Umphorog
The Decapybara

The umphorog loves boys and girls,

Who don’t listen to their parents’ rules,

For when the little ones won’t behave,

We take them down to the umphorog cave.

In a deep dark hole live the umphorogs,

Settled in snug in a nest of logs.

With their long, long teeth, they like to chew,

But their favorite thing to chew is – YOU!

– Nursery rhyme from tribes of the Arhagomph Peninsula

            Brother Castillius of Mssr. Flomp’s Seventeenth Order (Red Brigade) lived on the Arhagomph Peninsula for many years while he transcribed the natives’ oral history. Though his ostensible mission was secretly a cover for a scientific inquiry into the Arhagompians’ rapid growth rates, that inquiry subsequently gave way to another: the investigation of the umphorog. Sadly, Brother Castillius perished at the teeth of his subject, but some of his notes survived.

            The umphorog is considered mythical by outsiders, though the natives know it is real. The distinguishing characteristic of this unusual rodent is not its rotund body, ratlike tail, narrow legs, or even its hinged jaw, which, like a snake’s, can consume prey wider than itself. The distinguishing characteristic, which is not even visible on first sight, is the rate of growth of its teeth. The teeth themselves are notable, of course, but far more intriguing is the fact that the forward incisors routinely grow as much as six inches in a single day.

            This rapid rate of growth forces the umphorog to live a rather unusual life. It must gnaw on hard objects constantly or have its teeth grow to an unusable size. The omnivorous umphorogs seek out objects to chew on – that is, prey – far in excess of their nutritional requirements. Hunger is not their motivating factor; comfort is.

            Umphorogs prefer hard chew toys. The harder, the better. They can gnaw through a good sized tree in a single morning. Bones take longer; stones, longer still. Metal is highly prized by the unintelligent umphorogs, who recognize that they can gnaw on it for months before wearing it down.

            Although the umphorog has a vicious bite, it is feared more because of its irrational pursuit of hard objects. Umphorogs will attack any creature bearing metal objects, which umphorogs highly value. They seem to have no regard for their own safety, but perhaps with good reason; it appears that the rapid tooth growth is an expression of a high metabolism, which also manifests as a rapid healing ability. A wound on an umphorog heals as rapidly as its teeth grow.

            Luckily, there are very few umphorogs in the world. They mate sporadically, with no apparent regularity, and never produce more than one young at a time. An umphorog’s territory is clearly marked by felled trees and a decimated landscape. Anything that can be chewed has been chewed, from tree trunks to rocky outcroppings.

            As Brother Castillius discovered, umphorogs invariably live in caves, which they enlarge through constant gnawing. A long-occupied cave will have tunnels extending deep into the earth at the height of the umphorog, with careful examination showing that they have been carved by a rodent’s teeth. The natives of the Arhagomph Peninsula know well enough not to venture into these caves (as evidenced by their nursery rhymes), but foolish wanderers, such as Brother Castillius, occasionally learn this lesson the hard way.

Umphorog

Medium-Size Beast

Hit Dice: 2d10+4 (15 hp)

Initiative: +0

Speed: 20 ft., burrow 10 ft.

AC: 13 (+3 natural)

Attacks: Bite +4 melee

Damage: Bite 1d6+5

Face/Reach: 5 ft. by 5 ft./5 ft.

Special Attacks: Improved Grab, Gnaw

Special Qualities: Fast Healing 3

Saves: Fort +5, Ref +3, Will +0

Abilities: Str 16, Dex 11, Con 14, Int 2, Wis 9, Cha 12

Skills: Spot +5

Climate/Terrain: Any land and underground

Organization: Solitary

Challenge Rating: 2

Treasure: None

Alignment: Neutral

Advancement: 3-4 HD (Medium-size), 5-8 HD (Large)

COMBAT

            Umphorogs attack in a single-minded fashion. They attempt to grab the closest target between their teeth, then gnaw him until he is dead. They repeat this attack on each opponent in turn.

            Umphorogs never have treasure. They gnaw their victims’ goods to pieces between encounters. But they covet metal for its hardness and long-lasting use as a chew toy. They will attack armored characters on sight.

            Improved Grab (Ex): To use this ability, the umphorog must hit with its bite attack. If it gets a hold, it can gnaw.

