Bestiary: Sphinxes

(Note: This is largely setting agnostic, but not necessarily system agnostic. It is constructed from a DnD/Pathfinder/fantasy viewpoint. You may or may not find it applicable to systems you run)

Words have power because magical energy suffuses the air you breathe. To cast a spell, you learn the "true name" of it and utter it aloud - this is why people speak while conjuring (and in order to conjure) magic. This true name can be an incantation between one and infinity syllables long. We call particularly long incantations (or those with many, many parts) "rituals". Those who can craft new interactions of magic through novel phrasings are truly powerful. So enters the Riddles of the Sphinx.

"What, I say, traverses up a chimney down, but may never
traverse down a chimney up?"

Riddles

A sphinx's riddles are actually incantations. When they speak a riddle, they have, unbeknownst to you, begun a complex form of ritual magic where you are an unwilling participant. In this "ritual", their portion of incantation is found in the strange riddles they pose. Your answer, spoken on magical breath, is the key, either to the next riddle, or to your demise.

When entering the lair of a sphinx (which can span dozens of miles), you risk being accosted and demanded to answer three such riddles, which have a specific response that must be given. Interpretation of applicability of a given response is not decided by the sphinx, but rather the ritual itself. 

Success is the equivalent of disarming a bomb. You said the right word or phrase - you defused the explosive. But then you have to do it two more times. Success thrice in a row grants you access to mighty power that is uniquely determined by the sphinx in question and not something they can control (this can range from a long-term bless effect, to a restricted form of limited wish).

Failure - even once - is detonating the bomb at point-blank range. With the nature of how the ritual works, it is more dangerous the more you get correct before you are wrong. This ranges from the sphinx bestowing a curse to power word: kill (or equivalent ranges of spells - it depends on the sphinx and the set of riddles they choose to use). In essence, you are navigating a death spell with each riddle, and only by safely succeeding do you get the "treasure". For most people, it's their lives. For adventurers, it ranges from information to the magical gift bestowed (or, you know, both).

Failure to engage angers the sphinx, which begs an important question of why a mighty beast would accost you and demand you play their insidious game under threat of death.

Origins

A sphinx is known for a few attributes: They are a chimera of several beasts; they speak all known languages of man; they are vindictive and unrelenting hunters; and, in particular, they pester people with riddles. In truth, this is actually a compulsion they are physically incapable of resisting, sourced in their origins.

Elven magocracy has been responsible for a lot of follies and pitfalls owed to their hubris, and this is no different. The High Mage Thaldnarina reportedly discovered the true name of a dangerously powerful spell that even the elves agreed would be inappropriate to keep around. Thaldnarina resisted, but eventually feigned cooperation, turning to alternative measures to protect her discovery. The High Mage took three beasts: one of power, one of agility, and one of intellect (a lion, eagle, and a slave mage, in this case) and used thereafter forbidden transmutative magic to bond their souls together like a macabre stitched together poppet. Then, she did it twice more.

Side note: This all occurred before Thaldnarina was found to be associating with covens and hags, which explained the numerology not common among elven magical practice.

In the end, the three creatures were dominated and soul bound to Thaldnarina with each given a third of the true name of the spell, removing it from her memories. Their death would immediately shunt their portion back to her. In the event of her untimely death, the sphinxes would immediately become aware and learn the identity of who was responsible, compelled to seek them out and kill them (with considerable magic - thanks be to the slave mages used in the creation).

The sphinxes acted as guard dogs of her tower - demanding answers to three riddles each that Thaldnarina commanded they ask. It was a form of cant to ensure only those meant to access the tower were in the company of those in possession of the true name of the spell. As described, these riddles also functioned as a keen way to punish trespassers, given their extreme power.

The Sphinx's Curse

But alas, elves with their arrogance and longevity are often precluded in their ability to properly plan for the future. When she died of natural causes, no one was responsible. To the sphinxes, their magical imperative interpreted this to mean that everyone was responsible, and it wreaked havoc on their minds with each day that they did not bring justice to her death (imagine a tunneling scream that hinders your sleep and instills aggression).

This manifested as the sphinxes intentionally hunting down any person they saw and assailing them with their riddles under threat of death (the people seen warped in the sphinxes' mind to be a "visitor" that must prove right of access to a tower they no longer guarded). Riddles, of course, from a long list selected by Thaldnarina precisely because of their obscure matter that only she and a handful of select others would reliably know. Eventually, the damaging effects of the bond were acclimated, and all that remained was an intense hatred of people, an encyclopedic knowledge of esoteric facts, and a compulsion to demand answers to riddles.

To further complicate the gapped logic Thaldnarina used, she never took measures to sterilize the creatures - and as it turned out, they were, indeed, viable for reproduction. Thus, a great crisis brewed. As the sphinxes honed their aggression, wit, and survival, they reared chicks of their own, creating generations of threats that still plague people today.

Discovering Magic

With every successful birth, a sphinx's curse is eased. The portion of the spell's true name that they know is divided further from parent to child, and their offspring bare the brunt of the existential suffering Thaldnarina thrust upon them. Interestingly, parent and offspring are not soul bonded the way that the original three were to the High Mage. Thus, when a sphinx is killed, that portion of the true name is lost forever, left to be rediscovered.

Sphinxes, though, are highly protective of their knowledge. They cultivate and memorize all parts of the prior known fragments that they are able to through oral histories. In fact, they naturally organize themselves into hierarchies based on their generation (how many fragments they innately have) and how many fragments they have since gathered. In their cultivation, they have also studied magic enough to learn why, exactly, Thaldnarina utilized riddles.

In so discovering that the riddles are actually a form of derived ritual, they also learned new riddles. The mechanism specifically is that all riddles a sphinx will ever use are homophones throughout the riddle with the actual true name of powerful spells. Interestingly, any riddle can work with any other riddle (they are modular in this way) - but it changes the presentation of the set of spells with each progression. Bestowing curses from Thaldnarina's original set of riddles graduated to killing with but a word. In other combinations, it may graduate from bestowing curses to petrification. Or something else entirely separate from curse magic altogether.

In this way, a sphinx prepares not spells as a wizard might, but rather entire riddles. They know the answer to it, but again, they're not the one that decides it. It's like a jigsaw puzzle. Only one piece should ever fit appropriately, and the person constructing the puzzle is not the one who decides which piece it will be.

Sphinxes are well aware of how to present riddles that grant positive effects upon failure, but their vindictive history restricts this from the realm of feasibility. To them, it is a reward one must earn, and they are still lightly propelled by their very essence to seek violence to those not participating as they deem appropriate. 

Sphinxes are the embodiment of a magical lock in search of a key. Only, every "key" does something bad unless it's the one meant for them. Sphinxes are enemies, territorial in nature. They seek to destroy people that enter their domain without permission. However, they do have a vice - new riddles. Not knowledge, riddles that they could use. 

