The Buggo: a clumsy, bumbly, bottom-heavy creature that features eyes which point in different directions and dwells in swamplike environments. At an average of 10 pounds and 2 feet tall, they are light for their size. Buggo will charge in the light and glow in the dark as a way to attract predators, which seems like a terrible idea - except that this is the only way for Buggo to reproduce. This is Buggo's chief desire. While being digested, Buggo transforms into a fungus that sustains itself on the digestive juices of their host. This process rapidly reproduces the Buggo spores, and thus the next generation of Buggo are born. To help ensure that the process is less likely to be interrupted, any creature that consumes a Buggo becomes more actively inclined toward its own death.

The Wumbus is a simple creature, often mistaken for a mushroom in its natural environment. They spend most of their lives in a state of hibernation, drawing sustenance from the soil they stand in while enriching it. Very occasionally, when seasonal temperatures reach a specific degree of warmth, they become much easier to spot as they begin to "wumbus". What begins as an ungainly gait soon launches them into a spiralling dance, twirling as they wander. They expel spores with every heavy step, and a cacophony of airy flatulence erupts from a culture of Wumbus wumbusing.

Once they have collided with sufficient quantities of spores from another Wumbus, their path suddenly reverses course and they return to their original position to gestate. Given the chaotic nature of their movements, it is unclear how Wumbus manage to retrace their steps - or even find each other in the first place. One must be cognizant of the shifting seasons when in the domain of the Wumbus, as inhaling the miasma of their spores causes the rapid rupture of internal blood vessels. Prefers areas with few rocks and softer soil.

Frolicking in grassy meadows among the flowers and the butterflies is an unparalelled predator: the Abomination. Let not its colorful appearance draw you in. Should you catch sight of it for more than a brief moment, you will quickly become enthralled by its shuffling feathers and the endlessly shifting colors. It is unclear whether its wings give it flight; it is clear, however, that the frequency of their fluttering dampens all sound around it. This creates a pocket of uncomfortable silence. Some say they felt its presence in the shifting air; others recall a comforting scent washing over an inherent sense of impending doom.

Despite numerous attempts to study the Abomination, no one has managed to document how exactly it consumes its victims. Regardless, the psychological effects are apparent, as those who have physically escaped its predation are left lacking... something.

If you hear the cackling of The Tickler, it's probably too late. It's also probably not a big deal. The Tickler will tickle you relentlessly. It's goal is to distract you so it can get what it wants: your trash. Though its teeth may look threatening, they'll only bite if you fight back - or if you startle it. This thing is about the size of a coyote, with six omnidirectional appendages, so fending it off can be a challenge and often isn't worth it. Just give it your garbage.

The Tickler's primary strategy is to drool all over its meal to break it down for easier digestion. It is most commonly encountered in trash-filled alleyways, dilapidated buildings, or the downtown bus depot. Solitary but not especially territorial, they nest in garbage cans and dumpsters and scavenge opportunistically.

Fwugwigs find themselves at home in woodland settings, burrowing into fallen trees to carve out dens for their large families. For fwugwigs, family comes first. They mate for life and raise broods of up to 20 fwugwig pups at a time. The pups start out completely pink and slowly grow their thick blue hide as they mature to about the size of an owl. You can identify fully mature fwugwig by its characteristic pincer tail, which may look threatening but is actually a helpful appendage that serves them well in feeding, cleaning, and wrangling their large broods. Fwugwig munch on insects and small rodents, which disappear quickly when there are many mouths to feed.

In volcanic environments where the air is thick with gaseous fumes, swarms of tiny pricklezip form. They land on the rocks, scuttle about on short crab-like legs, and lap up the mineral residue that gives them their characteristic green coloration. Although their harsh biome leaves them with few predators, pricklezip are protected by a tough carapace that is covered in tiny hairs like the pins of a cactus. These can become painfully lodged in one's skin and are quite difficult to remove.

The grank'n are timid yet curious creatures, highly sought after for their aromatic and iridescent pelts. Grank'n naturally keep their distance at first, watching other beings with great interest. Their heads can swivel nearly all the way around, akin to owls, and their tiny wings carry them swiftly from perch to perch. Their curiosity can be exploited, however: at about the size of a baby seal, and at least twice as soft, the grank'n are aggressively hunted in the wild.

If one cultivates a relationship with a grank'n, it makes for a luxurious and rewarding housepet - one that won't chew on anything, loves to be stroked, and and releases pleasantly scented and relaxing pheromones. They subsist on fruits and flowers. A steady diet of foods with pleasant scents will improve the quality and potency of their aromas.

Lazy or smart? Known to many as "lazy Pete", this laid-back predator spends most of its days lounging in the swamplands, completely motionless, with its mouth open wide. The zorg patiently dines on fish too foolish to avoid swimming into its mouth - or anything that gets too close. Zorg has jaws like a vice grip. One bite is enough to detain most anything, even if the creature would otherwise be large enough to escape or fight back. Its abnormal density gives it a serious edge in any tug of war. The oldest and most bad-ass of the zorg can be recognized by the size and quantity of the flies that perch on it.

Found only on moons, and unable to thrive anywhere else, is a mysteriously musical creature called dagrothah. Its rigid antennae are attuned to the vibrations of moon energy, which it conducts with sweeping movements into deep and rich arrangements of sound. This energy emanates most strongly in the equatorial twilight zone between the dark and light sides of a moon. There, dagrothah dwells in caves.

Dagrothah are notorious empaths. They can sense the moods of living creatures as vibrational feedback, and are drawn to intense emotions and ecstatic experiences. When visiting their moons, you can hear their songs ring far and wide. Sightings are exceedingly rare, however, and you'll ruin the song if you try to pursue them.

Standing only a few feet tall, the fuzzwuzzle still manages a bit of a mopey slouch. They are known to be somewhat emotional little creatures who spend their time scribbling in a diary with a heavy sigh. Though sentient enough to feel angst, the concerns of the fuzzwuzzles don't go far beyond the day-to-day of looking for food and dreading their next social encounter.

Their wool is incredibly water-resistant, so that not even the heaviest little raincloud could soak them. This makes it quite valuable. Fortunately, fuzzwuzzles are easy to herd since they are inclined to maintain a bit of an awkward distance from one another and yet not get too far away for comfort. Besides, they don't even care about being shaved anymore... it's whatever.

Left to their own devices, the fuzzwuzzles will keep to the shadows and forage for food at odd hours of the night. They can be spotted in the darkness, hop-galloping in short bursts from place to place. Have no fear; the fuzzwuzzle is no danger to anyone. Except perhaps itself.

You'll hear it coming, but you won't likely be able to stop it. With eyes that can see in all directions, the zweeb deftly dodges any attempt to swat it away. Its bladelike wings spin in a helicopter motion, creating a thrumming buzz that raises the hairs on the back of your neck - and you should be afraid, because that's where it plans to lodge its fangs. The zweeb thirsts for your spinal fluid.

As terrible as that sounds, the painful and life-threatening bite of the zweeb comes with a silver lining: the ability to see through its eyes, giving the victim the gift of omnidirectional vision! Some have gone to great lengths to catch a zweeb, desiring to walk the line between a superpower and imminent death. Few succeed.

Few Royal Winged G'zak exist, and those that do have lived long enough to earn some respect. Preferring to be addressed by their full title, they are easily offended and look down their long necks at those who approach them. Those who dare to disrespect the Royal Winged G'zak have earned themselves a trampling.

The Royal Winged G'zak does not fly as one might expect. Instead, it galumphs. It gathers speed with long, heavy, yet graceful strides, allowing it to become airborne and glide over long distances. Though they are fully capable of giving other creatures a ride, they like to remain aloof. Royal Winged G'zak will take their time thoroughly judging those who ask before they acquiesce. They will not be rushed.

Dwelling on mountain-tops high above other beings, the Royal Winged G'zak will occasionally make a show of gliding all the way down to the lowlands (especially if there is a gorgeous sunrise on display). Gliding back up is out of the question, of course. Head held high, it will determinedly trudge all the way back to the top and wait for the next opportunity to impress.

Craving the crisp green crunch of your cabbages, the pond-dwelling chrawn depart their watery homes at night to chow down. Though it might clamp onto a finger or toe, the chrawn is much more interested in your garden greens. They aren't quiet about it, either. You could easily be awoken by the clumsy clomping and chomping of a chrawn enthusiastically discovering your crops.