            Gnaw (Ex): Once an umphorog has an opponent grappled, it will chew on them with its enormous incisors. This gnaw attack causes 2d6+5 points of damage.

            Feast Healing (Ex): An umphorog heals 3 points of damage each round, so long as it has at least 1 hit point. Its teeth cease growing while it is healing.

And when there was nothing, became something. That which was not became was. All things occurred and all things dissolved. Such was the nature of things and the nature of no things…

                                                ‑ Insane Ramblings, Yuniok Juum

A time had passed. An age, perhaps three.

Seven decades of warfare, and the consequent century of disease and ruin, had taken their toll upon the land. Civilization existed only meagerly. Much knowledge was lost; the great repositories, libraries, and reliquaries, once magnificent places of learning and erudition, had been reduced to charred rubble long since. The cities were in ruins. Remembrances of the way things were, before the Fissurewar scattered society and drove the free races into seclusion, famine, and fear, were scarce. A dearth of knowledge locked away in the war-addled minds of the eldest among them, sickened and senile. Perhaps lost forever.

Perhaps not…

From the ashes there arose a phoenix. No soaring bird this, alight with feathers of flame, but a young child. A plague-orphan; a lad possessed of no advanced years, but of wisdom far beyond his age. “Why,” said he, “Why do we live in caves? Why do we sleep in filth? I have been told a grand history, a history of our forbearers and the might and wisdom they possessed. This might, this wisdom, led them to destruction, but we, the children of their grandchildren, are armed with afterknowledge. We shall relearn that which they learned. Let us seek out the ruined libraries, the crumbled archives, and the shattered reliquaries. Let us arm ourselves with knowledge, with history, with forethought and responsibility. Let us gather unto ourselves weapons and courage and lead the campaign to regain our lost dignity.”

”Our enemies have deserted the rubble of our once-grand cities, if, indeed, any among us actually remember who our enemies are… I am but a lad of twelve years. I possess no great knowledge, nor great wisdom. But I refuse to live in ignorance and filth for one year longer. Gather unto me, friends. Let us travel the world and seek out the lost artifices of our ancestors. We can become great once more. Let us find the secrets of agriculture, the knowledge of commerce and interaction. Let us emerge form our seclusion. Let us hide no longer. Let us explore this world in which we live. Starvation. Disease. These shall be as shadowy memories to the children of our children.”

And thus, the people emerged from their shadowy caverns and rotting fens. They gathered unto themselves those meager possessions that they had hoarded and went off in search of lost knowledge.

Eventually, in their wanderings, the people found that which they sought. A great repository was built, a grand Archives to hold all knowledge. Civilization returned to the continent and that which was lost had become found. The people declared that never again would they be driven into caves or annihilated by disease or famine. To this end they formed, with the Phoenix (the lad’s true name has been lost to history) as their leader, a society of explorers and diplomats, naturalists, artists, and others charged with the honorable task of acquiring knowledge, culture, and tolerance and overseeing its dissemination to the masses.

And thus, many centuries agone, was formed The Wanderers Guild. The original founders are long since perished. Their names are forgotten, but their story remains…

‑Yuniok Juum means me

The Tale of Gergelig

Scribed and recorded by Guild Historian Yuniok Juum

In our wildest aberrations we dream of an equilibrium we have left behind and which we naively expect to find at the end of our errors. Such a creed holds true for all beings of conscience. The mawog named Gergelig (this is not his original name, as we shall see as the tales proceeds…) is just such a one. Torn between undying loyalty to an overlord long murdered and a nurturous responsibility to those he once terrorized, Gergelig represents the dichotomy of sentience -the dual substance of mind personified. He is the classic villain, the dispassionate assassin, the rebellious slave and the repentant servant. He is a being in search of redemption, yet still beholden to the decaying loyalties of his past.

Gergelig’s tale begins, as such tales often do, as a young mawog slume (infant mawog) is birthed into the captivity of a cruel and sadistic ilkroun overlord. Thro’qal U’thoq, called Utho’qeel by the jungen of Sundered Clev, Throke the Desecrator by the deeprunners of Pallgrimscrack, and Urkle’s Plague by the deep gnomes of Silvpoddle, was lord, master, and god to the mawog pile into which Gergelig was born.