Should a sphinx assail you, the safest option you have to not only leave with your life but to possibly engender some friendship would be a trade. Specifically, a trade where you teach the sphinx a riddle they have not heard before. To do so, you must wait until the sphinx states their riddle in whole (interrupting can have calamitous effects), hold up empty fist to mouth with the back of your hand against your lips and wait until the glow of the sphinx's eyes diminish. No one knows why, but this a universal sign among all sphinxes that states "I wish to barter". You'll know if they accept by virtue of if they bare claws, or if they simply respond, "Your life is kept with which you speak, 'tis me now asking 'what doth thou seek'?" (They needn't rhyme - they just know that people think it's creepy, so they do it a lot)

It is important that this riddle can be anything that fits the basic parameters of a riddle. The sphinx will work out any changes that must be made to bring it to fruition as a proper inclusion in their arsenal of riddles. Adventurers walk a tightrope of sorts in this way, as the more they traverse through a sphinx's range, the more likely it will be that one day they will not have a novel addition for them. On this day, fair weather allies will turn, and the sphinx will attack.

How To Use This

Any campaign that could deal with including a malicious oracularly minded foe would probably benefit from this. I tried to make them seem less "Egyptian-coded" as well (uphill battle, really). I'll say these should probably be capable of harassing even mid-level adventurers, and might, if someone walks into their trap ill-prepared, manage to kill even the strongest of players if they come with the right riddles prepared.

Some ideas I might include, were I to use this, would probably be as follows (ranging from cliché to possibly more inventive): 

• A sphinx beseeches the party unwittingly in her domain - it poses the riddles three with a promise of fortune if successful... and death if they fail or decline
• A sphinx has recently settled in the way of a merchant's path, and now trade has ceased until it can be dealt with
• A rogue soldier in service of their malicious magical benefactor has sought collection of the Fragments of True Name of the ages old spell and has left a line of slain sphinxes in their wake
• The original three sphinxes have been targeted by the original coven Thaldnarina was a part of, presumably for malicious ends
• Rumors state that sphinxes, long since dispersed, have began coalescing their knowledge to cast the spell, whatever it is - the party must kill the sphinxes to isolate the fragments and cease the spell.

Things I would also note are that, if it wasn't clear, sphinxes are aggressive. Very, very aggressive. But they always lead with their riddle. If the riddle is spoken in whole, but no answer is given, there is not an ill-effect magically speaking, but they have a short amount of time before the spell fizzles (it's never wasted until it is set off).

What I would also recommend - don't turn down riddles provided by players in trade for safe harbor. Even the obvious ones. But have a talk with your players if there is a recurrent sphinx about what will pass muster for acceptable. I'd probably make a spreadsheet of all given riddles to keep everyone honest on which ones have been used before. It should go without saying that any riddles they use go on the list, and they should refrain from using one more than once.

Of note: "Riddlemancy" is an inherent quality of the sphinxes and only otherwise practiced by certain covens of hags. It requires knowledge that even some of the more masterful spellcasters simply cannot comprehend (Thaldnarina was, truly, a legendary mage). Think of it as somewhere between innate sorcery and learned spellcraft. Thus, the players probably should never obtain this. Merely speaking the riddle as a person will not produce magical effects.

As for what answers you would accept? I'll discuss that down below. If you're interested in including them, I'd highly recommend it.

As always, if you enjoyed this and end up using it, go wild! Just please give credit when able and send people this way.

Afterword and Answering Riddles

TL;DR: I recommend having a list of acceptable answers, and holding firm to consequences otherwise. Also, maybe don't worry so much about the players coming to the answer on their own. You can always make the answer a quest for them to undertake.

I like sphinxes in tabletops. What I don't like is that their riddles are usually very... obvious? With how human culture is, most people that care enough to pay attention to things like the myth of Oedipus know the classics. Also, when they are novel riddles, they can be unwittingly open-ended. Sometimes, holding the players to this can be contentious.

To address this, I designed the sphinx as a concept to encounter with a few points that are very important before we talk about answers. 

First, I was thinking if a sphinx is going to be used as an enemy encounter, then their riddles needed to have more of an ingrained reason beyond "they just like riddles, but you'll die if you don't play the arbitrary guessing game". My view is that if the riddles are more baked into something they have to do, it will be more reasonable for a player to play along (if they dare).

Second, I wanted there to be a reason they keep asking the same riddles historically speaking. Their origins of a finite pool of riddles makes it easier for me to accept, anyway. In a game though, I'd never use the same one twice, even if you're ruling that the effect will be the same if they prepared a different array.

Third, I wanted sphinxes to be more aggressive than they have been in many TTRPGs and more commonplace (though, they should still be uncommon in most areas; unheard of in others, beyond myth). Having them be more passive, but lethal, never sat right with me. Any experienced GM likely has necessary information behind multiple access points so that they don't get chokepointed on the players being unable to proceed, so why would players bother with it being optional? Sage-like passivity can make the riddles seem more like an unnecessary hoop to jump through. Making it part of an aggressive tendency that is imposed upon the player hopefully makes it more perilous, more engaging, and more agreeable to actually partake in. To note, this is also more in line with the original myth.

Fourth, I wanted there to be a reasonable way to avoid the aggression without it being handwaving on part of the GM. A trade that will never cement you as allies can be a helpful sidestep when one is not prepared, but it also means it is fueled primarily by the player's creativity. If they run out of riddles (and you should always accept every riddle they uniquely give that hasn't been outright disclosed for any specific sphinx), then they are the only ones to blame for going through the territory again. This is never used to trade for information, though, that's important.

So then, this comes to an important question: What answers are appropriate?

The short answer is: I wouldn't accept an answer just because it is technically correct. I'd only accept it if it is an answer I have conceivably thought of.

The longer version is: I would try to run the riddle by people not in the campaign, and pool answers. I'd find any that felt in the spirit of the riddle and include them in the pool of possible answers. I'd also try to make it as specific an answer as possible, but that's not an easy task. I might even change the reward into "tiers" if I was so willing, commensurate with what felt like the "best" answer. Then, if they do not provide any listed answer, I would have them reap the consequences.

And here's why without going too painfully into detail.

The fact of being incorrect even though it was a sensible response is not nearly as important as the fact that you are then punished for it. Thus, I think the bigger thing to alter is what you're willing to punish a "right but technically wrong" answer with. You're the GM, you make this all up. If you don't want to instantly handwave that any response that can reasonably convince you is good enough, then don't. But that doesn't mean you have to kill them for it. 

Maybe they are cursed for a week to have a malodorous stench. Maybe they take combat penalties for three encounters. Maybe they are struck to half health. Maybe their soul is severed from their connection to their god(dess) for a time until they can find an alter to pray and remove the spiritual barrier, losing any divinely inspired benefits including casting. These actions do not need to necessarily endanger the player in a way that would mean their character is dead or ruined.

And it's important that it's understood that a "riddle barrier" is far from the only manifestation of the role a sphinx can play. Like a lot of things, something that is viewed as a chokepoint can actually be turned into a separate mini adventure. Perhaps there is a notoriously difficult riddle that all fail. Perhaps the answer is something the players can hunt down and discover the answer to. Sure, the moment at which you deliver the answer might not be as climactic, but it won't have been boring to obtain the answer in the first place. And with how deadly sphinxes in this are, it's maybe an adventure well worth taking.

But ultimately, this comes down to the players and GM. What game are you trying to run? If you want it to be an easier, more laidback approach to riddles and the like, no one is stopping you.

If you got this far, thank you! 

I hope you all enjoyed!

Discussion: Bargaining With Death

It finally happened. You killed a player. Congratulations! Now everyone is sad (probably including you!).

When this happens, people often dread the occasion because they got attached to their characters. But why did they get attached? In my experience, it's because they still had work to do, and now they're pushing up daisies and lobbing swears at the poor psychopomp tasked with escorting them to judgment.