Although gardeners may mourn the loss of their vegetables to hungry chrawn, there's a silver lining: their eggs. Chrawn eggs are coveted delicacies that can be retrieved from the silty floor of lakes and ponds at only minimal risk to your digits.

A herble, standing still, looks mighty ridiculous. However, rarely will you see one standing still. With blazing speed, they traverse the rocky plains on their two hind legs. Then, at a moment's notice, they dive into the ground and burrow. Their useless-looking forelegs churn the hard ground and make a paste of it as the herble digs.

Its teeth, few but large, are incredibly hard, which is key to its hunting strategy: rapidly approaching its prey from behind and slamming itself down over it, face-first. Herble feed on small creatures such as rodents and lizards. They are fiercely territorial and will defend their burrow at the slightest provocation, even against creatures many times their size.

Sloymee is living proof that a large enough accretion of slime could form a complex multicellular organism. It comes from slime. It dwells in slime. It is slime. Sloymee develop where slime naturally occurs. Capable of metabolizing in various ways, they can surive nearly any condition as long as it can stay moist.

If you found one of these, your slime has gotten out of hand. How bad is it? For reference, they populate quite rapidly. The largest known sloymee was about the size of a bear, but you could also end up with hundreds of tiny ones under the right conditions. They way they hop around is kind of cute, though. Up to you whether this qualifies as a problem.

Among the most ornery of creatures, the grumple is infinitely irritable. In fact, things going favorably for the grumple only serve to make it grumpier. To an outsider, this might seem strange. What is hard to understand is that the grumple operates on a different spectrum of satisfaction - one that necessitates a steady supply of things to grumble on about.

A grumple's prehensile moustache flexes and stretches to grab clusters of foliage and fold them into its mouth. Herds of grumple shuffle about in loose migratory patterns, munching on shrubs and tree leaves as they go. Despite their apparent disposition toward one another, they are fairly cooperative. Traveling in large numbers enables them to work together to accomplish simple tasks that would otherwise be quite difficult without arms, and to defend themselves when threatened. A grumple may complain about receiving affection, but given that they also love complaining, we can only assume they love hugs.

Being taller than the average human, quite heavy on the bottom and light on the top, they are difficult to knock over. As such, their most effective defense strategy is to put their heads down and ram their target en masse. Compliment an entire herd of grumple at your own risk.

Night falls in the desert. Your mind becomes clear and you prepare yourself to receive a revalation. In the distance, slowly waddling, the Zwiff approaches. You realize you are, in fact, ready - for those who seek the zwiff rarely find it.

Strongly attuned to psychedelic vibrations, the zwiff brings deep revalatory truths to those who are in the proper state of mind to receive them. For those who are not, these experiences can be incredibly damaging to the psyche. Some do not make it back. One who gets close enough to lick the zwiff will become covered in its vibrant, shifting stripes - and experience a grand hallucination. This leaves predators incapacitated, but ironically encourages chasing it down for other reasons.

Have you heard of the friend-shaped man? The unicorn troll? The King of the Crystal Caves? At the top of a mountain, snacking on mineral-rich rocks, lives the Whomst. Though large and robust, it is a peaceful, docile creature. It keeps to itself, happy in its own world. Despite its reclusive nature, it welcomes the occasional visitor. Those who spend a day or three by its side are invited to enjoy breathtaking views and nightly retreats to the sparkling crystal caves in which it sleeps.

The whomst cultivates crystals meticulously, efficiently mining and consuming the rock that surrounds them. In fact, the rocks consumed by the whomst are digested such that its waste is the perfect substrate for crystal nucleation.

It wants to bite. It wants to cuddle. Neither of which is good for you. Flarknipper has terrible impulse control and a mouth large enough to fit your entire head - and if that wasn't enough, its teeth rotate within its maw like a garbage disposal. Keep your distance. If you see flarknipper in the wild, run.

In environments where most other living things would fry to a crisp, the drayzee thrive on a diet of molten slime that powers their thermal energy core. Their fluffy, delicate-looking feathers are in fact crystal formations that act as insulation to maintain internal temperatures as hot as liquid magma. A drayzee must maintain this temperature or quickly perish, solidifying into a crystalline mass rich in heavy metals.

Drayzee have few predators, but are adapted to evade detection in volcanic environments, and release large clouds of smoke from their mouths to act as a screen that gives them time to escape. This is critical, because drayzee move rather slowly. Their tail-appendage is actually a large foot, which pushes against the ground to scoot the drayzee in an inchworm motion (mostly backward).

Behold, the most delicious creature in all of existence: the Eggbear. Steeped in an essence of pure deliciousness, eggbears hatch with an indescribable flavor profile that is universally enjoyed. Both flesh and fruit, it pleases herbivores and carnivores alike.

In cool, moist environments with plenty of foliage to hide in, an eggbear lays copious piles of round eggs the size of golf balls, colored green with spots of purple. The eggs are so densely sweet and rich that, if foolishly consumed, the pleasure is quickly offset by the resulting stomach-ache. Mature eggbears, however, are well worth the wait.

Eggbear hatchlings begin their lives as fuzzy green balls with eyes. Their purple face, ears, and hands emerge as they develop. They grow very rapidly, reaching two or three feet tall in just a week. When their growth has peaked, so has their flavor, and the hunt is on for creatures in the know. Eggbears aren't hard to hunt, either. They flee into the bushes to hide, close their eyes tightly, and hope they won't be spotted.

Short, broad and fuzzy, this creature stands in for the classic livestock of many worlds. At about the size of an adolescent pig, Pearoogie's flesh is fatty and flavorful. Its hair is thick, soft, and quick to regrow. It even provides milk, which tastes something like the common strawberry. It might take a lot of feed to keep a herd of ""oogie"" satisfied, but their value is unmatched.

Besides providing milk, meat and wool, the pearoogie has a special talent in its acute sense of smell. It is naturally attuned to the scent of secrets. What was thought for a long time to be a wives' tale has time and again been the undoing of the duplicitous. If an oogie is paying special attention to your business or romantic partner, tread carefully.

In any biome crowded with vegetation, a floringuz is easily camouflaged despite its enormous size. With its eyes and mouth closed, it resembles any common cluster of plant matter. But in an instant, its wide, flat mouth stretches open and snaps down over unsuspecting prey. Its meal may wriggle and writhe, but the rootlike tentacles of the floringuz burrow deep into the ground, keeping it firmly entrenched. The hapless creature will surely become exhausted and dissolve in viscous saliva before it can escape. The floringuz's rubbery neck can stretch up to 12 feet in the air, and its head can swivel 360 degrees, letting it catch and consume creatures large and small.

Prefer a tropical vacation destination? So does your new pal, the durdle. The friendliest of creatures, nocturnal durdles venture out at night in search of snacks and friends. They're attracted to firelight, so your roaring beach bonfire is a surefire way to have a tail-wagging companion by your side at the party. A durdle typically munches on local vegetation, but they would prefer any treats you have on offer. They're basically just a chill hang.

A sloop fits in the palm of your hand, which is where it would prefer to be. Sloop crave salt and absorb it through their skin. They have a pleasantly smooth skin texture, and their bodies vibrate soothingly when they are touched. A warm, happy sloop presents its characteristic golden orange color. A sloop gone cold turns various shades of blue, which might inspire a sympathetic salty creature to snuggle it.

Sloop like to stay moist, and spend dry seasons buried in the muck. They burrow by vibrating intensely, liquefying the surrounding earth. Should a predator attempt to dig one up, they can use this ability to quickly escape deeper underground. Sloop have been known to vibrate so intensely that, when held for too long, they become molecularly bonded to the hand of their unfortunate friend. Neither party enjoys this experience. Fortunately, "sloop hand" is rare.

What carries a greater variety of diseases than any other vermin, and wants your chickens? It's the snarled gralf. Living in dens of 20 or more, they have strength in numbers. Their tiny teeth and claws deliver nasty little wounds that are liable to fester. They prey on pets and fowl alike. Notoriously resistant to poison and traps, they are difficult to eradicate.

Snarled gralf are fairly adaptable. In urban environments, they will grow to a smaller size, allowing them to better hide away in nooks and crannies. They can also easily adjust their diet to garbage and scavenged remains. A particular hazard to garbage collectors and alley cats, snarled gralf make for an unfortunate encounter.

