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From the journal of Meredin Vaul, Historian of the Final Veil, circa 1379 DR They don’t sing hymns to him the way they do for Lathander. No garlands. No festivals. No laughter. People speak Kelemvor’s name in quiet places, if they speak it at all. And yet I would trust him over any other god in the Realms. He wasn’t born divine. Kelemvor Lyonsbane was once a man, a warrior by trade, carrying some ancient curse that turned him into a beast whenever he acted out of selfishness. Whether that curse was real or metaphor, I can’t say. But whatever its nature, it carved something into him. It made him take life seriously. Too seriously, perhaps, but in the end that’s why he was chosen. During the Time of Troubles, when the gods were cast from their thrones and walked among us like broken stars, Kelemvor stood with Mystra, who was still mortal then, and faced the chaos the gods left behind. Myrkul, who had ruled death before him, was cast down and undone. Cyric claimed the mantle next, and with it came madness and cruelty. But death isn’t meant to be mad, or cruel, or even triumphant. It’s meant to be certain. Kelemvor understood that. When he rose to godhood and became the Judge of the Dead, he didn’t build a kingdom of bone. He built a court. The Crystal Spire stands in the heart of the Fugue Plane, not as a temple or fortress, but as a place where every soul is weighed and heard. He does not claim the righteous for himself. He does not punish the wicked out of spite. He simply decides where they belong, and sends them there. No more, no less. He doesn’t want worship. He wants order. Peace. He believes in the cycle, and in keeping that cycle clean. That’s why he hates the undead. Not because they are unnatural, though they are, but because they lie. A body that should rest and rot walks instead. A soul that should have passed still clings and hungers. Undeath is theft. Kelemvor despises theft. His priests are quiet men and women. They wear gray. They work in graveyards and behind the doors of the dying. They tell hard truths. They don’t soften the edges of what’s coming. They simply prepare people to meet it with dignity. They will not promise paradise. They will not promise reunion. Only rest. I’ve seen only one true image of him, etched into stone in a ruined chapel far in the North. He looked like a man still, or close to it. Tanned skin. Eyes like bright green fire. His jaw set like stone, hair black and wild, streaked with grey like winter sneaking into autumn. He wore chainmail over dark leathers, and across his waist a wide belt with a cat’s eye gem so large and strange I almost expected it to blink. He did not carry a scythe. He didn’t need one. He stood like a man who had never lost a fight, and would never raise his voice unless the world needed silence. Some fear him. I don’t. He is not cruel. He is not cold. He is simply what waits for all of us. And if there is any justice after the long dark, it is because Kelemvor is the one watching the gate. #kelemvor #DungeonsAndDragons #DnD5e #HomebrewMonster #DarkFantasy #FeyHorror #MonsterDesign #AICharacterDesign #FantasyAI #AIGeneratedArt #UndeadDnD #CreepingHorror #TabletopTerrors #HomebrewDnD #TTRPGHorror #EpicFantasy #ForgottenRealms #DnDStorytime #MonsterLore #OriginalDnDMonster #TTRPGCommunity #FantasyHorror #AIArtDarkFantasy #SwampHorror #MereOfDeadMen
This homebrew monster holds a special place in my heart because it is the main boss of a TTRPG I've been working on for some time now. But I think it's time it joined the DnD universe! Journal of Iskareth Vael Recovered from the ruins of his quarters in Candlekeep. Pages wet. Ink smeared with blood. "It bled as it fell. Not fire. Not smoke. Just blood. Endless. Streaming across the sky like a torn vein in the heavens. The stars behind it disappeared. The sky turned red — not lit, but soaked. Like it was bleeding too. The light didn’t shine. It pulsed. Slow, wet. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat. It made no sound. That was worse. It didn’t fall. It descended. Like it knew where it was going. Like it had always been coming here. When it touched the earth, it didn’t strike. It sank. The ground gave. It shuddered, opened like meat under a dull knife. The trees didn’t burn. They curled, blackened, and burst. The roots turned to pulp. Animals fled, then collapsed mid-run. I watched crows fall like ash. No wind. No thunder. Just pressure. Like the whole world was holding its breath under something enormous. We reached the crater by the fourth day. It wasn’t a crater. It was a mouth. Not shaped like one — felt like one. Wet. Soft. Breathing. There were no edges. The land just softened and bled. The mud was warm. The stones pulsed. We found veins running through the soil. They twitched when we touched them. The priests started to vomit blood that wasn’t theirs. I dreamed that night. I still haven’t woken up. It has so many heads. Not born — pushed out. Half-formed. Melting. Some speak in screams. Some cry. One just stares and does not blink. They shift constantly, like they’re choking on each other. It doesn’t stand. It seethes. Folds of muscle and wet flesh sliding over each other. It leaks as it moves. Its own mass rejects itself. It should not be. But it is. It came from a place made of meat. I felt it. Not a planet. A wound. A rotting world that still breathes. I could hear it, in the dirt. In the water. Vurmhar. It did not bring rot. It is rot. The Hydra is only part of it. A piece that slipped loose. One of our scribes whispered its name until his tongue dissolved. And I know it knows me back. It watches through reflections. The gods are silent. Their symbols blacken when brought near. This is not a god. It is rot and hell incarnate. It still bleeds into the ground. The grass that grows near it writhes. I hear something breathing under the stone beneath my bed. I am not alone in my body. It is not done. The wound is still fresh. –I.V. #DungeonsAndDragons #DnD5e #HomebrewMonster #DarkFantasy #FeyHorror #MonsterDesign #AICharacterDesign #FantasyAI #AIGeneratedArt #UndeadDnD #CreepingHorror #TabletopTerrors #HomebrewDnD #TTRPGHorror #EpicFantasy #ForgottenRealms #DnDStorytime #MonsterLore #OriginalDnDMonster #TTRPGCommunity #FantasyHorror #AIArtDarkFantasy
