The spiderwolves lurk in the lonely desert, haunting the tiny, insular, peculiar communities that cling to existence at the periphery of the civilized lands. They dwell in the shadowed valleys, and partake of the most discommodious attributes of the lupine and arachnid races - eight scrabbling, setaceous legs matched with eight glaring, blood-mad citrine eyes. Their peculiarly extensible chelicerae-jaws are fulminant with noxious and novel toxins. The daemonical vocalizations and ululations that ring from the beasts' non-Euclidean throats, shrill and insensible, speak to their doomed prey: and the sentiment intrinsic to that baleful, monstrous cantata is understood thus - "Good night, listener; good night." Instinct: to feast on the unwary

• Appear without warning
• Inject a paralyzing poison

"Good morning," the Thing in the Well calls, "And how are we doing this morning Mrs. Westmen?" -- "Just wonderfully. How have you been keeping, Thing?" -- "Fine, fine. A little peckish, a bit in the mood for, you know, a nibble, a bite to eat. But don't worry yourself, perfectly fine." -- "It's quite alright Thing, I was just thinking I should bring by some lunch. How does a ham sound?" -- "You are too kind Mrs. Westmen, just too kind..." -- The Thing in the Well has lived in the village for longer than anyone can remember. It is traditional to fix regular meals for the Thing, and to present it with a sheep or pig on special occasions. Years ago a boy went down the well on a dare. He never returned. The subject has not been broached in the presence of the Thing. Instinct: To devour

• Politely collect tribute
• Leverage townspeople through secrets
• Purify water
• Hide in darkened waters