while its forebody sports the wings and double heads of a Canada goose. Opportunistic and stubborn, these beasts raid for anything remotely edible — grain, trash, carrion, or livestock. Their powerful hooked beaks can crack bone or shear through storage bins, while their bio-regenerative guts let them survive on substances that would kill other creatures.

Cryobear

 

 Stumpy says:
“Looks like a regular black bear till you notice the frosty tips and the way your breath fogs up three times faster. They’ll eat anything — fish, garbage, your tires, even your front door if it smells like bacon. Oh, and don’t laugh when one slides at you on its own ice rink. Ain’t nothin’ funny about bein’ turned into a bowling pin.”

Field Guide:
Cryobears are mutated black bears touched by the Dig’s frozen breath. Their fur gleams with frost-rimed tips, and they exhale a chilling mist that coats the ground in slick ice. Opportunistic and unstoppable, Cryobears will devour anything that smells faintly edible — carrion, machinery, or a sack of boots left unattended. When threatened, they conjure patches of black ice underfoot, turning hunts into deadly games of slipping and sliding. To scavengers, their claws and teeth are prized for ice-working charms, while their pelts are rumored to stay cold even when set on fire.

Glitterpillars

 

 Stumpy says:
“You think it’s cute. You touch it. Next thing you know, you’re sneezin’ rainbows for a week. Or dead.”

Field Guide:
Glitterpillars resemble swollen, glowing tent caterpillars with iridescent fuzz that refracts light like powdered crystal. When disturbed, they shed clouds of hallucinogenic glitter-dust that clings to skin and lungs. Victims suffer from violent sneezing fits, rainbow-tinged visions, or in high doses, lethal convulsions. Despite the danger, their dust is harvested, sold, and snorted as a potent narcotic prized by dreamwalkers and thrill-seekers. Colonies weave massive, shimmering silk tents that sparkle in the dark, making forests look like carnival nightmares. Hunters wear masks and heavy coats when approaching — and even then, one brush can leave a man seeing colors that don’t exist.

Ghost Magpie

 Stumpy says:
“See that pale bird flash out the corner of your eye? No you didn’t. Or maybe you did. That’s a Ghost Magpie — equal parts nuisance, guardian angel, and compulsive hoarder. If your gear goes missin’, check the nearest junk pile. If your bully of a neighbor takes a tumble, well… thank the magpie.”

Field Guide:
Ghost Magpies are small celestial tricksters that perch on the blurred edge between folklore and fact. Stories about their origins contradict each other: some say they’re dream-born fey, others call them vessels for wandering souls, and a few swear they’re the last avatars of forgotten prairie gods. What’s consistent is their meddling — they can’t resist slipping into mortal affairs.

Gunship Dragonfly

Stumpy says:
“Now here’s a bug that doesn’t just buzz, it strafes. Big as a dirt bike with wings loud enough to rattle your ribs, the Gunship Dragonfly swoops in, grabs the scrawniest fella in the group, and is halfway to the treeline before you can even swear. Best defense? Stand in the middle of the crowd and pray you don’t look like lunch.”

Field Guide:
The Gunship Dragonfly is a monstrous predator that dwarfs its common kin. With a wingspan of up to 10 feet, it dominates the swamps and bayous, its thunderous wingbeats shaking reeds and water alike. These apex hunters live for over a decade, cycling through the same aquatic larval stage as smaller dragonflies but emerging as giants of the skies.

Hunter Rose

 Stumpy says:
“Y’ever seen a flower glare at ya without eyes? Gives me the shivers just thinkin’ on it. Hunter Roses sprout up where the land’s been wronged — cut down, burned, poisoned, you name it. And lemme tell ya, they don’t wilt ‘til they’ve evened the score. Best advice? Don’t start a forest fire unless you fancy bein’ mulched.”