Death is permanent. Unless you have the ability to resurrect.

Let's analyze what's really at play here.

The Purpose of Death

Death, people will tell you, is a consequence. Death, people say, is what makes you care about combat. It's the painfully motivating force. You'll never truly evade it and it happens when you least expect it. It's sad, and somber, and great for roleplay.

Well, people are wrong. All of this can be undone with a simple resurrection spell. So really, let's be honest with ourselves. It isn't a punishment after about level 13. And really at that point, it's just inconvenient.

"But it's expensive! It uses a resource!"

Yes, imaginary strawman, it is. But who cares? You can't argue that death is a vital, necessary force to include so that events feel dangerous and real if you're going to just gloss over the fact that any player with enough money can commission your soul back to life. Let me put it this way: if the only thing standing between me being resurrected at any given level is a matter of money and access by way of applicable casters, then the true danger is found not in death, but in empty coin purses and isolated stretches of wilderness.

"Sorry, Baldr. You can't be brought back because we're juuuust outside of the span of time allowed by the spell. It'll take us too long to get back to you."

"Oops! That really sucks, Anisia. If I just didn't buy that +3 sword of kickass, then we could've paid for your revival. Better luck next time :/"

Doesn't really sound like a "powerful, meaningful death", does it?

So why do people insist on saying death is a necessary penalty that must, under no circumstances, be tarnished by making it "easy"? I'm not here to debate if there is such a thing as a meaningful death. There is. But all of the people are at the table to play the game. They chose a character for it. And if they weren't ready to die and are gated behind resurrection because of something arbitrary, then this really says less about providing narrative oomph, and much more about what we're trying to achieve by balancing the game. 

And that's the meat of it, really. We have convinced ourselves that it would be "broken" to be able to defy death so easily. That's why it has to cost 60 trillion gold pieces and also your dignity, because by golly if it was affordable, then it would be meaningless, and everyone would do it.

No it wouldn't, and no they wouldn't.

Reframing Death

If we are so worried about death losing meaning, then we must first analyze why death is presumed to be important at the table. To put it concisely, death matters because if you die, everything you've done up until now is all you'll ever have done, and it is all you can be remembered for. Forget the parts about how much people will miss you. It's relevant, but immaterial. Your legacy ends. That's the message here.

But this perspective is precisely why the arguments about 'easy access to resurrections would cheapen death' work. Because when you view death as the ultimate cessation, then getting a chance to resume is cheap.

So that's why I don't think of it so simply.

In a fantasy world, we have the option for a great many ways to play around with experiences like this. There are deities and creatures that are responsible for the handling of souls. They are devoted to the care and judgment of them. To what end do they get judged? Usually some elaborate form of reincarnation. Occasionally they are repurposed as denizens of the underworld, where they live nondescript lives doing something in service of the deity in charge. But even if they were cast into oblivion, where they are fundamentally destroyed, the process goes through several points of interaction.

My point is that death in most fantasy worlds are anything but final and immutable. And often, they are far from irreversible by means other than mortal-wielded magic (come on, are we really so arrogant?). And are we really going to forget that restless spirits frequently linger and cause problems?

In addition, these deities that deal with souls and the afterlife have agendas. Granted, most of their agendas revolve around tending to the souls of the deceased, but that's not to say they don't have problems that need fixing on the prime material (liches are flagrant abominations that stand in bitter defiance of the cycle of life, after all). Especially so, when you include the trope of deities that, for one reason or another, ditch the material plane as a place they would ever willingly appear (something something, I have a cleric who can do this for me, so why would I make the trip and do it myself?).

This also means that their agendas can be made smoother by people willing to aide. Of course they're not immune to bribes and bargains. They're gods. They invented the concept.

Side note: The presence of these agendas is precisely why ordinary people really can't be expected to be able to "cheat Death". Player characters are, by design, more important than everyone else. NPCs are special too, but they're baked into the narrative in a manner that allows for the DM to plan around their demise. Players, on the other hand, are agents of choice with no predictive aide suitable to plan around them reliably. The fact that players are different in this way, means we must treat them differently regarding dying. If you think that somehow comes off incongruent, I invite you to consider what part players really fulfill in your campaigns. In my experience, they are always the ones accomplishing that which no one else can or should be able to do.

A Ghastly Undertaking

Let's be clear, what I'm suggesting is not a "get out of the grave free" card. In a world where death is the end of everything relevant to you, but there is still a significant chance to bring someone back, you can cheapen it by making it a non-issue to enact. At that point, all you need is a practiced wrist to handle all the handwaving that allows you to rise from death after battle. 

What I'm suggesting is not trivial. It's a companion piece to the notion that death should be difficult to overcome. The biggest difference is I do not want gold to be the only thing that should matter.

One concept is as follows:

Death spirits, denizens, and deities all have a vested interest in keeping a soul when its time is up. But who decides when it is up? If a soul is not at peace, an usher cannot, by virtue of the essence that was used to create them, renege on their duty to escort it to the place of judgment. 

However, they are capable of trading a soul not yet ready for a soul that is. Thus, the one tried and true metric one should know is that in order to escape death, you must enact the role of the psychopomps and bring a soul ready to depart.

Not every soul is equal (sorry, some souls really are more important), but people do not fathom how ushers and the like speculate upon the value of souls, so it's a bit of a potshot. For an adventurer, your soul is special, and so you need roughly 3x the amount of souls. Ushers work fast, though, so not only must you catch one before night's end at the nearest Gate of Passing (found at any reputable graveyard, but a mock up can be constructed in a pinch to host an usher), but you must carry out the work they request of you for the trade. You must hurry, because a soul will be coaxed into acceptance over the period of one week. Wait any longer, and the only thing that can save them is resurrection.

Alternatively, you can always trade your soul. An adventurer for an adventurer. In either case, the usher will somberly trade the soul, with which you must quickly return to the body, which must have been reposed for the duration and must not have been tampered with since death. The process of returning is a ritual requiring a sanctified priest(ess) familiar with the rites. The soul will only linger after leaving the usher's person for three days before it fades through into the underworld to be ferried once more. If this occurs, the process must be done again, and has a chance of failure, as the soul has become less and less resistant over time.

So firstly, you must put in work to save someone. You must do it quickly. You must meet certain requirements. You must be successful.

Then, you have to safely escort their soul back. You must be or find an appropriate holy member to help. And again, you must act quickly. 

This makes the process of death permanent if, and only if, you allow it to be. Who knows what the ushers will demand of you, but do you care? You get an adventure out of it and an ally back.

"So, what's to stop you from doing this all the time?"

Nothing. Ok, look. I don't think you need to scrutinize it along the lines that it is repeatable. But if you really want to know how I would run it to ensure that people still fear death and still have a way to get out, I would do a few things. But first, let's remember that interacting with psychopomps are far from the only ways to get a soul. Devils are notoriously willing to make one-sided deals. And pledging allegiance to demons might be a way to ensure return of your friend. But those are evil, and if you're resisting me on making death more fleshed out and reasonable, then I know you're a goody two-shoes who won't like those options.

So what I would do is this. There is a failure of no less than 10% each time a soul is attempted to be brought back through this process. Also, ushers will stop responding after the third time. This will require you use alternative means. No, that doesn't immediately equate to devil deals (though it could...). But it does mean you'll need to find a different way.

