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

Far away in the hollows of the earth - deeper even than orc or wurm will burrow - there you'll find the nesting spire of the chasm corvid, a beast of the elder days which yet survives to plague us. Ten eyes - no, a dozen! All glowing red like gems of fury. Great flapping black wings over a maw split sidewise like a bug's. Four legs (count 'em!) each armed with cruel talons. Yet they say the one who knows the Ancient Magics may command this beast to serve as a steed. Almost makes you want to take up pick and torch, don't it? Just be wary, or you'll end up feeding its hatchlings. Instinct: to bring fresh meat to its young

• Haunt the dark places under the earth
• Obey the wielder of the Ancient Magic
• Carry them high, then drop them

When the first snowflakes whirl through the air, the far-flung outholds of the Northern Forest know that the Winter King's hunting cry is soon to follow. Body like a snow leopard, but huge - higher than a house at the shoulder. Atop it, an owl's face, fell-eyed and with a cruelly hooked beak. The Winter King's crown is a set of stately elk-antlers, broad as tree-boughs. Yet for all his bulk they say he fades like mist into the winter wood. And this beast - this ancient foe - someone must defeat him, lest the turn of the seasons be halted and Winter reign all year. Will you face his claws, his freezing aura, his killing-scream, so that buds may burst green in the spring? Instinct: to prolong winter throughout the year

• Paralyze them with a terrifying killing scream
• Blend perfectly into the snowy background
• Afflict them with frostbite and snow-blindness

Whippet-lean and wrapped in sooty brown linen windings, the aiskoses are the footsoldiers of the Enculminant. Their eyes, the only features visible beneath the layers of ritually-knotted cloth, are eerily-glowing orbs of living pale-blue glass. One can hear their reedy voices ringing from streetcorners and market squares, exhorting the masses to forgo mortal song in order to more clearly hear the subtle symphony of the universe. Instinct: Deny revely and celebration

• Burn down a place of entertainment.
• Fling poisonous powder in their faces
• Mob a single bard, poet, or performer
• Convince them to join the Enculminant