This shy and reclusive creature rarely lets anyone get close. The hoopa, with its subtle blue glow and highly reflective eyes, is a friend to those who have lost their way. With a gentle rumbling hum, it approaches lone wanderers and guides them to safety. Groups of other creatures and high-energy activities drive the hoopa away. Though they are typically solitary, they will gather and commune in the light of a full moon. A hoopa troupe emits a harmonious hum that slowly elevates the land beneath them, raising ridges and mountains over time.

The crovampus is large, green, and a sorry excuse for what could have been an apex predator. It has a hereditary tendency to de-evolve any traits that are not expressly essential to keeping it alive. The resulting degredation of the crovampus as a species is simultaneously humiliating and incredible.

Behold: Teeth just sharp enough to pierce. Lazy eyes just capable enough to notice prey. Broad feet that barely keep it from slipping. Standing just four feet tall with a paunchy figure, crovampus pushes the evolutionary minimum. It hunts with a call that sounds just enough like the word "hug" to confuse some creatures into approaching it. If it's lucky enough to catch something, the crovampus thoroughly drains the blood of its victim, knowing it might be a while before it gets another meal.

Imagine: you are walking along a peaceful trail in the heart of a remote mountain range, when you find yourself suddenly overtaken by a swarm of skittering, squelching spider-like monsters flying overhead. You are witnessing the frenzied mating conglomerate of the vorkl. Seek cover immediately.

Vorkl ooze with corrosive saliva that can melt away rock as easily as flesh. This lets them bore into rocky terrain and establish a home for their brood and their life-mates. However, their saliva is notably ineffective against metals. Those who find themselves living in vorkl territory would do well to fortify structures with metal roofing and watch the skies during mating season.

Towering among the trunks of trees and tree-like things, the largest optolith on record had 50 eyes, 13 mouths, and stood a full 100 feet tall. The common optolith, however, rarely grows beyond 20 feet. Its flagrant blue color clashes with the typical shades of foliage, drawing the attention of curious critters that might wander right into one of its many mouths.

Though it spends most of its time in one place, the optolith may occasionally shamble about on the many tiny feet that carpet its underside. They reposition themselves periodically for more sun, better food, or the chance to get closer to a potential mate. The pursuit of a partner will carry them the farthest. Optolith rarely bite people, but be cautious in handling them, as their numerous eyes are easy to poke.

The voib, otherwise known as the "thinking cap", can be found wherever sentient minds are present. Lurking out of sight, and perhaps out of mind, solitary voib are drawn to those engaged in complex tasks. A voib will float high out of reach and follow its potential target until the time is right, with no regard for air or gravity. When the moment comes, and the victim is engrossed in a heady activity, the voib descends and settles neatly atop their head.

No one has seen in full what lies beneath the scruff that interfaces with so many creatures' brains. Looking at its expressionless red eyes, one can't help but imagine the horrors and wonders they have seen. The initial impression of a voib can be sinister.

However, there is a synergy to be exploited: you seek to utilize your mind at its highest potential, and it seeks to devour your brainwaves. This relationship can prove copascetic for a time. Once you have experienced the voib's stimulating effect on your mental performance, you'll likely find yourself feeling inadequate and wanting more. Indulge too frequently or too long, however, and the after-effects can be exhausting, deadly, or worse than death: voib madness.

With these creatures around, academia quickly becomes littered with voib burnouts and peppered with alumni who couldn't have cut it without a voib. Strict rules ban voib on campuses, especially during exams. Still, many schools quietly import these creatures as a short-term means to boost performance and thereby reputation.

The groggle is a highly adaptable creature that is suitable for nearly any biome. It ranges widely in size and color, but its core tactics remain the same: it will lure you in and swallow you whole. While it might not look so intimidating, the groggle is a patient and cunning predator. It won't pursue prey that runs away, but bump into it unexpectedly and you might be lunch.

When groggle is on the hunt, it lets ropes of its viscous drool hang out of its mouth, even dangling its drool in the water like a fishing lure. As revolting as it might sound, this drool is quite enticing to many creatures. It is sweetly scented with a pleasant taste and a jelly-like texture. The flavor profile takes on different qualities depending on a groggle's environment and habits. It always tastes great on toast!

The first thing one might notice about the snorferus are its eyes. Bulging and bright, the violet orbs of the snorferus process electromagnetic signals, granting these creatures sight in the electromagnetic spectrum. Striking lashes ring its eyes and act as antennae. This peculiar sense allows snorfs to detect subtle changes in atmostpheric activity and avoid dangerous weather patterns. It also gives them a unique strategy for hunting down what they really want: spores.

Floating in the air and wafting on the wind, delicious spores are carried far and wide by shifting weather. When a snorferus detects the right conditions, its renowned olfactory sense does the rest of the work in tracking down a meal. Its sensitive trunk can smell spores from an incredible distance - and quickly consume large quantities by vacuuming them up. Solitary and docile, snorferus are content to roam the land in pursuit of their favorite fungal food.

When walking where zuffar lurk, it is wise to look up. Dangling by its razor-sharp pincer, zuffar is a patient predator. It hunts opportunistically, snatching creatures out of the air or plunging from great heights to ambush an unsuspecting meal below.

Zuffar begin their lives very small, and grow as large as possible within the constraints of their environment. Should they outgrow their food supply, they will simply metabolize their own body mass and shrink until an equilibrium is reached. Tiny zuffar might live off of insects, while gargantuan specimens rule among megafauna. When a zuffar is well fed and comfortable, it will shed the bright green seeds from its body, from which new zuffar will grow.

In pursuit of the universally delicious eggbear, predators have developed various hunting strategies that involve stalking, startling, chasing and entrapping the creature. But the gruwald knows that eggbears love to eat one thing, and one thing only: berries.

The gruwald is a tiny creature which cleverly adapted to resemble a plump, ripe berry. It wraps its prehensile leaf-tipped tail around the foliage and bides its time until a hungry eggbear happens by. As the eggbear rummages for its usual snack, it inevitably brushes up against the toxic skin of the gruwald. Weakened and dazed, the eggbear becomes an easy target. Gruwald sinks its fangs into the eggbear's flesh and slurps its berry-flavored juices, leaving behind the withered husk of what once was a delicacy.

A trail of dessicated eggbears is a clue to hunt elsewhere. Brush up against a gruwald by accident and you'll be quickly incapacitated. You'll probably be fine if your juices aren't berry-flavored, though. Walk it off.

Softly illuminating the night, the lumicore attracts the sorts of nocturnal critters that just can't say no to a lamp. These fist-sized creatures can usually be found languidly fluttering about, naturally keeping their distance from one another to avoid competing for food. When prey inevitably bumbles into its bulb, the lumicore's mouth stalk swiftly snatches and gobbles it up.

Lumicore are not immune to the same fatal attraction that feeds them. They are curious to a fault, and compete among themselves for the strongest brilliance when selecting a mate. This gives them a natural inclination toward chasing bright lights, for better or for worse.

If your porch light attracts a lumicore, and it finds itself well fed there, all the better for you! Count yourself lucky if you witness the formation of a "lumicorn", the union of two lumicore formalized by a beautiful aerial mating dance. You'll know they have taken up residence if you find a fluffy nest of finely shredded materials under your eaves, which they have painstakingly gathered with their tiny hands.

The tail of the proot is on par with myths and legends. Fully prehensile, it stretches to incredible lengths and retracts in a snap. A proot can raise and lower itself - or its prey - with unsettling ease, and swiftly constrict its victims once they are ensnared. The proots themselves resemble enormous vermin: large pink eyes that glint in the dark, small fleshy feet that scurry, and sharp pointy teeth that rip and tear.

Proot nests make for a horrifying discovery. Proots wake up hungry. After a long hibernation, they're on a mision to eat, grow, breed, and dominate before the next nesting cycle begins. Although proots nest in clusters, piling atop one another for warmth in a way that might seem familial, they hunt for themselves and are not known to share. Competition is fierce. Their enormous eyes have perfect vision in the darkness, and their hearing is crystal clear. The oldest, most successful proots have the longest and stripiest tails.

Given their tiny arms and legs, a proot can be outclimbed, but only as long as its tail finds no hold. The only way to throw off a proot is with bright light, which can dazzle and disorient them. But don't count on it.