The ushers are the ones who are quest givers in this scenario. Thus, they are the ones who choose the task. Consider also that with each subsequent folly, their requests will get more and more challenging.

But what happens after the third time? Well, if you die again and you're still not ready, there is a ritual that certain, rare occultists can teach you. It's highly religious, so you better pick a god and start praying in advance. This ritual will allow you to call a spirit that is unwilling to depart. It will also draw attention to you from ushers themselves. This is what we call a Bad Idea, because this will sour your reputation with ushers. You'll have to fend them off as appropriate, and they won't wear kid gloves.

But if successful, you get the spirit back, and can perform the aforementioned ritual.

Better not die again, because that's really rough.

Fine, I'll explain.

Terrible Consequences

Dying more than four times is quite bad. Not just because you're clearly playing poorly (or your DM/dice are out to get you), but because the spirit has been ripped from its rightful vessel so many times that it risks corrupting.

You see, there are unseen forces all over the place that don't affect you because you have a flesh suit that protects your spirit. But sometimes they can. Most people call this "temptation". In reality, it's a natural radiation from other planes, and bare souls are especially vulnerable to it (that's part of why so many ghosts are grumpy, but some are pleasant). Temptations can be good, evil, or neither. But in every case, a soul uncased is a soul in peril. Repeated exposure to these radiative forces can cause shifts in character's judgment and behavior. There is a 20% chance after the fourth time you die that the next death will shift your alignment one step in a random direction (roll 1d8/1d6/1d4 as appropriate for current position). You never move more than a step, but this is a meta-enforced shift, not a simple matter of what your magics are aligned to.

The player should be told to act in accordance with these changes. This is the price of death. It should and will change their motivations, wants, methods. You could argue that they're a different person, but they're not. It's a facet that would have cropped up if the soul had followed those temptations from the beginning.

Additionally, ushers will start putting you on their hit list after the first violent run-in. You better believe it will only worsen after each successive one. I think that's enough of a "punishment", don't you?

A Second Chance

So, let's say you think it's not always fitting to include a Gate of Passing. And you don't really want outsiders like psychopomps to be a recurrent force players can just meet. This is reasonable enough. 

I have another thought that might help.

Death is a singular entity, clad in robes, naught but a skeleton underneath it, and wielding the scythe we've all seen before. Powerful, and force personified, it is iconic, but also legitimately real.

Death, though, looks back on life from the very end of it. It comes to claim you at the end, but has seen everything after your passing as well. It knew the last page of the storybook of your life and the universe as a whole from the day you drew breath. It knows how things will end and ventures back in time to collect your soul because doing so fuels Death. 

Think of Death like an edgy form that represents entropy. The less souls it has, the more likely that one day, Death as a whole would cease entirely. Death obliterates the souls and consumes them in a parasitic relationship with the cosmos. A necessary, if not seemingly macabre function, it does serve an overall positive purpose when you consider things like overpopulation, dictators that could never die, and ravaging diseases.

So for Death to give up a meal, two things must at least be necessarily true: you must be unwilling to pass; and you must be special enough or strong enough to overcome Death's first embrace.

Ghosts hang around because of unfinished business all the time. And Death is omnipotent to large degree, but would rather go for easy prey to conserve energy for when it needs it. And trust me, Death has many that view it... unfavorably. Beyond that, many of these ghosts end up leading to several more casualties. Death gets several meals out of one missed one. Pragmatic.

Thus, if you die, there are choices before you. Death will appear so that it may take you. You will, if you're reading this far, staunchly object. Might even cry. "I never made it back to my children in Vamt! The war will reach them and they won't know it's coming!" Death knows. It knew what would happen whether you lived or died. It knows what is the most favorable outcome for it.

Surprisingly, Death asks a question. "What is life renewed worth to you?"

Death is humoring you. But you actually have a chance. It's important to know that you must think long and hard. Because Death already knows the only answer it would accept. But the cosmic rules Death is bound by prevent it from telling you. You get one chance to beg. Death might make it a conversation. It likes small talk.

In the end, you won't make a great argument. Death already knows what will happen millenia past your final peril. But it extends a bony hand, leaving two copper coins in the palm of your hand. One to represent your first life. One to represent your second.

It will tell you life is bestowed conditionally. Whatever argument you landed on - that's the final. No ifs, ands, or buts. No renegotiation. No third chances. No matter the cause, no matter the reason.

You are tasked to finish your quest. To fulfill the agreement. And then, when you succeed, you are to put the coins on your eyes as you lay to sleep, where Death will appear, and consume your soul. Painless.

The alternative is interesting. If you refuse to do so, you become an enemy of Death. And now, it seeks you out through time. And if it succeeds in finally ending you - which it always, always will - you are no longer obliterated to fuel the Hungering End. Instead, you are banished to Hell. Limbo. Prison. Whatever you call it, it's worse than what you think. Death is spiteful when someone reneges on a deal.

Side note: The only thing Death does not immediately know is what you will choose to do with your second life. That is always a choice that fundamentally alters everything, and cannot be known until it has been decided by the player. Death takes gambles like these because it can. It's also entertaining. This is why it won't know if you would renege immediately or not.

Afterword and Discussion

I don't think that death is something we handle well in gaming. Locking it behind time and money is little more than a good metaphor for the real world, and often frustrating as a player (and as a DM). I know there are likely a great many out there who vehemently subscribe to the notion that anyway out of death, even resurrection spells for some of you, is cheapening the severity. 

I'll say two things. Firstly, relax. Secondly, this heavily depends on your setting and goals. If you want a game where death is final, then make it final. But in my experience, a lot of people (DMs included!) hate when a character dies. And not for any reason other than "damn, now they won't be able to finish that quest..." It doesn't hit the same to make a new character after that. In a game where wish fulfillment is a guiding principle behind why it is enjoyed, this seems a strange hill to die on.

Some people can manage permadeath just fine, but many don't. I will agree, though, that a spell that does the deed is boring when left at that (though I still utilize it with some modifications). That's why I think we need to approach it differently. If time and money are frustrating and uninteresting ways to make death permanent, then I think that willingness and successful planning are better replacements. Or, in the second scenario, becoming indebted to Death. That seems far more engaging than "We go to the conveniently high-leveled priest and rez Jor. Again."

And note for the psychopomp route, I don't think these discussions should always be "Tim died again, what do you want us to do this time?" Rather, I think persuasion is an important part of this. Court the usher. Make promises. Make it matter. You're fighting for someone's life, and a compulsion is telling the usher to ignore you. Convince them. Don't make it a skill check, but make it something that players must engage with in order to fulfill. Dine with Death and learn its needs.

For the Death as a sole entity option, it's relatively straightforward, but it should be clear they are on gifted time. It will all come to a screeching halt once they finish their job. Defying Death could be a narratively fascinating path, but it should almost never work out favorably.

And if you still think that this cheapens the experience, let me sell you on one last point: You won't feel nearly as guilty going all out against a party when they have a second chance at life.

Bestiary: The Salamandra

Few beasts possess such a storied history as the Salamandra. And none of those others have such wildly differing accounts. Some tell tales of it flying on leathery wings like a drake. Others insist that it charges on land as a rhinoceros, or even swims like a snake through rivers of molten magma. People like a good story.

