Albino, herbivorous, gorilla-like apes that live in caves and emerge at night to forage.

Desperate outlaws and highwaymen looking for an easy mark.

A leathery-winged gremlin-kin that darts through caverns on rapid wingbeats. Flies over terrain; cannot cross PC squares.

A hardened bandit lieutenant, sporting scarred leather and a ruthless, commanding presence.

A zealous initiate of a dark order, clad in chain and wielding a heavy mace.

A towering construct of mismatched dead flesh, stitched with black gut-cord and rusted iron staples, milk-blank eyes fixed on nothing. It does not tire, does not flinch, does not stop — and blade and point scarcely bite its slack grey hide.

A cathedral horror woken to malice — carved grey stone cracked and lichen-stained, ribbed bat-wings half-furled, ram-horned and fanged. Common steel rings off its hide; it stoops from above on talons like iron hooks.

Small, grotesque humanoids with pallid, earth-coloured skin and glowing, red eyes. They despise the sun.

The smallest, meanest, hungriest goblin in the warren. Waves a rusty shiv and screams constantly.

A wiry, spiteful pest with too many teeth and not enough impulse control. Weak on its own; nightmarish in a pack.

A lean, leather-clad skirmisher with a long knife on its hip and a handful of rusty darts. Hits and runs.

A hulking brute of warty grey-green hide and slabbed muscle, reeking of the cave it crawled from, a knotted tree-trunk club dragging from one fist. Slow of thought, murderous of temper.

Zorn's last-chance monster — carapaced in bone, two-armed and swinging twice. Released only when the cage is losing badly and the crowd wants a butcher.

A hunched, naked wretch of ripped flesh and exposed bone — loosed from the rear portcullis when the cage grows thirsty. Mindless. Hungry. Fast.

A towering, hunched horror — hide matted with old blood and fresh, claws dragging in the dust. Zorn's middle answer when the cage isn't bleeding fast enough.

A young ratkin — jittery, bucktoothed, and starving. Bites at ankles when the pack closes in.

A baby blob left behind when a Slimeling splits. Barely sentient, still hungry.

A quivering green blob the size of a housecat. Slaps wetly at whatever moves. On death, splits into two smaller globs.

An intelligent, wicked horror eight feet tall — an emaciated, rubbery body of mottled grey-green hide, long black talons, and jutting fangs. Its wounds knit shut as fast as they open; only fire and acid stay the mending.

A stocky, hunched troll of the deep marshes — dark grey-brown hide slick as wet moss, caked in mud, upward-curving fangs jutting from its lower jaw. Its torn flesh crawls back together while you watch.