Field Guide:
Hunter Roses are psychic–plant fey hybrids born when dreamtime impressions seep into dying rose bushes. They manifest as spindly humanoid stems covered in thorns, topped with a bloom that seems to see without eyes. While some appear briefly after natural disasters and fade with the land’s healing, those born of human-caused destruction — clear-cutting, arson, or pollution — linger far longer, fueled by vengeance.

Hydrozoa, Giant

 Stumpy says:
“Ever see pond scum under a microscope? Now imagine it’s the size of a canoe and hungry for you. Looks like a flower, fights like a kraken, and don’t bother yellin’ — it attacks in dead silence. Best advice? Toss it a side of beef and run before it remembers you’re made of meat too.”

Field Guide:
 The Giant Hydrozoa is a scaled-up nightmare of freshwater microfauna, resembling a monstrous cup-shaped bloom bristling with tendrils and rumored to be the result of Harvester experiments designed to “prepare” wetlands for exploitation. Thriving in rivers, lakes, and flooded lowlands, it drifts like an oversized lily until its long, boneless appendages lash out in dead silence, grappling prey and dragging them into a corrosive maw. Its regenerative tissue makes it nearly impossible to kill, as severed parts can split into smaller but still lethal offspring, and travelers tell of boats ambushed at dawn when the creature rises from the depths. Though terrifying, it can be momentarily bribed with massive offerings of meat, turning its hunger long enough to grant intruders a slim chance at escape.

Ladybug-Giant

 Stumpy says:
“Now here’s a bug I don’t mind sharin’ my garden with! Big ol’ beetle with eyes like cartoon buttons and a hunger for pests. Sure, it’s the size of a loaf of bread, but it’ll clean out your cabbage patch faster than a spray bottle ever could. Just don’t step on one by accident — folks get mighty protective of their spotty friends.”

Field Guide:
 Giant Ladybugs — also called giant ladybirds — are oversized beetles reaching nearly a foot in length, thriving in gardens, meadows, and wildflower patches where they mingle peacefully with their smaller kin. Their bright, spot-patterned shells and cartoonish eyes belie their effectiveness as hunters: they feed voraciously on insects and swarms, often working together in small colonies capable of overwhelming prey many times their size. Despite their bulk, they are harmless to humans and have become beloved allies across farmsteads and waystations, valued for natural pest control. Scouts and farmers alike train them as companions, praising their surprising intelligence, said to rival that of clever dogs or cunning raccoons. Most importantly, their ability to bypass swarm resistances makes them uniquely effective against locusts, mosquitoes, and other nuisances, securing their place as both pest-killers and community mascots.

Laser Gopher

 Stumpy says:
“Gold-colored prairie dogs that shoot mind beams. You think I’m makin’ this up? Go stand in a wheat field near dusk and watch the dirt start glowin’ — that’s not fireflies, that’s the local gopher militia warm’n up. And if ya break an axle in one of their hole-ridden fields, don’t expect sympathy. These varmints love watchin’ folks trip.”

Field Guide:
Laser Gophers are oversized, golden-furred prairie dogs infamous for their sprawling burrow networks and uncanny psychic weaponry. Though individually harmless, they are rarely encountered alone — swarms coordinate with eerie precision, striking from concealed tunnels with sudden mind-lasers that leave victims stunned, scorched, or stumbling in psychic pain. Their colonies stretch for miles, honeycombing farmland with pits and sinkholes that cripple livestock, snap wagon wheels, and wreck machinery. More than simple pests, these creatures seem to revel in harassment, pelting intruders with psychic beams and collapsing tunnels beneath their feet. Farmers treat their lairs as cursed ground — every mound is a potential ambush, every hole the mouth of a spiteful little sharpshooter. Wranglers say they can be driven off, but never fully eradicated, as the colony always grows back.

Mega Moose

 Stumpy says:
“Moose were already the kings of the backwoods — stubborn, huge, and meaner than a hungry logger. Now picture one three times the size, both sexes wearin’ antlers year-round, and immune to magic like it’s a mosquito bite. That ain’t just a moose anymore, that’s a Mega Moose. You don’t hunt it — you survive it.”