The slume’s mother perished in childbirth, gurgling her final, strangled cries just as our subject uttered his first. Such a thing is considered a grand and portentous omen among the mawog. In celebration of this honor, the newly birthed servant of Thro’qal was dubbed Ort U’uqlato, or Ort Twicecryer in the surface tongue.

Ort’s early years were a time of wonder and joy. Unquestioned servitude to his cruel overlord brought pleasure and satisfaction beyond imagination. The dank, dripping halls of Thro’qal’s palace were a wonderland of new experiences for the young mawog, and the many torture chambers and abattoirs brought endless delight to his curious mind. Indeed, life was good. Ort served his master without question. No act was beneath him, no task too menial, no humiliation too base.

Perhaps now it is timely to tell of the many fetishes and hobbies of Thro’qal U’thoq, an  ilkroun whose reputation for vileness and cruelty was legendary even by the standards of his ilk. It is whispered that Thro'qal often bathed in the eye humors of blinded slaves, three hundred of which, mostly nowyr bred for the purpose, were required for each such immersion. Further histories tell of the ilkroun’s insidious decorating habits. Apparently the entire Hokoko Gaurzam Dai, once thought to have perished in a flood, instead had their skins flayed from their bodies and used to upholster the extensive walls of one of  Thro’qal’s many galleries. The skinless, boneless bodies were magically given a semblance of life and sent to wage war on the jungen of the Sundered Clev, armed with axes and hewers crafted from the corpses’ very bones.  It is not the intention of this historian to offend the reader with a litany of predations and travesties, but merely to illustrate the horrific depths to which Thro’qal’s evil descended. I will assume, at this point, that such an impression has been made and will continue apace. After all, this is the tale of Gergelig, not the tale of Thro’qal.

We proceed…

Ort developed and mastered his inherent powers very quickly. His mastery and skill caught the attention of his wicked lord, who put him to task in a brute squad charged with rounding up and torturing slaves who somehow slipped their parasite and escaped. In this work Ort excelled. His natural stealth and bloodlust again caught the attention of his master and he was transferred into the ranks of the U’uk Kaquar, an insidious and infiltrative group tasked with entering deep gnome society under eldritch disguise and causing political and social havoc for the delight of the scrying Thro’qal. In this work too Ort excelled. His skill at the mimicry of gnome voices and mannerism was unparalleled. He even, for a considerable time, managed to get himself elected as mayor of Silvpoddle, a position from which he caused untold chaos and damage through the illicit poisoning of springs and the pursuant fractioning of gnomish society as one group or another was blamed for the action. For his troubles, and to aid him at his task, Ort was gifted by Thro’qal with a magical hat of disguise with which he blended ever deeper into deep gnome society. His scepter of the office of mayor was a mystical lizard stick, another gift of his master.

All told, Ort, or Mayor Gergelig as he was now known, spent two decades hidden in plain sight among the gnomes of Silvpoddle, orchestrating travesties with one hand, while quelling them (after significant damage of course) and bolstering his popularity with the other. Life was grand. He reveled in the wealth of the gnomish silver mines, the gullible hearts of the gnomish people, and the satisfaction of loyal servitude to Thro’qal U’thoq. Yes indeed, Silvpoddle was his to toy with. But all good things must come to an end, yes no?

The unthinkable happened. The order came form on high. Thro’qal had grown bored of the antics of the gnomes. They were to be exterminated. Every one of them. Their carcasses were to pave the road from Thro’qal’s palace in Huz’qunim to his new palace built atop the ruins of Silvpoddle. An army of mawog and jungen slaves would be arriving soon to carry out the carnage.

Ort was aghast. For the first time in his life he questioned the wisdom of his overlord. In truth, he had grown comfortable among the gnomes. Their sparkling halls and blooming forests of fungi were wonders to his eyes, their lilting songs enchanted his soul, and their naïve sensibilities made them a joy to manipulate and deceive. Now the halls would be reduced to rubble, the fungi to ash. The songs would become dirges, then silence; the guileless sensibilities rotted forever. Those that survived -inevitably there would be survivors- would become hardened, spreading the word of deception and cruelty to other communities. Reinforcing the world against Thro’qal’s predations. This must not come to pass. For his own good, the ilkroun’s designs must be thwarted. But how…?

Ort could not work to oppose his master. Such a thing would be unthinkable. There must be another way. Ort wandered the gleaming, gem crusted, halls of the mayoral palace in ponderance. He was still pondering when the alert horns began to blat.

