Monstober Day 5: Ghouls

Ghouls in Dragonbane are not merely scavengers of the dead, they are what happens when hunger devours the soul. In the shadow of Dakoth’s spreading influence, the restless dead stir more frequently, their cravings stretching beyond the grave. Below are three short encounters for use in any darkened corner of the Misty Vale.

Encounter 1: The Lonely Ghoul

The burial mounds of the north whisper with stories, and sometimes, those stories answer back. This ghoul was once a proud dwarven smith, buried beneath a stone cairn raised by his kin. Now, he lingers by his own mound, muttering to no one and clawing idly at the frozen earth as if he could reshape it.

He does not attack at first. He watches, rocking, mouthing fragments of his name. If the party disturbs the cairn or approaches too closely, the ghoul’s sorrow curdles into rage, and he strikes with the force of every unspoken grievance.

If laid to rest with the tools he once forged, his spirit fades, but his hollow voice remains, echoing through the stones for days afterward.

Encounter 2: Goofy Ghouls.

At dawn, two figures lurch along the muddy road, arguing about which way the sun rises. Their voices sound too human, too casual, until you see their pallid skin and the way their laughter drips into growls.

Bulk and Skull were deserters, brothers-in-arms in life and fools in death. They wander the old highway eternally debating their next destination. They greet travelers with slurred camaraderie, but when the scent of living flesh reaches them, their courtesy dissolves into a frenzy of teeth and claws.

If captured or calmed, they ramble about black banners, ‘the man without a shadow,’ and a war they can’t quite remember. Moments later, they forget the conversation entirely and resume their endless march toward a dawn that never comes.

Encounter 3: The Farmstead Feast.

The old farmhouse looks abandoned, half-buried in autumn weeds. Its hearth is cold, but the roof still stands, a rare comfort on a long road. Inside, the air smells faintly of damp wood and something else, something sweet and rotten beneath the dust.

The travelers settle in. Hours pass. Then the noise begins: scratching, a creak, the faint slap of wet flesh. Suddenly, chaos! The dead erupt from every corner of the single-room house: one bursts through the door, one claws up from beneath the floorboards, one stumbles from the root cellar, another crashes through the window, and the last tumbles from the rafters like a dropped marionette.

The fight is short but savage. The ghouls do not speak or plead, they only feed. If the heroes burn the farmhouse, the shrieking stops quickly, but the sound of chewing lingers in the embers long after the flames have gone.