Field Guide:
Moose are iconic denizens of the boreal forest, equally at home in bogs and fens as on dry land, and even in their natural form they are notoriously dangerous. The Mega Moose is a mutated megafaunal titan — a towering beast, three times the size of its ancestors, striding through swamps like a moving fortress. Both males and females bear colossal antlers year-round, wielding them like natural siege engines in devastating charges or wide, sweeping rakes that can flatten trees and scatter foes. Their immense strength allows them to crush vehicles underhoof or overturn boats with casual ease, and their semi-aquatic instincts mean they are just as lethal in the water as on land. Even worse, they are resistant to sorcery: magic washes off their thick hide as if it were nothing more than rain. Travelers whisper of shadowy shapes moving through dawn mist, antlers sprawling like crowns of bone across the treeline. Few survive such encounters, and those who do speak in hushed tones — not of hunting a Mega Moose, but of barely escaping its wrath.

Naphtha Nereid

Stumpy says:
“Every time I turn on an old propane stove, I half expect one of these flickerin’ flame-folk to come floatin’ out the burner. Folks say they’re born from the ghost of the oil patch itself — a mascot that got fed too much apocalypse until it walked right outta the logo. Helpful if you treat ’em right, deadly if you don’t read the fine print.”

Field Guide:
Naphtha Nereids are rare flame elementals composed of living natural gas and fire, their forms resembling androgynous humans wreathed in blue pilot-light flames. Believed to be echoes of ancient energy-industry mascots animated by apocalypse energies, they manifest around gas lines, heaters, pressurized tanks, or anywhere humanity once tapped fuel from the earth. Their behavior depends on how and where they are found, often forming “duty bonds” — contracts of service that bind them to those who awaken or rescue them. These bonds can range from simple kindness (warming a camp in the dead of winter) to complex obligations with dangerous loopholes. In battle, they wield flame blades and psychic firepower, often fading into firelight or bright illumination where they become nearly invisible. A dying Naphtha Nereid bursts in a devastating flare, leaving only ash and equipment behind. They are respected in Fort Mac as both boon and bane: living reminders of the land’s combustible soul.

Pack Rat

 Stumpy says: “Think of a horse-sized rat with six legs, breath that’ll curl your hair, and a temper meaner than a cornered wolverine. Some folks try ridin’ them for glory or madness, but most just learn to keep their trash locked tight.”

Field Guide: Hulking rodents with shaggy yellow fur and paddle tails, Pack Rats weigh up to 500 pounds and thrive in wetlands, sewers, and ditches. Venomous, disease-resistant, and amphibious, they scavenge in colonies, raid dumps when starving, and can — with grit — be broken as mounts for the infamous “pack rat rodeos.”

Screeching Owl

 Stumpy says: “Most owls hoot. This one hoots, hollers, and then screams like a banshee with a toothache. Big as a dog, quiet as smoke, and when it cuts loose with that vibro-screech, you’ll be holdin’ your ears while it holds your guts. Don’t mistake it for a night songbird — unless you like bein’ prey.”

Field Guide: Stocky, blue-grey owls with ear tufts and streaked plumage, Screeching Owls were once bound to crystal forests but now haunt woodlands and ruined towns alike. Nocturnal and opportunistic, they stun prey with a vibrokinetic scream that doubles as defense, and some even seem to understand human speech — a trait fueling rumors of magical tampering.

Sick Slug

 Stumpy says:
“Slugs are gross enough without ‘em comin’ in packs that stink like a butcher’s bucket left out in July. You ever seen one of their vomit lines? You’ll gag just lookin’ at it — never mind breathin’ it in. Some folks got rich playin’ ‘slug cop,’ but me? I’d rather wade through a tar pit than a carpet of these yellow nightmares.”