Under cover of invisibility and stealth, a horde of mawogs had infiltrated the walls of Silvpoddle, passing through the open gates undetected by those on watch. Now they had been detected, but it was too late. The gnomish gatewatch had already been murdered. It was the work of a matter of seconds for the devious mawogs. Soon a stream of enslaved jungens flowed through he sundered gates, their spines caked with poison, their cleavers gleaming with hate.

The battle pitched and yawed for several hours, but in the end the conclusion was inevitable. The gnomish spells and spears were no match for the jungen warriors, the deceitful mawogs, and the charmed braths, akselags, and drommerans of Thro’qal’s army.

The city of Silvpoddle was smoldering. The gnomes were being rounded up and dispatched with alacrity. Their skins stretched and dried to be made into paving tile.

As the fighting waned, Thro’qal himself arrived to survey and direct the proceedings. Ort clambered down from the hole in which he had been hiding, overcome with joy and obeisance at the site of his overlord. In his exuberance, the mawog forgot to deactivate his magical hat; to those assembled he was still Gergelig, Mayor of Silvpoddle.

His mind fogged by happiness, Ort failed to notice the reactions of the mawog bodyguards surrounding his master. To their eyes a frantic gnome wielding a wickedly curved scepter was charging their overlord, intent on vengeance. For his part, Ort merely intended to throw himself down at the robes of his lord, begging forgiveness for his erstwhile thoughts of treason.

Ilkrouns gather rarely in covens, but when they do it is often for the swapping of spells and tales. The story of what happened next, the dismal fate of Thro’qal U’thoq, is a cautionary tale to last centuries…

As Ort made to lower himself into obeisance one of Throqal’s mawog guards, sensing danger to his overlord, charged headily toward the approaching gnome, swinging his cleaver and shouting epithets. Without thinking, Ort reached into his sash and withdrew an envenomed blade of the sort he often kept about his person should the need for a quick assassination be in order. Upon hurling the blade at the guard Ort immediately realized his egregious error. His heart sank as the guard blinked himself fleetingly elsewhere to avoid the flung dagger.

A screech fit not only to curdle the blood, but the bones and flesh and gristle as well, pierced the cavern air. Thro’qal’s envenomed heap cascaded to the stone below. The dagger had penetrated his arcane defenses (as it should have, being an erstwhile gift of his own devise) and struck him vitally. The toxin, distilled in eldritch labs from pallgrim spume and unkili spines, was already working its course, freezing first his lung and then his several hearts. As the shriek’s echoes died in the distance, so too did their originator.

The unthinkable had indeed happened. An ilkroun had been assassinated by a mawog servant. A hush settled about the assembled horde. Ort instinctively became invisible and scrambled to one of his many boltholes.

As the ilkroun died, so too did his parasites wither. The jungens, sensing a new route to freedom, immediately turned on their stunned mawog compatriots, catching them by surprise and dispatching them hastily. As suddenly as it had begun, the battle of Silvpoddle was over.

The ensuing several years was a time of rebuilding. The jungens, displaying a rare sense of regret for their actions, stayed in Silvpoddle, eventually replacing the gatewatch and forming a new tribe, The Wogslayth Jungen, Gnomefriends and Guardians of Silvpoddle. Ort stayed in Silvpoddle, retaining his office of mayor. Today, he secretly plots the destruction and enslavement of all deep gnomes, frequently journeying to surrounding gnome cities to surreptitiously sabotage workings and assassinate key figures, sowing the seeds of destruction.

Gergelig no longer cares for the enchanting songs and glorious works of the deep gnomes. He hates and resents them for what they made him become –a mawog who murdered an ilkroun, the worst kind of traitor and a disgrace to his entire species.

My tale begins, as tales often do, with the beginning…

In the beginning, my tale begins…

The beginning of what? Of my tale you twit! Pay attention.

Here it is, the beginning of The Tale of Arthozzal…

            Arthozzal Umungus, half-crazed with senility, was fitting himself for prosthetic ears. His workshop, delicately organized in grand disarray, was a cacophonic cacophony of artistic visions, leftover vittles, and various unnamables. What should occur, to his undying irritance, but the approach of seven whining acolytes, babbling nonsensically and otherwise causing a ruckus? Nothing. That’s what.

