If you’ve read Dune,
you want to ride one. If you’ve
played an old-school D&D module, you’re terrified of running into a
wandering one. And if you played
the Curse of the Crimson Throne Adventure Path, you had to hurl yourself into
the maw of one. Ah, purple worms. Good times. (By which I mean bad.)
Dungeon Denizens
Revisited has the skinny on purple worms, and is worth checking out on
several levels: for its unique take on their origins (spawn of a Star-Worm that
crashed to Golarion in a meteorite), for its hints on the metagame uses of
worms (from foreshadowing to dues ex
machina devices), for some really nasty combos (purple worm plus intellect
devourer, anyone?), and of course for all the many varieties and Advanced versions
(mottled worms, worms with breath weapons, etc.).
So I’ll just say this: purple worms are forces of
nature. They embody that
terrifying sense that something could just burst out from any direction and—*GULP*—eat
you. Unless you’re a truly
high-level adventurer, purple worms aren’t monsters you fight; they’re monsters
that happens to you.
As DDR suggests, if
you’re a GM, put the PCs in a bad spot—outnumbered, on a cliff’s edge, low on
resources…and then have a purple worm be the thing that saves them. As the watch their enemies vanish into
the worm’s mouth, any relief they have will be tempered by the knowledge that
they are way too far down and that
that thing could come back…
One last thing: No matter how scary a beast is, there will
be someone (or ones) who can ride it.
If you meet that person or people, be afraid. Ask House Harkonnen how that went for them.
Deep in the caverns
of Ayergard lie the Bones of the God—strange white stones purported to be
the bones of the buried viking god Valkurrod. Born of the semi-divine maggots that feasted on Valkurrod’s
flesh, purple worms are thus eternally hungry creatures. Many of the larger specimens even
emanate necromantic energy, and the souls of those they kill never reach
Valhalla but instead go straight to Hel. Of course, no true Northman would
allow his friend’s soul to suffer this fate…but getting to Hel might mean
following your dead friend through the gullet of the worm.
It is said that there
are men who ride the worms of the Sand Reach the way other folk ride
horses. Not true—they are not men
but oreads, who know how to walk the earth without waking the worm, and whose
stony flesh dulls their hunger.
Hitching a ride on one of these worms is typically forbidden, and even
in the rarest cases one usually must best an oread in single combat first. There is one exception though: By
ancient custom these oreads will never refuse one of the ratfolk.
A spherical metal
chamber holds a purple worm in stasis, magically suspended weightless in
the center of the globe. If the
room is entered without the proper key, gravity returns after three rounds, and
the purple worm is released. Worse
yet, the friction of its bulk grinding against the floor causes the entire
chamber to spin, sending the doors spiraling away and anyone standing to be
knocked off their feet and sent sliding toward the worm.
—Dungeon Denizens
Revisited 40–45 & Pathfinder
Bestiary 230
Lots of love for yesterday’s post—thanks all!
So uwtartarus (still love that name) writes:
I have been waiting
for the Pukwudgie for a couple days. I blame the latest Adventure Path from
Paizo. Huzzah! Witch's Shack turned
extradimensional meltdown is too good not to borrow. I look forward to
unleashing some curiously quill-studded undead at my party that is exploring a
Fey border-plane.
Wait—does the current adventure path have a pukwudgie?!? Aaaugh, I’m so behind! I only got
halfway through the first Reign of Winter
issue when I was in Illinois, and then got distracted by
work/birthday/work/Easter in Boston/work/a monster stash of less-than-mint
GameMastery modules from a Paizo sale/work. Must.
Catch. Up. Winter witches!!!
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