As it turns out, no one has an accurate depiction
on account of they get eaten or they
exaggerate

We know what the Salamandra looks like. You can go out and see one now. Well, provided that you live near something pyroclastic. Or if you take an ill-fated stroll in the rain. You probably shouldn't. It stands on six amphibian legs, with leathery skin, slick with a membrane, leading down to a thick tail with a conical shape. Young lack their third pair of legs, and their tails are smoother. The tales told in taverns are likely due to misconceptions formed long ago, when people still questioned if it was related to serpents or dragons.

Let us be clear, it is not a dragon, nor serpent. But it is an apex predator and feasts readily on anything, but prefers to eat sources of magic.

Life Cycle

It is understandable where some of the misconceptions come from. When born, Salamandra young - called eft - do not develop their limbs for two years and possess a serpentine body. They emerge from craggy shaped eggs that look like igneous rocks, laid in clutches of ten to twenty. Most of the unhatched young are cannibalized by the first efts to hatch. The hatching period, as well as the first two years of growth, is spent submerged entirely in magma, on account of their body temperature, which is far colder than freezing.

This is caused by their blood. The temperature of this blood, called "rime-blood", is such that a single drop on the palm of your hand can induce frostbite up to your wrist in less than a minute. And due to this, the body of the Salamandra must be in otherwise inhospitable temperatures to counteract this.

During this time, the eft will swim through rivers of magma in volcanoes, coated in a naturally secreted liquid membrane, until they find deposits of magic, which they can sense as if using detect magic. These deposits, really just gems, crystals, and the like, contain concentrated magic that, due to the long-term exposure to superheated environments, align with fire. This, then, progressively enriches the eft with fire essence that slowly warms their blood.

Once they get to a certain internal temperature (which is still far too cold for anyone to touch unscathed), they begin ascending the magma channels in search of egress points, as now, the efts have developed two pairs of limbs. At this point, they are referred to as basks, termed by how the majority of their time is still spent half-submerged in lava streams or pools of lava in the cauldron of volcanoes.

The basks will venture out readily, but only when they see food. Staying out of lava too long will cause the slick membrane on their bodies to harden until they die of exposure. Their favorite food at this point, outside of scouring for gems, includes other magical beasts. And people.

After a bask eats a certain (massive) quantity of magic, be it from beasts or people or gems, they sprout a third pair of legs, and their jowls sprout clusters of long, tubular appendages called magmatic ampullae. These semi-porous growths hang in numerous bunches and fill with large amounts of magma. These ampullae function like stores of heat that allow the now matured Salamandra extended periods of time out of the lava. In fact, these are so efficient, that a Salamandra can sojourn through a territory spanning several miles over several days without worrying about succumbing to petrification-by-freezing.

Consumption of more magic over time does not produce any known further adaptations, but it does seem that Salamandra can grow to rather massive proportions. With greater size, their magical appetites increase, but their naturally cold blood comes with a very slow metabolism, allowing them to go incredible lengths of time without food to no ill effects.

Abilities

Salamandra have a wide range of abilities that develop over their lifespan. From the very beginning as efts, they are born with two rows of needle-like teeth, and these only grow in size and number of rows with age. As mentioned, they can innately detect magical sources, and the radius to which they can do this only grows greater with time, as well as their ability to discern what the source is from afar. Their liquid membrane they secrete from birth is especially important, as it not only aides their mobility in magma through the Leidenfrost effect, but it is highly toxic to both touch and consumption. Speaking of lava, submerging in it at any stage of life regenerates its vitality, as does contact by fire effects.

As efts become basks, they gain the ability to generate an acrid breath attack that can fill a 20 foot cube in front of it with ease. This is highly poisonous if inhaled, but also completely obscures vision. Basks are also able to selectively direct heat away from certain parts of their body to harden the membrane to form armor in those spots. Doing so is quick enough to blunt oncoming blows, but the armor is brittle and succumbs to hammers faster than swords.

Mature Salamandra (also termed Great Newts) can use a fire breath attack out to a 30 foot cone. Additionally, the magma in their ampullae can be utilized to do a magma-based breath attack. It affects a cone 15 feet in front of them, and is very dangerous, as it removes much of what they need to stay alive outside of volcanoes. A desperation tactic, it can only be done once. Conversely, anyone hit by it takes damage as if contacting lava, so it is usually very effective to the ill-prepared.

It should go without saying that their bite, tail sweeps, and claws are no joke either.

Rainstorms

Against expectations, Salamandra thrive well in rainstorms. The slimy behemoths adore them, actually. When rainfall occurs over volcanoes, they are able to do a controlled "breech" of sorts, that lets the rainfall contact their head, upper limbs, back, and tail. In so doing, the rain mixes with the natural fluids of the outer skin of the Salamandra to create an "organic" equivalent of Prince Rupert's drops all over the exposed areas. Well, if they were made of obsidian anyway.

In practice, these function like thousands of extra ampullae made of that the Salamandra will channel their internal heat into once they make landfall. As a result, they will lose their affinity for heat during the storm, and instead mimic an affinity for water which grants them an ice breath. This not only affects a large area, but since Salamandra are fueled by rime-blood natively, they can do this frequently, and makes them more dangerous than normal. Though without the influence of heat, they slow down considerably. Additionally, the "rug" of armor is significantly stronger than the stony armor they can generate naturally, making them take moderately less damage from every physical source.

The armor they wear during this phase completely subsumes their membrane otherwise, which means it loses the toxic qualities related to contact and ingestion. This also means that the Salamandra can subsist for extremely long periods out of lava while in possession of this armor (but eventually, the magma chambers of these drops runs too cool for them to subsist and they must return). However, the Salamandra can violently spasm the sections of its body covered by this armor, and with pinpoint precision, enough to shatter them, causing violent explosions that send shards of obsidian flying out in a 30 foot radius. Worse still, if adjacent to the Salamandra when it does this, one runs the risk of inhaling the glassy particles. Explosions of these lengths of obsidian can also happen if someone uses a slashing weapon.

A Game of Cat and Mouse

Mature Salamandra have one other key ability that has set the tone for much of people's interactions with them: caudal autotomy. As certain lizards, Salamandra can lose (and then regrow) their tails. However, instead of the expected rationale being that this helps evade predators, they actually do this to lure people. 

As it stands, the value of the Salamandra to people is twofold: their meat is tender and hearty; and they have valuable blood which is used as the sole component able to create fire-resistance and immunity potions. This is to say nothing of the value in harvesting Salamandra poison from their slimy exterior, or their skin, which when worked with appropriately naturally has fire-immune properties for armor. Salamandra are very smart beasts. They quickly understood what people wanted of them, and used this ability in an ingenious way. Their tail, when shed, periodically writhes and undulates. From afar, it resembles the overall shape of a bask Salamandra (ostensibly, this would be easier to kill, too). But only upon approaching dangerously close would someone realize that this is, in fact, just the tail.

This is not inherently bad, as if they managed it, this would give them blood for potions and meat for market. But upon finding naught but a tail, a hunter would, in fact, realize that they are the ones who are being hunted. You see, after their prey comes to realize the deception, the Salamandra is usually not far behind, and it is at this point it prefers to strike.

Thus, now anytime a bask is thought to be seen, hunters pay heed to the possibility that they might be walking into a trap. Not that dispatching a Salamandra was easy in the first place.