As is the nature of such things, the acolytes, in their supreme crescendo of whining begged the mighty Illuminator to tell them his tale.

            And this is the tale he told…

            Arthozzal Umungus, half-crazed with senility, was fitting himself for prosthetic ears. His workshop, delicately organized in grand disarray, was a cacophonic cacophony of artistic visions, leftover vittles, and various unnamables. What should occur, to his undying irritance, but the approach of seven whining acolytes, babbling nonsensically and otherwise causing a ruckus? Nothing. That’s what.

As is the nature of such things, the acolytes, in their supreme crescendo of whining begged the mighty Illuminator to tell them his tale.

            And this is the tale he told…

            Arthozzal Umungus, half-crazed with senility, was fitting himself for prosthetic ears. His workshop, delicately organized in grand disarray, was a cacophonic cacophony of artistic visions, leftover vittles, and various unnamables. What should occur, to his undying irritance, but the approach of seven whining acolytes, babbling nonsensically and otherwise causing a ruckus? Nothing. That’s what.

As is the nature of such things, the acolytes, in their supreme crescendo of whining begged the mighty Illuminator to tell them his tale.

            And this is the tale he told…

            Arthozzal Umungus, half-crazed with senility, was fitting himself for prosthetic ears. His workshop, delicately organized in grand disarray, was a cacophonic cacophony of artistic visions, leftover vittles, and various unnamables. What should occur, to his undying irritance, but the approach of seven whining acolytes, babbling nonsensically and otherwise causing a ruckus? Nothing. That’s what.

As is the nature of such things, the acolytes, in their supreme crescendo of whining begged the mighty Illuminator to tell them his tale.

            And this is the tale he told…

            Arthozzal Umungus, half-crazed with senility, was fitting himself for prosthetic ears. His workshop, delicately organized in grand disarray, was a cacophonic cacophony of artistic visions, leftover vittles, and various unnamables. What should occur, to his undying irritance, but the approach of seven whining acolytes, babbling nonsensically and otherwise causing a ruckus? Nothing. That’s what.

As is the nature of such things, the acolytes, in their supreme crescendo of whining begged the mighty Illuminator to tell them his tale.

            And this is the tale he told…

            Arthozzal Umungus, half-crazed with senility, was fitting himself for prosthetic ears. His workshop, delicately organized in grand disarray, was a cacophonic cacophony of artistic visions, leftover vittles, and various unnamables. What should occur, to his undying irritance, but the approach of seven whining acolytes, babbling nonsensically and otherwise causing a ruckus? Nothing. That’s what.

As is the nature of such things, the acolytes, in their supreme crescendo of whining begged the mighty Illuminator to tell them his tale.

            And this is the tale he told…

            Arthozzal Umungus, half-crazed with senility, was fitting himself for prosthetic ears. His workshop, delicately organized in grand disarray, was a cacophonic cacophony of artistic visions, leftover vittles, and various unnamables. What should occur, to his undying irritance, but the approach of seven whining acolytes, babbling nonsensically and otherwise causing a ruckus? Nothing. That’s what.

As is the nature of such things, the acolytes, in their supreme crescendo of whining begged the mighty Illuminator to tell them his tale.

            And this is the tale he told…

            Arthozzal Umungus, half-crazed with senility, was fitting himself for prosthetic ears. His workshop, delicately organized in grand disarray, was a cacophonic cacophony of artistic visions, leftover vittles, and various unnamables. What should occur, to his undying irritance, but the approach of seven whining acolytes, babbling nonsensically and otherwise causing a ruckus? Nothing. That’s what.

As is the nature of such things, the acolytes, in their supreme crescendo of whining begged the mighty Illuminator to tell them his tale.

            And this is the tale he told…

            Arthozzal Umungus, half-crazed with senility, was fitting himself for prosthetic ears. His workshop, delicately organized in grand disarray, was a cacophonic cacophony of artistic visions, leftover vittles, and various unnamables. What should occur, to his undying irritance, but the approach of seven whining acolytes, babbling nonsensically and otherwise causing a ruckus? Nothing. That’s what.

As is the nature of such things, the acolytes, in their supreme crescendo of whining begged the mighty Illuminator to tell them his tale.

            And this is the tale he told…

Now go away.