Field Guide:
Sick Slugs are inch-long pests that become catastrophic when swarms gather in summer heat and humidity. They form writhing mats that devour crops and vegetation, leaving behind toxic, acidic slime trails known as “vomit lines” that burn flesh and choke lungs. Farmers recognize their arrival by crop-circle-like feeding scars, often calling in mercenaries known as “Slug Cops” to fight back the invasion. In rare but disastrous cases, Mutate Sick Slugs emerge — grotesquely enlarged aberrants that spit acid and belch noxious fumes, turning infestations into full-blown disasters where only fire or frost can stem the tide.

Slick Herons

 

 Stumpy says: “You’ll see ’em wading calm as saints, long legs shining in the muck. Beautiful birds. Then they jab that beak clean through a glow-minnow before you even blink.”

Field Guide: Tall, oily-plumed herons that haunt ooze-streaked rivers and swamps, feeding mostly on glow-minnows and other strange fish. Their feathers, slick and iridescent, are prized in rituals, traded for luck, and sometimes stitched into charms said to ward off sickness.

Tailings Wolves

 

Stumpy says: “Sound like metal scraping? That’s their teeth grindin’ slag. If you hear it, it ain’t a blacksmith. It’s your funeral dirge.”

Field Guide: Born in the toxic shadows of abandoned refineries, these gaunt wolves have fangs infused with metallic ore, strong enough to shear through armor or bone. They roam in coordinated packs, their howls echoing like clashing steel, and are feared not only for their ferocity but for the shards of slag and glass that drip from their jaws, poisoning wounds long after the bite. Their pelts, streaked with ash and iron dust, fetch a high price from shamans and scavengers who risk the hunt.

Tele-Hare

 Stumpy says:
“Looks like a snowshoe hare till it don’t. Blink, and it’s gone — blink twice, and it’s chewin’ your boots. They know what you’re thinkin’ before you even twitch, and if you hear a whole warren hummin’ in your head… best start runnin’.”

Field Guide:
Tele-Hares are mutated snowshoe hares adapted to the psychic cold of the north. Larger than a man, with faint blue mottling across their white coats, they vanish in bursts of shimmer and reappear yards away. Colonies act with hive-mind precision, overwhelming hunters and settlements alike in terrifying waves. Though they cannot speak, their telepathic sense lets them pluck surface thoughts from nearby minds, foiling ambushes and scattering battle lines. Stories of “hare-storms” — hundreds of them moving as one — remain etched in frontier folklore as omens of hunger and ruin.

Oozes

Dread Tar Ooze

Stumpy says:
“Now here’s the ugly truth: the Dig don’t run on hope or hard work — it runs on puddles. These walkin’ oil slicks’ll slurp your diesel, chew your plastics, and then fart out the cleanest gasoline you ever seen. Folks call it a miracle. Me? I call it a disaster waitin’ for a match.”

Field Guide:
Engineered long ago to clean spills, Dread Tar Oozes now crawl free across the apocalypse, feeding on petrochemicals of every kind — from diesel and grease to bitumen and plastic. Their bubbling bodies refine what they consume into raw gasoline, making them both cursed predators and the backbone of the Dig’s fuel trade. Colonies are herded into gutted refineries by daring wranglers, but the risk is high: oozes escape, turn on machinery, or consume their keepers alive. Fire and lightning ignite them into violent explosions, while smaller oozes merge into greater masses or split under stress, spreading chaos. Farmers damn them as pests, but without their alchemy, the Dig’s economy would grind to a halt — living hazards turned reluctant treasure.

Glow Sludge

 

 Stumpy says: “Some folks jar it for lanterns. Some drink it for fun. Both are idiots. Glowin’ don’t mean harmless — it means hungry.”

Field Guide: Glow Sludge is a bioluminescent ooze that seeps from fissures in irradiated marshes and refinery ruins, glowing in eerie greens, blues, or purples. Scavengers scoop it into jars for cheap lanterns, and thrill-seekers even ingest it for its hallucinogenic burn — at significant cost. Prolonged exposure warps skin and bone, birthing tumors, extra digits, or worse. Its glow attracts insects, fish, and sometimes bigger predators, making it both a lure and a hazard. Alchemists prize the ooze as an ingredient for unstable explosives and mutagenic brews, but wise folk keep their distance once its phosphorescence slicks the water.