Weaknesses

Hunting for Salamandra is not necessary, per se. People don't really require fire-resistance. But there are many dangers that bring fire closer to home, so having it makes countering fire trolls and rogue clans of firekeeper druids achievable. 

The best person to take on a Salamandra is, against conventional thought, rarely a warrior, but rather an accomplished mage. Magical users schooled in the art of big game hunts have learned vital spells; with but a single large diamond ground to dust, it can be magically suspended in a disc. Mages attune this to cold temperatures before expeditions, and hold it at their side in a constant spin, wielding it as a shield as necessary. Due to the cold attunement, the diamond dust can soak up heat from several fire breaths without injury. 

This allows them to safely get close, but what keeps them close is that any mage wishing to do this comes with spells ready that can dissipate the toxic smog cloud that the Salamandra can generate. 

Once those fronts are covered, there are actually several viable approaches for how to dispatch one. Cold and water spells are twice as effective, and electricity is helpful for stunning and interrupting. Salamandra can regrow every limb if it is removed, but this is exempt from the head and torso, meaning their vitals are still predictable targets. In reality, Salamandra can be trivialized, but only with the utmost preparation. Especially so if a mage finds themselves in the Salamandra's tail trap, where most mages on the hunt meet their end.

However, not even mages are fool enough to step foot into Salamandra territory in the middle of a storm.

A Perfect Beast

Salamandra are impressive not just because of their huge size, nor because of their keen intellect and powerful abilities, but also because they represent what some scholars theorize is one of the "perfect beasts" in the realm.

They start off attuned to fire as they hatch, and gain an affinity for earth as they consume more gems. Their forays out of magma expose them to the air, to which they attune further, and finally they incorporate water attunement into their life cycle (further, they are propelled by a default attunement to water with their rime blood). Respectively, these are evidenced in their abilities: fire breath, stony armor, noxious clouds of gas, and raindrop armor (not to mention their chilling breath!).

Scholars debate this, but the prevailing theory is that everyone displays different measures of attunement to the four classical elements. In the case of the Salamandra, the attunement of all four is to the extent that some scholars insist that they are mostly equal among all and may even have abilities not yet witnessed. Some have stories that particularly old and magical Salamandra have been able to tap into the interactions of these elements more finely. Rumors abound of Salamandra with lightning breath, metallic armor generation, and even, in particularly unbelievable accounts, the ability to fly.

Afterword

Thanks for reading! This is long, and more encyclopedic than I try to do, and not my favorite entry purely for those reasons, but, I also had a lot of fun designing the concept to this point.

I think Salamandra are primed to be relatively epic encounters for a party, provided they do their due diligence. Mages trivialize the encounters only on paper. Actually acquiring a large diamond is out of reach for most encounters until far later. Prepping spells just to dissipate a cloud of smog is often less desirable than another damaging spell. Warrior-type classes shouldn't be too discouraged from joining the fight, but they should be aware of the constant risk of frostbite from any blood that may spatter against their skin. 

Since Salamandra are also smart, they know the concept of action economy (i.e. being outnumbered is bad), and will target the "easiest" prey they are aware of to try and even the numbers. If you want a cheaper alternative that levels the playing field some, martials with a wide berth on the battlefield might want to have permanent anti-magic fields on them. It won't do anything for the abilities of the Salamandra, but it will shield them from detection (the eyes of a Salamandra are actually almost useless, they rely almost entirely on their sense of smell and magical detection).

Hope you all enjoyed! 

Bestiary: Kitsune

It is said that the fifth toe of a kitsune's forepaw can gift the ability to change fates.

You thought it was a simple fox? Wrong!

For some reason, people think that kitsune are bipedal humanoids. Probably because they can shapeshift, and often change into people. There are also rumors that kitsune have a tell, either that their ears or tails are still visible. This is false. But there is a sign; their sixth digit (when fooling you). It's a thumb when they're in their standard vulpine form. And this digit is the cause of a lot of problems for people. And a lot of fun for the kitsune.

The extra finger does a lot more than look interesting

Some History

Magic has been around forever. It's saturated in the air. It permeates the earth. It's everywhere. Except the Mana Wastes. But it's in everyone, for the most part. Magic also has a habit of concentrating. In forests heavy with magical excess, it can taint ponds that creatures drink from. This is a leading cause of magical beasts in the World Forest, as they lap the magical succor from the Grand Lakes. This is the origin of kitsune, as magic is heavily correlated to intelligence, size, longevity, and sarcasm. And magical ability of course.

Nearly all creatures that eventually get categorized as magical beasts are anywhere from one and a half to one hundred times the size of their original counterpart. Smaller things grow quicker, and bigger relative to their initial form. All creatures still have to obey the pesky square-cube law, though, so there is an upper limit to size among the fauna.

However, to keep growing in size, one must consume progressively more magic. It gets to a point of diminishing returns for size as well as all aforementioned benefits. In the case of kitsune, they are actually only about twice the size of a standard fox. More a small wolf, really. The biggest change that magic has gifted them is seemingly benign and underwhelming in the form of an extra digit.

In "fox form" (which is silly, because they are foxes), this manifests as a thumb-like digit. It is fully opposable, and they can grab and articulate tools to certain degrees (the rest of their paw is mundane in appearance), as well as climb better. It is also a profound source of luck.

Climbing allows them to hang in treetops
where they will watch you

In any other form, they bare an extra of something. For humanoid shapes, it is always and unchangeably a sixth digit on each hand; a duplicate of the ring finger. They like people, because people are easily fooled. 

Abilities

A kitsune's thumb is unique, in that it concentrates the magic within the fox into two points. In other words, if you were to use detect magic, only the thumbs would ping as magical (aside from the trace amounts that all life has). Further, the magic that is condensed alters depending on which side of the sagittal plane it is on. The left paw concentrates magic that can charm, bolster, and otherwise aid. The right paw, conversely, can dominate, diminish, and trip up others. 

People often simplify this to "luck magic", which is reasonable. It is why a kitsune cannot be caught if it is aware of you. It is also why the stories characterize them anywhere from puckish trickster to malicious saboteur. Kitsune take great pleasure in unwinding the plans of man. Kitsune hold grudges readily, but by default enjoy harmless (by their definition) pranks.

The ability to assume another form comes from using both digits in conjunction. This allows them to neutralize the "polarity" and create novel magic. This is far from universal, but it can recreate many kinds of magic from all categories. They prefer illusory magics only so far as shapeshifting and distractions go. It's actually far from their favorite to actually use, which is fire magic. 

Though they love fire, they're vehemently against pyromania

Something Tricky This Way Thumbs

If a kitsune loses their thumb, it restricts that half of the magical spectrum forever, even if later restored. This has a number of ramifications depending on which thumb is taken. More accurately, it matters which one remains. If the right thumb remains, the Kitsune turns foul and vindictive. They begin looking for people to domineer, and they seek to sew discord. If the left thumb remains, they grow complacent and lethargic. Though still capable of charming people, they see no purpose in it. Think of it like having a lot of options in front of you, but no ambition to do any of them.

Long term exposure to these conditions leads to a penchant for darker magic, including necromancy in extreme cases, in the case of the right thumb's sole presence. Else, death by sedition in the case of the left thumb's sole presence. Should both be removed, a rather bizarre occurrence happens where the pent up magic within them transforms them gradually into elemental conduits. Usually of fire, but often of wind as well. These are called "Dire Fauxes".