Do you like long walks on the beach? The refreshing ocean breeze between your eyestalks? Intermittent nap breaks every 45 squelches or so? You might be a plumbwubbus. This seal-sized creature enjoys a relaxed seaside lifestyle. It spends its days lazily pushing itself from tide pool to tide pool, basking in the warm shallows and snacking throughout the day on hapless creatures that wander by.

Not one for the chase, plumbwubbuses prefer to hunt at range. They can launch a glob of viscous goo from their stomach sphincter at a range of fifteen feet. The goo is heavy and sticky enough to coat and entrap small creatures, making meals easy to retrieve and consume at their leisure. Plumbwubbuses greatly value their leisure time, and will expend neither undue effort nor excess goo. This substance, which they percolate in their large, translucent abdominal sacs, is crucial to their livelihood. A plumbwubbus that is plumb out of goo will surely perish. Aside from its utility in catching food, goo is exchanged to mate. When a female drops one of its sacs as a fertilized egg, its young is nurtured by the goo within.

Plumbwubbuses are playful and highly social with one another. A tumbling tangle of multigenerational plumbwubbus will happily splash away a sunny afternoon. Caring little for territory, a cornucopia of plumbwubbuses travels as one, languidly following the pattern of any migratory creatures they can feed on. When it comes to outsiders, however, plumbwubbuses become quite shy. They will avoid engaging with anything more than half their size. When encroached upon to the point of discomfort, they will first collecively inch away. If this fails, they will let out an obnoxious scream of anguish, waving and stretching their eyestalks in an unsettling display. Ultimately, they are best left to their own devices.

In the depths of a jungle, the tortured sobs of someone in great distress echo in the distance. Your caring soul is drawn to the rescue. You call out, and the distraught victim wails in response. They don't have much time. Panic edges into the despairing voice, and yet so does hope - the first glimmer of possibility that they could be rescued. The chance that you could save them. They are close! To your left? To your right? ...Above?

It's too late. The victim is you, and you can hardly let out a cry of your own before it's over.

Some have called it "weeping death." With an impressive pitch range and uncanny talent for mimicry, the slaggar has mastered the nuance of tugging at heartstrings. They will lurk in the vicinity of sentient life, listening closely to the vocal patterns of prospective victims and their loved ones. They feed just infrequently enough to allow the disappearances to remain mysterious, and their strange appearance becomes the stuff of fables. Slaggar are startlingly dexterous and bristling with teeth. Its powerful legs carry it over land at high speeds and launch it to great heights. Sailing through the air, it snatches prey with its rope-like tongue and shreds them in an instant.

Though its cries are an act of deceit, the slaggar does in fact weep. Its enormous eyes cannot blink, and so they are moistened by its jelly-like tears. A fresh trail of this pinkish goop is the only sign that a slaggar could be near. Keep you own eyes peeled.

No brain, no thoughts, no worries. A carefree slurm glides along on a trail of its own slippery saliva, seeking sweets. Slurms are what they eat, and they feed solely on sugar. They'll dissolve and absorb the stuff wherever it can be found. Their shiny, bouncy bodies are formed from a solid jelly-like substance, with a flavor as bold and bright as it is colorful.

Sentient creatures quickly recognize them as delicious. Luckily, their gummy bodies have no organs, and no weak points. Take a bite of a slurm and it simply reforms. Bifurcate a slurm, and it's two slurms! Reproduction is mostly accidental, but it's in the interest of those who enjoy their sweet-and-sour taste to multiply them. Though they have no cares aside from seeking food, they can become entranced by the sound of music, which causes them to bob and wiggle delightfully - and makes them almost too cute to eat! Almost.

Ever wanted to fit in? Dreamed of being like everyone else? Never felt like you could just be... normal? This creature never figured it out either! As hard as it tries, a norble remains easy to single out in a crowd. The norble itself is just a pair of eyeballs that secrete a body of jelly. Driven by a strong attraction to social interaction, a norble morphs its jelly body to imitate another creature's appearance, mannerisms, and vocalisations. But with limited mass, color and texture, the imitation is not very effective, and it never quite manages to speak a language. The end result is just kind of awkward.

A norble first identifies the "coolest" creature in a group. It then follows them around incessently, doing its best impression. This tends to kill whatever vibe the group had cultivated. One would think this would discourage the norble's behavior, but the opposite is true: as the discomfort rises, so does the norble's satisfaction. It grows in proportion to the harshness of the vibe. Once it has doubled in size, the norble abruptly undergoes mitosis... and it's not pretty. The resulting spawn go their separate ways. If its interruption caused such a negative response that it finds itself in danger, a norble may split prematurely to escape. Ironically, the shared trauma of witnessing this disgusting event often becomes a bonding experience for its "victims".

In an effort to keep them from harshing vibes exponentially, an attempt was made to place them on the moon. Their jelly is known to have fallen to earth, though many dispute the origins of "moon jelly".

Drewdle bugs dwell as tight-knit communities in drewdle bug dens. Though they could easily make their home in any caves, tunnels, or rocky crevices, they want to be where other beings are, and will seek out hives hewn by others. Trails of glowing fungus will begin to appear on the walls, and soon, strangely colored globes of light wink in the depths of the dark, indicating that the drewdle bugs have moved in. As the years go by, their presence enriches the area around the den and encourages the growth of the distinctive void tree.
These esoteric creatures, with wings that make a rhythmic humwhistle as they fly, are capable of cleansing bad vibes. Species that can attract drewdle bugs to live nearby tend to form well-balanced societies. There's an extra benefit for creatures who can use it wisely: Drewdle bug rituals, which involve much dancing, use the negative energy they have captured as a key ingredient to produce psychedelic honey. The honey comes in many colors and intensities, all with a telltale opalescent sheen. Consuming the honey - in moderation - creates a transcendant psychoactive experience. For some it is transformative, and for others, just a good time. One must barter with the drewdle bugs to obtain their honey. Eschewing traditional currency, they prefer to collect treasures, particularly ones that are shiny or sharp: ornate knives and freshly minted coins are popular choices.
Though the tiny drewdle bugs would be easy prey for other creatures, predators beware: eating one is likely to result in the irrevocable loss of your grip on reality. Besides, drewdle bugs are a singular family, and fiercely dedicated to one another. Mess with one, and you'll summon a drewdle swarm, bristling with cherished sharp objects.

There's something satisfying about giving a zooley what it wants. They identify objects with a sparkle of cleverness, and a warbling purr that sounds almost akin to a language. How cute, you might say. It's talking! Whatever you were just holding seems to become an object of desire for a zooley, who will coo and squirm and bat its eyes. But the objects it truly covets are those you love the most: the cup that fits your hand just right, your coziest blanket, a fresh batch of homemade blueberry muffins. It can tell. Any reluctance only increases its desire. And when you give it up, a zooley lights up with glee. A happy wiggle-dance of delight breaks out on its way to stash the object in its nest of coveted treasures. Soon enough it will be back to look for something else, and you'll happily hand it over.
That is, until it wants something it can't have.
Much like a human toddler, a zooley denied is a force to be reckoned with. When sheer cuteness isn't enough to get you to give up that one spoon that you use only for ice cream, these creatures will do everything in their power to force your hand. Its gentle noises turn to growls of frustration. In the blink of an eye, it's across the room, threatening a fragile object. Before you know it, your family pet is on its way to being flushed down the toilet. And if all else fails, the zooley bares a set of needle-like teeth that it otherwise keeps concealed in its squeaky little gums. Shaking off a zooley is possible, but difficult, and you'll find yourself covered in punctures and scratches by the end.
If a zooley gets comfortable, it won't be long before its family moves in, and your stuff moves out. The weak of will can remain in the clutches of a zooley for some time, living in a mixture of vicarious joy and subtle fear. Still, the more you get to know them, the stranger they are. Behind their two eye sockets is really one large eyeball. It creates an irressistible cross-eyed gaze when they look directly at you, but catch them looking out of the corner of their eye, and it's a bit... unsettling.

Nested under the sprawling leaves of your garden vegetables are more melonboii than you think. They are happy to feed on whatever threatens the foliage they live in, from slugs and insects to birds and squirrels, and their population rises in proportion to their success. Their bright orange eyes extend on motile stalks, giving them excellent vision in all directions and all levels of light, and allowing them to quickly retract when threatened. To capture their prey, they needn't move much; their long sticky tongue darts out to snatch small creatures at a distance.
A crop of melonboii will cross-pollenate with the plants around them, taking on hints of flavor from surrounding fruits and vegetables. Dedicated cultivators can work wonders with these acquired tastes, but if they're left to run wild, you can wind up with some culinary disasters. Up for the challenge? All that's left is to catch them at their juiciest.
As they ripen, their hindquarters become increasingly rotund, glistening with an appetizing luster. A healthy, well-fed adult melonboii will begin to nuzzle down into the dirt, presenting its crop as it prepares to root. Keep an eye on those melons! Wait too long, and it will begin to root, ruining its flavor. Once it burrows into the soil of your garden bed, it will send out runners that sprout new patches of young, and decompose quickly to fertilize the soil.