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6th of Nightal, Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR) The Dark Maiden, Eilistraee "It is a strange thing to write of gods and feel something other than fear. Most who dwell beneath the surface, especially among the Drow, learn early that divinity comes with fangs and webs. Yet there is one among them, or perhaps beyond them, who moves differently. Her name is Eilistraee and she is called the Dark Maiden. She is not like the others. She does not rule by terror nor whisper cruelty into the hearts of her faithful. She sings. She dances. And for the ones who dare listen, she offers something rare: a way out. The stories say she was once among the Seldarine, daughter of Corellon Larethian and sister to Vhaeraun, though it is Lolth who casts the longer shadow. When the Drow fell from grace, so too did she, but not in hatred. Her fall was an act of love. She chose to follow them into exile, to remain near enough that, should they ever seek the light again, her voice might reach them through the dark. I met one of her followers once near the Forest of Lethyr. A Drow woman with a voice like morning rain and eyes tired from watching the moon. She spoke of hidden glades, of dances in silence, and of sword forms practiced not for war but for beauty. They worship barefoot, she told me, in starlight, and the flute is as sacred as the blade. I believe her. The priests of Eilistraee do not build temples of stone, for stone remembers suffering too well. Instead, they seek places where moonlight still touches the world. They welcome the lost, especially Drow, but any with music in their heart or sorrow in their past may walk beside them. She is a goddess of hard paths. Of choosing kindness when cruelty is easier. Of redemption not as a reward but as a practice. I do not know if she can undo all that Lolth has done, but I believe she tries. And if there is hope in this world for those born in shadow, it may be because she still sings to them." - Callan Virel #DungeonsAndDragons #DnD5e #HomebrewMonster #DarkFantasy #FeyHorror #MonsterDesign #AICharacterDesign #FantasyAI #AIGeneratedArt #UndeadDnD #CreepingHorror #TabletopTerrors #HomebrewDnD #TTRPGHorror #EpicFantasy #ForgottenRealms #DnDStorytime #MonsterLore #OriginalDnDMonster #TTRPGCommunity #FantasyHorror #AIArtDarkFantasy #veo3 #Goddess
“To light the path for others — that was the dream. But the swamp remembers, and so do the worms.” There was a time, not so long ago, when the Lantern March was meant to save lives. The mist-choked marshes of the Outer Reach — nameless wetlands beyond the edges of mapped civilization — had long swallowed caravans, messengers, and entire supply trains without a trace. So the frontier folk struck an accord: a string of permanent lantern posts would be placed along a carefully carved trail, lighting the way through even the thickest fog. For months, brave trailcutters and swamp-guides set to work, braving quickmire, disease, and isolation to hammer posts deep into the muck and hang ever-burning lights. The trail crept deeper and deeper into the wild, mile by mile. The furthest marker was said to be a day’s walk from the last outpost — a twisted lantern hanging from a bent black hook. That’s where they stopped. That’s where the dying began. When the next crew of surveyors arrived, they found the trail overgrown and partially sunken. No sign of the first team — no blood, no tools, no bones. But the lanterns still burned. And stranger still, a new post had appeared — one that hadn’t been listed on the final maps. It stood deeper in the mire, beyond where anyone had dared go. They thought it a mistake, a good omen even. So they followed it. They never returned. What the settlers didn’t know was that deep beneath the swamp’s surface, ancient and forgotten parasites had long festered — wormlike organisms that lived in the flesh of drowned predators and the dead. These parasites, once simple scavengers, had evolved together, forming hive-consciousnesses capable of animating corpses from within. The swamp had become their breeding ground — and now, their hunting ground. One of the trailcutters — a guide known only as Halmar — had fallen alone into a hidden sinkhole. He died with his lantern still lit, his blood feeding the earth. The parasites found him, hollowed him, and began to move inside his rotting body. In the stillness, they learned his posture. His patterns. His memories. They mimicked the tools he carried. And they held up his lantern. Other creatures followed. A bloated swamp bear. A massive fish-beast. Even an old drake corpse sunk in a bog. Each host was more twisted than the last. The parasites did not build a monster. They built a symbol. They realized the lantern itself drew people in — not the scent, not the warmth, but the promise of direction, of light in the dark. The hive began to wait, motionless, just beyond the real trail. Not chasing prey — simply standing. Watching. Letting the next victim come to them. Every time someone disappears near a trail lantern, the people assume they drowned or got lost. But the truth is older and worse. The creature that devoured them now stands in their place. And it will not move again. Not until another comes close enough to believe it is part of the path. Dozens of these things are scattered across the swamps. Many don’t even feed anymore — their parasites dead or dormant, their husks silent and collapsed in the mud. But some still flicker. Some still shine. And none of them, ever, have been known to leave the spot where they first fed. The few who survive call them Lantern Maws — though “maw” refers more to the void beneath the lantern than a true mouth. Some swampfolk whisper that you can hear the names of the dead spoken in the wind near their glow. Others say if you place a real lantern too close to one, it will mimic it, even change its light’s color to match. Clerics who have tried to burn or bless the creatures report only silence. The parasites retreat too deep. The corpse simply sinks and waits. You cannot kill a Lantern Maw. You can only learn not to follow the light. #LanternMaw #DnD5e #HomebrewMonster #DarkFantasy #UndeadDnD #SwampHorror #MonsterDesign #AIGeneratedArt #FantasyAI #AICharacterDesign #TabletopTerrors #TTRPGHorror #OriginalDnDMonster #DnDStorytime #Horror
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