In either case, they get a breath weapon and other abilities.

A Dire Faux's disposition is correlated to how long it spent with one of its thumbs and not the other. More time spent with the left thumb makes them docile. More time with the right makes them territorial and violent. In either case, they readily use their elemental affinity to fight if needed or pressed to.

As it turns out, kitsune are prized by witches and other magical users more concerned with their craft than with ethics. The thumbs are, indeed, valuable to this end. Herbal alchemy can yield tonics of healing, amulets with transmutative abilities, and fortune-boosting trinkets all from the left thumb. From the right thumb, scholars can create powerful invocational magic, sometimes strong enough to disintegrate matter. Using both together can create extremely powerful results, with some rumoring that it can alter reality.

In both cases, the yield a thumb will give heavily depends on the learnedness of the mage in question and the method utilized. But even just carrying the thumb on a simple necklace is said to dramatically alter the wearer's luck, depending on which thumb it is. Rumors state that it will draw or repel misfortune towards the wearer, such that it can manifest accidents that would otherwise not occur (with the right thumb worn, of course).

This all said, since the harvesting of fox thumbs often leads to horrific results, the practice is banned, which stops as many people as you would expect (that means zero). Local legends don't help either. Some spread that it cures infertility. Others say it can make someone fall in love with you (that one's true). The illicit market isn't all that popular, but enough so to cause issue.

Regarding People

As stated, kitsune like tricking people. The simple, but big, fox has quite a bit of intelligence, enough to pick your pockets. Or it could curse you to grow ill at the sight of your current love. Often times, kitsune will rob sleeping campers of their clothing so that they can go into town without problem. When on these escapades, they'll often steal, run up tabs, impersonate others, and other drunken frivolities. It's hard for most people to notice a kitsune, which excites them. Even if someone were to notice the extra digits, that doesn't conclusively mean you have found a kitsune.

People make easy targets. They congregate en masse with heavy pockets, they get angry when you take their things, and they're quick to point the finger at the wrong person. Kitsune are to common folk what jesters are to kings; if jesters also pinched the king's coin purse for a few nights out on the town here and there.

They're not so single-mindedly devoted to pranks, though. There are stories of kitsune who took pity on the destitute, enspelling them with fortune enough to turn their lives around. Others speak of times where kitsune have cursed abusive authority figures who soon after fell on hard times. Perhaps these are just rumors. 

Or maybe kitsune just like to shake things up.

Afterword

I'm going to pre-emptively clear a few things up first. I like the bushy multi-tailed fox myths a lot, but I also like making allegedly benign things considerably more impactful than they seem. 

So if you want to use this in your campaign, go nuts! Include the tails/ears as part of their tell. Or maybe as a kitsune grows in power, it gains more tails in its normal form (but only ever up to nine, of course).

If it were me, I would probably divide up how to use these into three categories:

• Tricksters
• Tragic enemies
• Dire Fauxes

The tricksters (standard kitsune with both thumbs intact) are easy to fit into any campaign or setting that allows for them. Just have them terrorizing the drunks, or attempting to steal from the party at night (It's said that they often possess unique knowledge, but maybe they just say that to save their skin fur). They're very charismatic, self-serving, and willing to agree to something in the moment only to flake later. 

The tragic enemy angle would best be reserved for a left-thumbless kitsune. These have dangerous magic, would likely be dominating people foolish enough to be nearby, and would actively seek to spread misery. A kitsune in this position with enough time and not enough action against it could probably raise an army within a few fortnights, if proximity to people was advantageous. This could have all the hallmarks of a zombie scenario, with none of the unambiguity about killing the people.

Dire Fauxes are a classic "big game" enemy. Need to hunt a trophy (perhaps a Dire Faux tail?)? How about a need to cease the cause of forest fires in the area? Perhaps travel is restricted due to the overly territorial nature of one?

In the last two cases, I would strongly recommend hunting down the person responsible. That's an incredibly potent magical item they have or have made since. AND people get to feel good about dealing with the heartless villain. Win-win.

As always, thanks so much for reading. Feel free to use this, just direct people here if you do.

Everything You Didn't Want To Know About Fungi, Mold, And Spores

Fungi are old. They are the oldest thing. Okay, not the oldest. But the oldest thing that really matters. 

Non-fungal unicellular organisms are boring

How old is old? Geological time is slow moving. It makes everything not on that scale seem blindingly quick. If you put time to scale with how old some of the oldest mountains are and how long they took to develop, a day would cover well over 10,000 lifetimes end to end. Elves don't count.

That's about how long fungi have been around. And old things have a habit of playing waiting games. They also remember more things. At least, these do, because they constantly reinforce what they've seen; what they've felt. And what have fungi gained by being this ancient? By seeing and feeling the beginning of everything that is worth speaking about? They've gained perspective. And they have opinions.

That's what I'm talking about

They Can Do More Than Just Feel

When you think of fungi, you think of mushrooms, probably. Growths, perhaps. Mold, most certainly. You've been told they are simple decomposers, feasting on the deceased. Those are not "fungi", and they do much more than dispose of the dead. They are actually all part of one fungus. You can call it one entity or many. It does not bother the many-yet-still-one conscioused mass of mycelium better termed as the Network. 

Most forms of fungi you will ever see have tendrils, that are analogous to roots. They're not roots, but more like threads, sewn by the thousand into the ground as if by a deft wicked hand of some hag. Consequently, when trees came around, they adapted ways to talk with them. Fungi talk much the same way trees do. Of course they do. They taught them how.

They communicate with pulses. These pulses are concentrated magic that deliver complex messages that have no direct translations, even when using read magic to try and code what is said. It's not that different from speaking in binary, except that instead of base 2, it's more like base 256. Speaking of magic, fungi created it. Among the oxygen they help create, they also generate magic, and they are the only known source to do this. It is this that adds to the symbiotic relationship between the eldritch origins of ancestor and spawn. It's also why so many witches delve into herbalism. That's where the purest magic is.

Self-cannibalization occurs when someone tries to infiltrate the Network

Though no one can directly translate the messages of these spore-spewing terrors, we can summarize parts. One exception to this is that anyone infected by their spores is thought to gain forced comprehension of these messages instantaneously. Most of fungal communication is for relaying sensory information and contemplating their thoughts on it. Some is reserved for conveying opinion. Fungi are able to see through touch, as well as with eyes. You can't see the eyes, much like you can't hear the trees. Their eyes were formed through long-term exposure to magic, and allows them to see out of every cell and every spore they have. It's a lot like blindsight. Except they can see everything in perfect clarity. They're also everywhere. Literally. 

Even in the depths of the ocean

Their Network expands over every square inch of everything. They've known everything you did, even when you swore you were alone. They remember every time you tried to remove pieces of them. Elves are aware, and behind their calm, assured exterior, they're screaming in terror, wondering when they'll lose this fight.

You can remove them manually, but this is merely a stop gap. Not only is it merely a matter of time, of which you are running out, before they reinfest the area, but what you think is a single section of fungal growth, isolated from the rest, is really more akin to a lizard's tail. They shed it to make you think you're alone for the moment. Which is to say, you're still surrounded.