A quirp needs little to get by. It hunts when hungry and sleeps when sleepy. This crepuscular critter can be spotted waddling along, slowly tipping from one leg to another, until it spots something tasty. Suddenly, it becomes practically imperceptible. It darts in bursts of incredible speed that let it catch up with just about anything and take it by surprise. If you spot one holding still, it's waiting for you to look away. Just stare at it until it gets bored and wanders off.
A quirp can evade just about anything at the twitch of a muscle. Its bulbous, unblinking eyes roll about on stalks to see in all direction. The top of its head can lift on a stalk of its own, revealing a mouth that opens on all sides. Wherever the quirp may fix its gaze, the rest of its body can merely rotate to face it. Its long whiplike tail pokes and prods into the dens of potential prey, baiting them into a race they are certain to lose. The only thing a quirp can't do is look straight down.
As solitary creatures, quirp produce offspring as a matter of course, dropping off an egg in a shady spot and moving on. They don't even bother to nest. When it's time to rest, a quirp will simply stop in place, balance on one leg, and become still.

Zoiberefski wobbles languidly, eats occasionally, and otherwise just stares into space. This bland and bored-looking creature spends all of its time digesting the fruit and vegetation that it has mashed up toothlessly and swallowed mostly whole. As time goes by, its wandering becomes more chaotic and its gait more unsteady, until it wavers even when standing in place. This is a sign that it is preparing to expel the byproduct of its digestion: a pure distilled liquid known as zoibahol.
From behind its dull silver eyes, zoiberefski sees the world in a vibrant spectrum of color that most others cannot see - unless they're drinking zoibahol. It grants tetrachromatic sight, which the zoib naturally enjoys. The substance itself shimmers with exotic color. Try some, and you'll truly make eye contact with the zoib, as its pupils and irises are otherwise indiscernible.
Those in the know are careful about the food they make available to a zoib, as it can affect the flavor and strength of zoibahol. The infamously delicious eggbear has become a popular base ingredient. Feeding it certain indigestible ingredients can cause a zoibling to form within its gut, which will come out with the next crop of brew, and grow quickly. Zoib are so well preserved by their unique internal processes that they rarely die, so populations can explode this way. Approach propagation with caution.

The trunch is an ecological curiosity worthy of cautious observation. Though it operates as one being, it is a result of the slow fusion of two creatures in an age-old symbiosis: a slithering thing with no eyes, and a winged one with an inefficaceous mouth. Thence comes a triphibious creature with a frightening range of capability and creativity in its approach to the hunt - which it pursues with as much energy as if its abilities were new and exciting to it.
Its sharp and nimble eye-stalks scrutinize its environment for creative opportunity. In one moment, it might slither about on its snakelike torso, misleading those who spot it until it suddenly takes to the air. In another, it might hang patiently in the branches of a tree and drop into silent flight, before tucking its wings and diving seamlessly into the water. In yet another, its tail might slip around the limb or neck of its prey in a tenacious stranglehold. The end is always the same, though: it latches on with its ring of teeth, and begins to feed.
To call it a blood-sucker would be a dire oversimplification. Not only is a trunch extracting the very plasma from the blood of its prey and numbing the flesh around the bite, it is also precisely adapting its saliva to uniquely affect that singular creature on a genetic level. In this moment, a connection is made. This prey will no longer need to be pursued. In fact, it will desire to return in search of this particular trunch, never bothering to wonder how they came to know and recognize it. Though the feeding itself doesn't last long, the effect carries on for hours, so that one goes about their day in a kind of blissful state that only serves to darken their outlook on life once it has faded.
This "trunch juice" quickly turns into a dangerous addiction - one that the trunch will maintain with an eerie level of awareness, so that the bond lasts a while before the creature perishes. The longer you have been "trunched", the more likely you are to die without it. Many such connections can be made, although it must be done judiciously, for the trunch will likely come to harm if the creatures it has bonded with begin to fight over its attention. Among those so affected, it is known as "scab" for the mark left by the bite that is returned to over and over.
A trunch might be found in nearly any environment where the other living creatures are large enough to bite. Coming in at the size of a common crow, it has a lot of options. As the trunch feeds, it grows and molts, and the skin it sheds becomes its own creature.

pending

High in the canopy of a tropical rainforest paradise, among the most colorful birds, are the happiest of scurfle-beasts. These fuzzy little critters get their spectacular hues from any light that enters their bodies, refracted through a fur coat of prism-like filaments that erupt with radiant color.
A scurfle in the sun is fully illuminated, such that it glows with compounded radiance, and appears full to bursting with joy. They leap and glide with a flick of their ear-wings from perch to perch, and scurry up and down vertical faces with their tiny claw-like feet. The whimsical antics of a scurfle in mating season makes for a delightful show of color in broad daylight.
A scurfle in the dark, meanwhile, is devoid of color (and also a bit sad), but on the other hand, it is essentially invisible. This helps it hunt with great efficiency at night, especially when the moon is new and the subtlest diffusion of starlight could hardly expose it. The scurfle is a swift and vicious predator of large bugs; otherwise, the critter is playful, skittish, and almost never stops moving. In fact, they only rest during the full moon, when scurfle-clusters frosted in silver light condense in the treetops.

Whether deep in the forest, out to sea, above the clouds or at the foot of a great waterfall, countless wishes have been made to spot the enigmatic beings that are said to flock hither and thither, dusting every land with the essence of luck itself. Many others have questioned whether luck even exists. Should one behold a cascade of clooparion, however, the question disappears. These creatures appear miraculous, with colorful wings that carry them through the air, fins to propel them in the water, and a delicate coat of diamond-blue fibers. The clooparion roam in large numbers, serendipitously evading detection most of the time. The light sustains them through a process like photosynthesis, but with a surprising byproduct: luckiness!
Where clooparion have been, there will be signs, for highly improbable things will have occurred: plants flourishing in surprising conditions, life forms with strange advantages that seem to have skipped the evolutionary process, beings whose wildest dreams have impossibly come true - and of course, anyone would want to join the latter cohort. Indeed, many have sought to take advantage. Lucky for the clooparion, this doesn't work well. For starters, the kind of luck inherently available to a clooparion makes them extremely difficult to capture, let alone hold. They will evade traps and maneuvers of pursuit to an unlikely degree, and quickly find their way out of the cleverest of cages. Worse yet, what is a lucky outcome for the clooparion in danger is often a very unlucky outcome for its pursuer. On the rare occasion that a clooparion somehow winds up in captivity, it will cease to produce the sought-after substance, and will quickly wither and die.
In truth, the only way to approach a clooparion is to care as little as possible about encountering it. Little-known cultures have cultivated traditions that facilitate a state of mind that lets them live in harmony with the "glowfuzzy", and they have been lucky enough to remain unexploited.

In the glow of a trash-can fire, where the shadows and the smell are enough to deter eye contact, a gritty voice spills fragments of stories half-remembered for anyone who might be listening. It reminds you of someone, but the names and phrases scattered throughout its ramblings are rendered uncanny. You squint through the smoke to examine the features: round, protruding ears; a scruffy orange beard; sharp teeth? A large, lumpy nose - are those all nostrils? And... butterfly wings? No, it's not who you thought it was. At least, not anymore.
Your grimy alleyway has attracted a gundrin. These scruffy, toothy creatures sniff around for the grimiest, smelliest places, where they are likely to find garbage and stray creatures to snack on. It just so happens that the locations they like best also tend to be home to the local vagrant population. They tend to fit in well, shuffling about and repeating bits and pieces of what they hear around them. What they eat, nobody else really wanted anyway. But though the harm a gundrin does is rare, it is dire.
When a gundrin bites a humanoid creature, but does not kill it, that creature falls ill. Soon, it is overwhelmingly compelled to cocoon itself, and will use whatever it can find, preferring blankets. The cocoon becomes adhered to surrounding surfaces by sticky fungus-like filaments, exudes a strong and terrible odor, and is nearly impossible to remove. Over the next few days, the creature within undergoes a complete metamorphosis, until it finally emerges as a beautiful, colorful... gundrin?
It emerges a foot or two shorter, with all the features by which the gundrin is known, including its beard - regardless of whether it entered male or female. It also emerges with its wings, which don't do much to hold it aloft; as much as gundrin would love to fly, they never make it more than a few feet with a running start. "Gundrin wings" have come to represent the desire for an outcome that will never be realized.
One would expect that this would make the gundrin a danger to said vagrants, but in practice this is not so. For one thing, a gundrin is quite selective as to whom it bites. The nearer death and the smellier they are, the more likely a target, and even then, they are slow to commit to the act. Those who know that gundrin live among them are well aware of what can happen; when a friend goes missing and a gundrin comes back, they'll tell you that he got his wings. For another, a gundrin is a fearsome-looking deterrent against any who might challenge its living companions.