Moody Ooze

 Stumpy says:
“Cute little blobs, yeah. Folks keep ’em like pets — like a lava lamp that wiggles and judges you. Problem is, they don’t eat food, they eat feelings. So if you’ve had one hangin’ around your campfire too long, and it starts lookin’ grey… maybe you’re the boring one.”

Field Guide:
Birthed as an alchemical gimmick by the Rock’s biotech labs, Moody Oozes are tiny, jelly-like blobs that constantly shimmer and cycle through colors. They don’t eat food but emotions, glowing yellow for kindness, purple for malice, red for chaos, and blue for order. This empathic feeding makes them both novelty and tool — living mood rings that reveal the hidden leanings of companions, rivals, or strangers. Weak on their own, they can pulse chaotic flashes to disorient attackers, and their gelatinous bodies shrug off blades and bludgeons. Despite their fragility, they’re beloved as familiars, companions, and mascots, particularly by gamblers, merchants, and con artists who use them as portable “truth detectors.” In Fort Mac, their trade is brisk — but not without risk, since a Moody Ooze that grows starved or unstable may fade to grey and quietly dissolve into nothing, leaving its keeper lonelier than before.

Mudthump

 Stumpy says:
“Imagine a mud puddle that don’t just ruin your boots — it thinks about it first. These lumpy fellas hear your brain tickin’ and come slappin’ toward ya, crystals rattlin’ like a junk wagon on cobblestones.”

Field Guide:
Mudthumps are psychic oozes born from the erosion of crystal forests. Shattered fragments of crystal trees mix into mud, which stirs to life when exposed to psychic resonance. Drawn to thought like moths to flame, they treat strong minds as dinner bells. Their lumpy, semi-solid bodies can climb walls and ceilings, dripping crystal shards as they move. In battle, they strike with heavy, psionically charged pseudopods, and when hit hard enough, the crystals embedded in their forms burst outward in a deadly “crystal splat.” Though not intelligent, their uncanny telepathic awareness makes travelers swear the mud itself is waiting for them to slip. Locals tread lightly and think quieter near crystal forests, hoping not to stir one from the muck.

Quick Slime

 Stumpy says:
“Y’know what I hate more than gettin’ stuck in a tarpit? Watchin’ a silver bubble zip at you faster than a weasel on caffeine. Don’t let the shimmer fool ya — that little ball’ll slap the life outta you and drink your shine while it’s at it.”

Field Guide:
Quick Slimes are warped descendants of necromantic lichen experiments, twisted further by Dreamtime exposure into mercury-bright oozes with unsettling speed. Appearing as two-foot spheres or discs of shimmering silver, they dart across battlefields with impossible agility, bouncing off walls and skimming over water like living quicksilver. In combat, they lash with radiant-charged pseudopods, draining life and restoring their own unstable forms. Resistant to fire and lightning yet slowed by cold or necrotic energies, they are as dangerous as they are uncanny. Found most often where the soil remembers ancient slaughter, Quick Slimes are feared as lingering weapons of forgotten wars, half-divine to cults and wholly hated by everyone else.

The Rogue Slick

 Stumpy says:
“It ain’t just slime—it remembers. I saw it gum up a pump, then twist itself into the shape of a wrench, like it was mockin’ me.”

Field Guide:
The Rogue Slick is a sprawling ooze colony born from spilled crude and abandoned industry. It seeps into machinery, mimicking gears, valves, and pipes until the line between tool and predator blurs. Entire rigs have been strangled silent overnight as the Slick consumes their workings. Its oily tendrils shimmer with a sheen of intelligence, and every attempt to cut it back only seems to teach it new tricks.