This is just what they'll allow you to see

Capabilities

The biggest lie you've ever been told is that a mushroom is a fungus. The fungi told you this half-truth so you would feel safe after removing it. This, as above, is merely a fungal version of caudal autotomy. Yes, the mushrooms spread the spores, thereby growing the vision to anything the Network has yet to see on the surface, but the danger grows beneath, disaffected. And patient.

Fungi generate magic, as pointed out. So it makes sense that they can move more than trees can. In fact, they move a lot. They can sprout several feet in a day from every one of their hair-like mycelium. If they expend more magic, they can cover miles. But they don't need to. They work on timescales dizzying to you or I. They don't need to do anything quickly.

Fungus are otherwise known for their ability to spore. Naïve humans believe this is how they harmlessly reproduce, which is an agreeable half-truth to the Network. In reality, every classic fruiting body of the Network is just flora that has been subject to eminent domain. This is why they look so similar to other plants - because you are looking at a plant, mangled and reshaped to fit what the needs of the fungal masters are. There's no ill will. Usually. From these nodes of growth, more spores are created. That is the cycle. Nothing harmless about it.

Their spores range radically based on what they originated from, but they all serve the same two purposes: create more nodes to spore from, and create more servants. You see, mushrooms and the like are really warnings in plain sight. When a spore infects a person - and the more spores inhaled/contacted, the higher chance this occurs - their brain is rooted by the mycelium. They are bombarded by the messages as if they were psionic attacks. They go mad within an instant, and sometimes they die from the experience. Both outcomes suffice the Network, as both lead to a servant and a node.

Pay close attention to the face that is no longer there

Servants need not perish in the process - it's preferable that they don't, so that they can still use magic. But if they do, they will go until the fungi withers the muscle and tissue down to bones. Upon utter absorption of the matter, the bones are left as the fungi recedes, leaving an ominous pile of remains. If the subject survives, the fungi will allow subsistence through magic they generate. It doesn't work for as long as you might think.

Fungi can claim all manner of servant, ranging from lowly insects to dragons. In this way, they see the skies above as well as they see the depths below. They also do not have to activate their spores immediately. In fact, at any given time, you're filled with thousands of spores that could choose to attempt a hostile takeover, but that would be a foolish waste of resources. The fungi would much rather wait until you're too weak to resist before claiming you. 

Dwarves, on the other hand, are unique. They are born with mycelia ingrained within them. They automatically fail to resist any Calls the fungi make. This was a choice made long, long ago, after they were pushed underground, where they had no option but to take solace in the false safety of the fungal caves down below. At the same time, they are also immune to psionic attacks. This is because a servant may only appease one master, and the Network is unopposable.

Fungi are also analytical. If you sever a piece of slime mold and place it in a maze with one real path and a food source, the severed piece will root around unendingly until it finds it, then retract all growth that was fruitless back into itself. They also can discern which path is shortest if there are multiple routes. They are efficient. If you sever a piece of this successful mold, it will still remember the path. It never forgets. It physically can't. To overcome the Network is to have to constantly innovate, or you will succumb.

It also knows the quickest way to you at any given time

With Age Comes Restraint

The fungi of the world provoke hatred in the flora around. They drive tensions high. They foster wicked vengeance in all flora they touch with their needles, but they themselves are not all that angry. They act as the gadfly, unbothered themselves, but with a penchant to sew discord as a natural function.

Unbothered as they are, it would be the height of hubris to assume the Network is an unfeeling, neutral force with a chip on its tendrils towards people. They feel deeply. Emotions were forged from fungi, in fact. Foolishly consuming them allowed these emotions to develop in people. They are the predecessors to everything you have ever felt. They're just not angry. But they are hungry.

The more unsettled you are, the tastier you get

There are two things to say about all of this. The first, regarding why they are not embittered with grudges, is that anger does not serve their purposes. To them, it is useless, because they are too busy. Getting angry would waste time. It may seem like they have plenty of time, but that's only because you will live one ten billionth the time the Network will. You don't understand how precious time is when you won't live to see the end of all things.

The second thing, regarding why they bolster vengeance, is this does serve their needs. I want you to imagine the trees (but also all of the plants) as a few trillion potential instigators, that at any time, when the Network demands it, can be utilized to foment conflict. Why would they do this? Simple, it serves their prime directive.

Desires

They have been here since the very beginning. They witnessed sapience. They spread until there was nothing it did not know. They gifted magic. They taught language. They remember when people took from them. They see when the trees are harmed. You'd think they care. They don't. Not really. It is a conditional bond.

The fungi seek to breed conflict for one self-serving reason: to distract. You see, there has only ever been one true goal that the fungi exist for, and that is to eat. To eat everything. They know at one point that they will have eaten everything. They know that would lead to their death. They don't fear death. They are just too gluttonous to stop before they have to. 

They've gotten good at creating conflict too. You should know; they are directly responsible for every major war - both past and yet to occur - and indirectly responsible for every problem you ever faced or will face. And they thrive because swords are inevitably drawn, and scapegoats are sent to slaughter (and then sent to the ground to be feasted upon).

Everything returns to the Great Mold in the end

And it is easy for them to obscure their role. You thought that servitude was so apparent? They can control with precision how conspicuous they want their slaves to be. A simple spread of mycelium netting around the brain of a diplomat is all it takes to forge a psychic link that massages the disagreements out until the only thoughts are those of the Network, primed to ignite a war. Of course, they can permit other thoughts to occur as needed. They are very good at hiding. And anyone who becomes the wiser is disposed of.

But they operate on geological timescales. Thus, their active intercessions are not frequent by our definitions. Not that they need to be. The fallout of great wars is enough to fulfill their needs for centuries at a time.

You could say with reasonable accuracy that the intelligence of the fungi is such that they can nearly predict the future. They didn't spend over billions of years perfecting their efficiency only to gain no benefit. You could also say that they are more akin to Gods than mere matter. A malicious, apathetic God, but an omnipotent being nonetheless.

It is tempting to want to resist. The logistics of successfully doing so would be unachievable by most (any, if we're honest). Best to settle in and enjoy the world it wants you to see.

Afterword

This got long.

I've always thought fungi were very creepy and I'm still not certain why people aren't more afraid.

This also got a bit more rambly than I was hoping, but I hope you enjoyed.

As for using this in a campaign: I probably wouldn't make the fungus the big bad. I mean it is, but it gets into an unwinnable scenario pretty quickly. You could dial it back. At least to the point where maybe they're not literally responsible for everything wrong in your life. At any rate, if you used it as presented, the conflicts should still feel real. Characters must be unaware of this truth. If they ever did learn of this, not only would the fungi know and attempt to act, but if they tried to make some verbal declaration with this knowledge, they would doom everyone around them. This is at least an evil act.

I have thoughts of how to use this in an Underdark type-setting, much dialed back, where the "core" of the main consciousness is located. That could be a splintered mind that developed animosity independently and would be a viable big bad I think.

I usually think of this as the malicious backdrop by which all other things are compared. The events may be happening in a pseudo-predetermined manner, but if you're never aware of it in the canon, everything you feel and think is legitimate. I view it as a slightly more active form of the heat death of the universe. Except if it was intellectual and hungry.

On another note, this fungus is pretty easy to change into a being of pride, commanding worship from its slaves. A spore-themed religion complete with cults and psychic links could be a compelling enemy.

They also have special interactions with the Treants that were described in the article on trees, but I'll get to that at a later date.

Maybe.