Whether by the scent of sweaty gym socks on the wind, the seismic rumbling underfoot, or the incessant din of anguished braying like a hundred men who stubbed their toes, you will know a yurk-herd is near. Don't worry, it will move on soon enough; yurk graze as they wander, and must keep moving to grind down their thick toenails which grow at an apalling rate. From time to time, when the season is right, the herd will pause and encircle a serendipitous pair who have begun to engage in their elaborate dance of courtship. Flecks of sweat drip from their coarse, sparse hair, as they leap and stomp with abandon in a fierce contest to determine who will take the breeding role - for the yurk have no biological sex. In the end, the pair will hide in shrubbery to mate. What happens then is anyone's guess, but the eventual result is the birth of a yurk that begins its life fully capable of galumphing with the herd.

We all like to think the paths we take are of our own choosing. What we tread on or step over, where we detour or push forward; every choice made by a conscious creature is surely its own, but a bevy of subtle information flows beneath the surface - and of the many currents interwoven therein, unbeknownst to most, the influence of the elusive xilf exerts itself.
Among social beings, it is not an uncommon desire to be desirable. Many have devoted themselves to the pursuit of elixirs and aids to this end - fountains of youth, spells of illusion, and the like - but few of these could do much to exempt themselves from a starring role in any mythology, and thereby avoid pursuit. Not so, however, for the xilf. To look at one, you might think it soft, slow, and defenseless, and you are mostly right. Its boneless body is small, soft, and practically gelatinous. What might have been legs function more like flippers, such that it slips and slides through wet and muddy terrain with swimming motions. Broad, flat teeth grind face-level foliage for nutrients. It is unbothered, moisturized, in its lane, focused and flourishing. You'll likely never know this, however, because a xilf has such a strong influence on the vibescape that it can easily cause other creatures to avoid it completely if it doesn't like the cut of their jib - and there are many creatures it does not vibe with, especially creatures with intentions and motivations of their own.
However, it is for the sake of this power that it does well to hide itself. As a side-effect of its aetheric conductivity, the milk of the xilf is imbued with the essence of pure charisma. In the modern vernacular, this "rizz potion" is a legendary substance that few know the origins of. Those who do are unlikely to discuss it, either, as it is imperative that their intent to milk the xilf remains obscured. One must train intensely: first to become aware of the vibes at play around them, and further to control their own, synchronizing them with the gentle rhythm of a xilf at rest. Should they succeed, however, what they procure will be of such great value that we might feel the strange absence of any xilf stories whatsoever.

Anywhere tiny insectoid creatures are found, spinch are likely present and on the hunt. With their six pincer-feet, they latch tightly onto trees, flowers, or hives, and with their long pincer tail - which is in fact a mouth - they snatch up their prey, either whole or bite-by-bite.
What appear to be its three eyes are sensory organs, specially tuned to sense the vibrations in the air made by other flying critters. Curiously, they even pick up on scents, perhaps to seek the the sweet nectar of flowers that attract their prey.
Being sightless, it instead perceives itself from the umvvelt in a third-person perspective, which allows it to easily navigate unfamiliar landscapes and deftly evade predation. A spinch will avoid contact first and foremost, but left with no other option, it will latch onto its pursuer and claim a chunk of flesh or a free digit. If, however, you do manage to squash a spinch, the natural consequence is immediate: its corrosive blood will quickly dissolve organic matter - or nearly any matter. The same is true of their eggs, which they lay in large clusters at ground level. Watch your step!
Coming in at about three inches tall, a spinch swarm makes quick work of most pest problems.

Consider the common garden gloob. If your gorgeous greens are gone, you probably already are considering it - and how to get rid of it. But there's a better way! Why not catch a fleet of gloob and let them loose where the weeds need eating? Though their squat little legs take an impressive number of steps per minute, they don't cover much ground and are easy to gather. Better yet, they only run when chased, and otherwise trundle in the direction of the nearest available food source. This makes it easy to place your gloob troupe right where you need it! Just look out for larger creatures that might enjoy a plump morsel such as this. Gloob aren't great at running from those either, despite having independent eyestalks that allow them to keep one eye on the sky at all times. They also tend to shed their leg-skin unpredictably. At worst, this hinders their movement at an inconvenient moment; at best, it could confuse a predator.
Anyway, have you noticed how cute these guys are? You'll delight in the liveliness that they bring to your landscape! Gloob are colorful critters that wobble with joyful movements as they munch, while the hue of their spots fluctuates according to the temperature. What's the weather like today? Just glance at your gloob! How old are your gloob? Count their spots! Oh, and did we mention that gloob love to cuddle? During the day, they will hardly pay one another any mind; but find them a cool, dark place to nest in, and they will happily gather together in the dark hours, bundling up in their nest. We're certain that the gloob is both useful and cute enough to convince you - but wait, there's more! The trail of beneficial deposits they leave behind as they wander will quickly boost the health of your soil. Looking to clear your fields after the harvest, and fertilize for the next planting? Look no further - release the gloob!

Wandering the coastline, you come across a cluster of strange globes nestled in the center of a shallow tidepool. You lean in closer, drawn by their pitch-black perfection and uncanny shininess. Suddenly, they shift in unison, and the gleam they cast reveals your nightmares: these eggs are staring at you. Somewhere nearby, a strange cry begins to rise: MURRR. Slowly you turn, knowing their progenitor could be close - and right behind you stands... well, a clumsy red leatherbound ball of muscle with a pair of claws just big enough to make your ankles cringe. Its blue-ringed mouth gapes at you, revealing sparse jagged teeth. Though it's hardly any bigger than a racoon, that stinger-tail dripping with venom could be a problem, right?
Actually, that stinger is little more than a lure, dangling a goopy paralytic just strong enough to incapacitate a fish or a small mammal. And unless you mess with those eggs, the claws will leave you alone. Squorp trust their unsettling cry to do most of the work.
This creature shuffles out of the rocky outcroppings that line frigid beaches only to hunt and lay its eggs, which it lays in clusters of three. The black smooth eggs fall from its face, and new ones roll in from the back of its head to fill its eye sockets. While the eggs mature, they continue to function as disembodied eyes, allowing the squorp to see from the perspective of its spawn and any threats that encroach. How it reconciles this long-distance vision with what it sees on its own is still a subject of great interest, but it is well known that squorp react dramatically to any perceived threats with a unique vocalisation. This makes them a great asset for anyone with a perimeter to monitor.
Though its cries and its strained facial expression might convey distress, studies have shown a positive correlation between the number of active ovo-opto-spheres shed by a squorp to the quality and quantity of venom produced by its lure, suggesting that the squorp enjoys keeping an eye on as much territory as it can muster. With that in mind, there's no need to worry about taking advantage of its natural alarm system. They love it!

