Tucked away where you wouldn't expect them, grit-slicked and pearlescent, combining the vagaries of organic growth and the sensitivities of architecture - hanging orbs and onion domes, conch shell spines and chandelier tubes. There's a beauty to them that even beasts respect - no bird-droppings splatter them. These are their anchorholds.
Wet-eyed, whimpering, stretched-out faces and tongues rasping across cracked lips. Torturous posture walking on their elbows and their feet, paws clasped in prayer. They pray for themselves, and for the god they were damned with. Being damned, their prayers are worthless. They need yours.
Ruins speak to the culture they once practiced. Now they have only this, their only worthwhile pursuit.
They will lick the tendons from your heels and drag you away, drop you into the cell they've drooled for you and seal it up. With deprivation of sleep and meals and a constant channeled droning they will break you down until you hope for their salvation as much as they do. You will pray the rest of your days in the dark, food and water kissed down your throat by long, sharp tongues. They have a tremendous debt to pay.
They are
Glossgallers
HD: 2 AC: 12 ATK: 1d4 Tongue Stab (30-ft. range) SAV: 6 MOV: As three-legged dog INT: As desperate, driven person ML: 7
No. Appearing: 2d4
Tongue Stab: Their radula-tipped tongue launches out like a chameleons. Save, or roll on the table below as it pierces something important (1d6):
1. Blinded in one eye until healed.
2. Hand disabled until healed.
3. Leg disabled until healed.
4. Heart struck - triple damage.
5. Stomach - stunned for round retching, must eat additional ration that day.
6. Throat - can't speak until healed.
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