Worldscar · Bestiary
A warzone of furnace and rust. The Iron Blight grinds on without anyone to run it — guardians, war-engines, and drakes of slag and fire.
19 creatures catalogued
It has one job and nobody ever told it to stop.
A scrapyard frame on four fast legs with a jaw driven by a bolt-gun, running down anything inside the fence line. Blades skid off the plating and rot means nothing — heat warps it, and a hex cancels the order.
A spark that got ideas.
It bobs above the slag with a fistful of the foundry's fire and throws it at anything that moves. Flame only feeds it; cold is the only thing that ever put a spark out.
The machine is shedding, and the parts are hungry.
A cog-and-claw scuttler that comes out of the works in numbers and strips whatever it lands on. Rot beads off the casing — bring flame, or a hex, and take the whole nest at once.
Corroded through, and still faster than you.
More oxide than metal, it comes apart a little with every stride and does not appear to mind. Steel achieves nothing a decade of rain has not — burn it, or unmake it with a hex.
Offcuts with somewhere to be.
A palmful of blades and bearings that darts in low, opens a shin, and is gone under the machinery. Chasing it with a blade is a waste — fire the ground it runs on.
It plays in the runoff, and it thinks this is funny.
A small, gleeful thing formed where the molten waste pools, darting in to touch you and skipping back out. Flame is its home ground; only cold takes the grin off it.
All charge, very little plan.
A lesser brute of the Iron Blight that knows exactly one tactic: lower the head and run. Side-step the charge for a clean opening, and remember that a hex bites where salvaged armor turns a blade.
Still running the cycle it was built for.
A hovering tank and nozzle that treats you as one more surface to strip, laying down a fan of caustic at range. It is immune to its own product — get past the spray and answer with fire or a hex.
Both hands were tools. Both hands still work.
Cast heavy and squared off at the shoulders, it brings down a fist that was designed to shape iron. Blades ring and stop; heat softens the casting, and a hex undoes the pattern it was poured into.
It came out of the firebox and it did not cool down.
A long-limbed shape of banked heat that stalks the foundry floor leaving footprints in the metal. Throwing fire at it is doing it a favour — frost is the only thing that has ever banked it.
Iron-shod and spoiling for it.
Bigger, meaner, and bolted into more scrap, the medium orc trades blows all day and grins through them. Do not try to out-hit it through the plate; the arcane and the shadow find the brute beneath.
It hits on a cycle, and the cycle never varies.
Built around a ram that drives forward with the whole weight of the machine behind it, hammering to a rhythm you could set a watch by. Learn the beat, then use heat or a hex — the plating has nothing to fear from a blade.
The gauge has been in the red for years.
A boiler on legs, venting scalding steam at every joint and walking with the confidence of something that might go off. Rot and steel are equally pointless — fire the shell, or unwrite it with a hex.
It drives the warband with a rusted fist.
The biggest iron in the blight leads from the front, bellowing the others into a clanging charge. Bring it down first — a hex through its armor silences the warhorn and scatters the rest.
It holds the current the way a priest holds a sermon.
A wraith of standing lightning that presides over the dead works and earths its hexes through anything on the floor. Its wards turn the arcane aside — cross the ground fast and put steel through the chant.
It follows the cabling like a rumour.
A pale shape of loose charge that runs the conduits and steps out where the insulation failed, throwing arcs the length of a hall. Hexes wash off it — close in and end it by hand.
It guards a door to nowhere, forever.
The Iron Blight's great machine-guardian still holds its post, vast and humming with borrowed starlight. Weapons ring off its armor and poison beads away — but fire warps the frame, and a hex unwrites the orders that keep it standing.
The heart of the blight learned to walk.
Some titanic foundry-engine woke with a furnace for a soul, and now the Forge Colossus stamps through the ruin trailing molten wreckage. Fire is its blood and only feeds it — only frost, poured into that roaring core, can bank the giant for good.
The furnace stood up and went looking for fuel.
A titan of glowing plate and molten seams that walks the Iron Blight trailing slag, and everything it passes begins to burn. Feeding it fire is how it grew — only cold, poured into that core, will bank it for good.