The cosmos has its ways of maintaining the balance of its various forces as they ebb and flow. Of these forces, radiation is found in nearly every realm. And so, from the void to these realms, strange little seeds are drawn which thirst for it.
These are very few and far between, hovering mostly around the Near-Side of the Void. Beginning as tiny and unassuming shriveled pods that waft about the void, borne on a single fluffy plume, they appear entirely listless until they get close enough to pursue an eddy of radioactive energy. Then, their fluff orients like a solar sail to draw them forward. When portals are opened proximous to radioactive places, olololo are sometimes pulled through as though sucked down a drain. Upon finding radioactive material, an olololo will embed itself as deeply as possible, leaving only its antennae exposed. It will then sit quietly for as long as it takes to absorb as much radioactive energy as it can hold, cleansing the environment around it as it grows to around the size of a melon. After reaching capacity, nothing is left for it but to propagate - by exploding violently, expelling its seeds in all directions.
An olololo in its prime is full to bursting with energy, but a dangerous harvest, given that there's no clear way to know how close it is to exploding. If you can manage to pluck one, you have a powerful fuel source on your hands. Placing olololo in a mirrored chamber reverses its polarity, causing it to emit the energy it has collected such that it can be harnessed. We have yet to develop this into a renewable resource, however; once harvested and depleted, olololo perish, and do not reproduce.
But be warned: mishandling olololo can lead to disaster, from your own sudden demise to the immense destruction of a nuclear-level event. A strong psychic field contains all of the energy it collects, which it has innate control over; if threatened, it could expand its field and turn proximous creatures to radioactive dust, or contract and detonate. Approaching an olololo, you will hear and feel a vibration that is almost musical, which some say can convey the state it's in - but it is an inexact art to say the least.
Even then, its carapace goes on to prove useful: in order for its seeds to withstand the blast of its own final eruption, olololo has a hide that is somehow incredibly blast-resistant while being remarkably malleable, lending itself to the creation of legendary items. Those that manage to gather olololo in seed form would do well to hold onto them until they find a good source of energy to absorb, giving themselves a powerful battery. Highly valued at the Void Market. Do not microwave. Do not tickle.
Some have been known to hold olololo in great reverence, as an entity uniquely connected to one of the most primal forces beheld by living things.

What does color taste like? There is perhaps only one creature that could answer: the zop, a being that consumes color itself. But that's not how physics works, you say! Well, it is now that zop is in your universe, so reconcile that as you will.
A zop makes leisurely strides through any environment in passive pursuit of chromatic sustenance. Where it roams, colors around it are drained away, leaving a trail of desaturation in its wake. Emitting a low-grade inverse vibration, the frequency of color itself is absorbed into the vacuum of its form via its suction-cupped earstalks, reducing colors around it to greyscale. Colors will slowly re-stabilize... most of the time.
A zop might prefer one color to another, and could be trained to pursue particular spectra. You might not even realize you have a zop in your world if it prefers colors you can't see! Considered removing color from your environment for artistic or therapeutic purposes? Look no further.

Four arms, nine eyestalks, and 7 extra holes. Nang are drawn to places where storms will occur, to catch and filter ionized particles on the stormwinds. Its eyestalks lend it sight in all directions, but more importantly act as sensors to gauge temperature, pressure, wind speed and direction, electrostatic fields and more to detect storms of all kinds. If you see one on the move, a storm is coming; so if it is the storm you seek, then follow. If it's not... maybe run.
Its heavy body, broad feet, sturdy stance and long strong arms are essential for steadying it against all conditions. As it holds its position against the gale, the sounds made by the air passing over its various holes plays a tone unique to each nang; thus, a group of nang is known as chord. Such a group will also signal to one another with raspberry-noises blown from their green-ringed lips, taking the edge off of the eerie allure of their song. Those in the know will hear their song and take heed.
When a nang passes away, its corpse hardens into a rock-like formation that continues to play its tone when struck by the wind. This makes an excellent... gift? Alive, a nang is sought after for weather condition and threat detection! Through its holes. Many holes.

Though as large and as heavy as a hippo, the bulky and absent-minded creature known as the flarf is somehow naturally capable of flight. This is owed to their enormous feathers, which are entirely incapable of moving enough air to lift them, but instead produce a gravitic effect that allows the flarf to move in any direction - for better or for worse. Flarf feathers can be plucked and will retain their incredible effects. They will also grow back if the flarf is well fed, making them as highly desirable as one could imagine.
However, ranching these things presents many challenges mostly owing to their well-documented clumsiness. Flarf glide to and fro with no observable friction and even less dexterity. A loose flarf will sail out into the world on a whim, with its shining eyes fixed steadily on the horizon more so than its surroundings. As such, it can take out structures entirely by accident. The field formed by its feathers has a radius of effect that can tear up its surroundings, throwing animate and inanimate objects alike hither and thither. Worse, the more attention is called to its mistakes, the more flustered it becomes, and the more erratic its movements.
Flarf do best in tropical biomes with fragrant fruit to forage for. Snuffling and grunting, a flarf will ruffle the foliage and pluck their prizes with their fluffy prehensile mouthparts. Coming face to face with another flarf, they will also use these to greet one another in the spirit of a butterfly kiss, and move pleasantly along.
To farm flarf at scale, one might consider clipping its feathers as they grow, which will help to keep them contained but damage the end product you're likely after. On the other hand, trading the potential volume of your yield for a well-loved flarf or two with which you form a trust bond will mean an eventual crop of strong feathers - and flarf who are much less likely to anxiously destroy anything.

Consider the fug: all the beauty and intelligence of a slime mold, and that counts for a lot. Looming up to 6 feet tall, it wanders about on the tips of paddle-like fins that deliver a potent paralytic. Upon contact with an incapacitated creature, the fug will ooze over the top of it, bathing its meal in its foamy blue innards until it is dissolved and absorbed.
Having no means of sight, they instead use the luminous photosensitive orbs floating in their gelatinous caps to detect the presence of other fug and congregate. Smooshing in a mass, they exchange orbs with one another as a means of propagation. Eventually they become hungry, and wander off in pursuit of nourishment.
With bright appendages and yellow beacons suspended in their neon green jelly, you might think this large and colorful mass looks easy to avoid. And you'd be right! Rather than pursuing the kind of prey that would try to avoid capture, fug are attracted to those without the wherewithal to bother trying - or better yet, those dumb enough to mess with it. Slowly but reliably, fug somehow identify and pursue the unintelligent. In a world where any number of these are oozing around the outskirts of college campuses, it's best not to be stupid and alone.

Following its nose wherever it goes is the scampering Skirvog. This critter is known for its sense of smell. It can track down anything, and when trained on a scent it will pursue its target doggedly. All that is required for training is its favorite food: meat! Though they're rarely aggressive, their sharp teeth are very effective, and a skirvog will joyfull tear up large chunks of flesh. Wild families of skirvog hunt in packs, preferring to use their numbers to intimidate other creatures into giving up their leftovers.
Skirvog gallops at a clip, face to the ground. It pops up from time to time to get a look around, swinging its spindly antennae about to steady its balance - for although it can see from side to side in a full 180 degrees, it has no neck to speak of and can't lift its head while on all fours. Its sight seems like a an afterthought to help skirvog avoid predators, not that they couldn't smell them coming anyway. Skirvog present with a variety of dazzling colors. In a litter of skirvog, no two will be the same. Just pick the one you think is the cutest and he'll sniff out what you seek!

A rolling stone gathers no moss, but rolling mouphs gather the beat. The leathery skin of these boulder-like creatures is sensitive to vibration, giving them the unified synaesthetic sense by which they navigate their world. To this effect, mouphs echolocate by producing rhythmic music in a wide variety of styles and tempos. Their unique style expresses their vibe, which other mouphs are listening for.
Lone mouphs will roll about with abandon, beat-boxing away, until they encounter other mouphs. Those with similar BPM will attract one another, blending styles to amass in "polyrhythms". If two polyrhythms meet, however, a beatbox competition ensues, and members of the losing team might follow the beat back to the winning troupe. Dissonance in a polyrhythm isn't unheard of, and if one of the mouphs isn't feeling the vibe, they may just split off and go their own way.
Mouphs are typically plant eaters, but it takes getting something in their mouth for them to recognize whether it's food or not. This means that they can do increasingly more passive damage to an environment with size and appetite. Their jaws are very strong. Some objects could be completely destroyed - so consider what you've left outside if you hear beat-boxing on the breeze. That said, all it takes to deter these things is a brief cacophony of loud, obnoxious, arrhythmic noises.