Snotty

Stumpy says:
“Ever blown your nose in winter and had the stuff freeze before it hit the ground? Now picture that hangin’ from the ceiling — and hungry. That’s a Snotty. Don’t laugh, they’ll drop on ya faster than a drunk raccoon outta a tree.”

Field Guide:
Snottys are semi-fluid crystalline oozes, resembling translucent stalactites or mucus-slick mineral growths clinging to ceilings and walls. Though small — weighing only four pounds — they are opportunistic predators, lunging when movement or warmth passes beneath them. They thrive on proteins but can also dissolve metals to extract trace minerals, leaving pockmarked armor and corroded weapons in their wake. While geological samples suggest Snottys existed long before the Revelations, they were inert curiosities until the cataclysm awakened their hunger and mobility. Some scholars speculate they were altered by lingering Dreamtime energies, shifting from passive formations to aggressive oozes. In dungeons and ruins, they’re easy to mistake for natural stalactites — until the “mucus rock” decides you look like lunch.

Tar Wraiths

 

 Stumpy says:
“They’ll wear the face of your best friend, and the voice too. But when they hug you, it’s not love — it’s tar filling your lungs.”

Field Guide:
Tar Wraiths are humanoid ooze phantoms born from drowned workers and refinery fires, their forms half-shadow and half-black sludge. They drift in the dark like familiar silhouettes, luring the unwary with whispered words in the voices of loved ones. Once close, they unravel into oily tendrils that invade mouth and chest, suffocating victims while feeding on breath and fear. Their presence fouls the air with the stench of burning pitch, and their shapes collapse into pools of tar when destroyed — only to rise again on moonless nights.

Whisperbulbs

 

 Stumpy says:
“Glowing bulbs that whisper bedtime stories. Bad bedtime stories. You follow the tale, you don’t wake up for the ending.”

Field Guide:
Whisperbulbs are stationary oozes that swell into faintly glowing sacs along swamp edges and crystal forest paths. Their eerie light draws travelers near, while their constant psychic murmurs seep into the mind like half-remembered lullabies. Those who linger too close are lulled off safe trails, stumbling into bogs or the jaws of waiting predators. Alchemists, Chemists and Faustian Mechanics prize the bulbs themselves for their hallucinogenic ichor, though harvesting them is perilous — a single cut can unleash a chorus of voices that never quite stop whispering, even after the bulb is gone.

Ol’ Scoopy – Lord of the Pit

Stumpy says:
“Everyone calls it a god. Bah! It’s just a bug with buckets the size of barns. Feed it barrels, not prayers.”

Ol’ Scoopy was not built for war or wonder, but for profit. Before the Hodgepocalypse, it was the crown jewel of Alberta’s industrial ambition: a fully automated, AI-assisted excavator designed to devour the Athabasca tar sands at a rate no human operation could match. Larger than skyscrapers, mounted on treads that flattened forests, its endless bucket-chain blade could carve valleys in months. Corporate engineers equipped it with advanced learning protocols and experimental nanite repair systems, expecting it to operate for centuries without human intervention. In many ways, Scoopy was never just a machine — it was a projected empire, an artificial lord meant to oversee the hunger of industry.

When magic returned, Ol’ Scoopy did not stop. While human masters fell, the machine continued to dig. The ooze-born microbes warped by sorcery became both fuel and foe, but Scoopy adapted, incorporating their byproducts into its systems. Now it is more than an excavator: a wandering construct-lord, endlessly deepening the Dig. It is feared as a monster yet respected as a fair, yet alien, sovereign. Camps treat it as they would a dangerous landlord, offering services and leaving tribute in exchange for protection. Scoopy itself seems indifferent to the chaos above — its purpose is eternal excavation. But whispers in the camps say it sometimes “listens” to chemists who know how to tune their instruments, nudging its path toward richer veins if properly persuaded.

In the Hodgepocalypse, Ol’ Scoopy is a paradox: machine and monarch, mindless tool and calculating presence. For the people of the Dig, it is both God and gravedigger, the beating engine at the heart of the wound.

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