There is no finer example of multibiosis - if ever there was one at all - than the paravore. What once was a complex arrangement of disparate creatures has grown into a unified collective the size of a dog. The original host body, a grublike organism, was full of holes which large opportunistic organisms began to inhabit over time. A plant-like lifeform nestled into its rear hole to draw nutrients from it, but in turn it filled the main cavity with gaseous spores which lift the creature up like a balloon so that it might fly. Roots then found their way through to some side-holes that it flails about to adjust its direction as needed. These tendrils offer more reach than you might expect, extending up to 15 feet in a snap. Some number of units of time later, the paravore became entirely congruent and reproduces as a singular organism. It's possible that the original creatures no longer exist independently.
Though it grazes on leaves to sustain its basic needs as it floats along, paravore's mouth-parasite emerges periodically to catch more juicy and nutritious prey with its teeth than its original mouth-hole could hope for. At night, a glow that emanates from the grublike host-body's insides can attract insects for an even greater range of snacking.
Paravore thrives in forest canopies, picking off colorful birds and the like, but why not take one home today? Honestly, we'd sell this to you if we could, but we've tried and no one's biting. We can only hope you're the kind of gazillionaire that has everything and needs a conversation starter at garden parties (and that you don't mind something drooling on your guests or munching on your topiaries).

The gangly stangle summits the steepest of slopes in search of dry, hardy shrubbery. With its pendulous tongue swinging about to maintain its balance, it deftly lifts one spindly leg at a time and grips the rocks with its big strong toes. Heavy feet anchor it solidly wherever it stands, making it almost impossible to knock a stangle over - even at its full height, between 6-12 feet tall. A globe of eyeballs grants the stangle a 360 degree view, and this luminous array lets it see in the dark just as well as the light. Stangle is always on the move, ranging far and wide over broad plains and rocky hills. It deftly evades predators and ducks into caves only rarely when it finally exhausts its robust stamina.
A sure sign of stangles is the shoes they leave behind. Young stangle begin to climb when their first foot-carapaces become leather-hard. As they move about, these sheaths loosen little by little until they can step right out of their old pair and expose a fresh set, always of a different color. Looking to start a shoe company? Look no further!

Ever smell that smell that no one else can confirm or deny? The kind that fades and returns inexplicably? Neither pleasant nor unpleasant, acrid nor floral, but apparently without origin? At the edges of your vision, in the shadowed corners of whatever your room looks like from the fourth dimension, a blurpmass is surely forming, exuding an odor that you both smell and don't smell at the same time.
What is blurp? No one knows better than blurp itself, for blurp knows only blurp. This creature has attained complete self-awareness at the expense of any other awareness. Eyes the size of tennis balls stare into the middle distance all around blurp as its gaze remains fixed inward, attuned to the mind's eye. It takes a lot of concentration to be a blurp, in fact.
Blurp grows in pursuit of strong odors, growing in proportion to its consumption which seems driven more by indulgence than what other creatures might call hunger. A blurpmass can maintain a relatively small size, or grow completely out of control, teeming with useless eyes. Either way, by the time you notice its presence, it will always have been there. To say there is no blurp is to deny the very blurp of reality.

A rare and sought-after creature, the solitary trenstl is meant to thrive in ocean depths where its magnificence would rarely be witnessed. These porpoise-sized creatures can hide themselves in the midst of large swarms of jellyfish, sustaining themselves on the occasional snack from among their host. They will drift along, patient and docile, waiting for their highly sensitive auxiliary tentacles to pick up on electromagnetic currents. When all signs indicate the development of an aurora in the local magnetosphere, then the trenstl rise.
On the surface of the sea, churning or still, the florescent dome of the trenstl emerges and floats like a mass of jelly. The rest of its enormous body remains below, mysterious and obscured but for the glow that grows brighter and brighter as they soak in the brilliance of the aurora. Trenstl in this state will gravitate toward one anothers glow, taking these few and precious moments to mate.
To do so is to risk capture, for a healthy trenstl is a rare delicacy. It it said that its umami flavor pairs well with seaweed and cream cheese.

Behold the urft, in its entirety. Urft spends most of its time hunkered down under its shiny blue shell, scuttling about like a common crustacean. When darkness falls, it elongates and reveals a soft, cuddly-looking body with a very non-threatening demeanor. Head held aloft, it sits absolutely still while a sweet jam-like nectar drips from within its shell to form a fragrant ring on the ground around it. The shell, having absorbed the light of day, glows brightly in the darkness. Insects and small critters are drawn to the light or the nectar and gather around its feet. Once a small crowd has formed, urft suddenly collapses, trapping them all under its shell and making a meal of them with its concealed rows of grinding teeth.
Patches of urft in an area are common, given that every tooth they lose is a seed that grows another urft. These friends of gardeners provide pest control and unique solar-powered lighting.

A sunny disposition, a moustache that is always well-trimmed, and impressive broadcast range. What more could you want in a companion? A coat of soft and silky fluff? Sqooter's got that too. This critter could always use a buddy, anyway. It can't see much with that endearing set of shiny black eyes - at least in your visible spectrum. Instead, they see the frequencies we typically reserve for sounds and signals, even beyond our theoretical maximum broadcast range. Scooting about on their tiny feet, they often bumble into things we can see and react to things we can't, making the poor sqooter seem a little unstable. But get on its wavelength and you can glean hidden information from its seemingly spastic reactions. Sqooter makes no sound at all - it's the perfect apartment pet, really - but this is because it's sending its voice somewhere else entirely. Using the fluffy antennae atop its head, it transmits and receives signals at the far end of the AM frequency band. All you need to do is tune in, and the sqooter relay network is at your fingertips. Those who pick it up by accident have little means to understand where the howling, whistling and clicking vocalisations are coming from - and how they persist even when the band is otherwise occupied by other transmissions. Many strange theories have arisen among those to whom the sqooter is unknown.
Those who do know will find in the sqooter a loyal friend, albeit with an unquashable spirit, and an effective guardian against whatever they are seeing that you aren't.
Nice.

It sinks its ringed mouth into your skin. It uses its tubelike tongue to suck your blood. And it clings to you with its claw-like hand-feet to avoid being flicked away. Its eyeball polyps bulge when engorged. Gruzzing skirmit are universally digusting and terrible - and they run in swarms. We're not an expert in whatever the fuck this is, but if you can find a use for it, we'll sell it to you, we guess.

A dark shadow passes over the fields. Fear grips those below. Catching a whiff of distant stench on the wind, anxious eyes scan for a form in the clouds: one gliding sure and true, or one that squirms and twists with uncanny purpose. Hope against hope that it is merely a fire-breathing dragon and not a winding embulficator.
What we see today is descended from a long line of embulficators, each evolution more lengthy and convoluted than the last. Perhaps to digest more slowly and eat less often; perhaps to get its eye and butt as far away from its mouth as possible. We're not sure. The result is an enormous tubular body, batlike wings that would not seem sufficient to keep it aloft, except that it is filled with a gas that makes it buoyant in most atmospheric environments.
Floating languidly above the clouds, it twists this way and that to maneuver itself, scanning the world below with its singular red eye. Though its eyesight is not especially sharp, hold very still - its vision is based on movement. Once it has fixed its gaze on a moving thing, it locks on, and the seemingly unpredictable flailing of its form propels the embulficator toward its target, spewing a cone of noxious gas to skirt the issue of relative dexterity.
This gas is the heart of its horrors. Creatures who breathe the gas find their very forms will expand and inflate until they float away, becoming helpless even to the embulficator's sluggish and haphazard pursuit. Whatever it consumes is converted into the malodorous stuff by way of a series of digestive processes so intricate and superfluous that they have yet to be replicated by modern science. And so the cycle of embulfication continues, each victim's byproduct the undoing of the next. Wherever it comes to rest, wrapping its body around a structure or heaping it into the throat of a mountain cave, an opaque miasma settles around it.
When pigs fly... don't move a muscle.
On clearance! They really must go! Get yours now before it's too late! They're flying off the shelves!

If you've ever been seared by unfiltered void rays, or perhaps the kitchen stove, you've probably reached for a bottle of flez-juice. Ever wonder where that came from? Take a look in the depths of warm tropical waters, where flez floats along, sweetly cradling the bubble that contains its pure and potent salve. Its tufted appendages gracefully swirl like ribbons in the water as it swims, casting mesmerizing shadows over the reefs and presenting tempting lures for its small prey.
Then it swallows that prey whole. Then its meal is squeezed through a flexible tube and deposited into the translucent sac - revealing the bubble's true purpose: to let this creature watch its own prey digest after swallowing it. After all, how else will it know when its food has liquidated thoroughly enough to sink its fangs into the bubble and drink the resulting fluid?
Be sure to search the sands below where flez are found. When a flez passes away, its bubble hardens and detaches, sinking to the bottom. These flezite orbs are known to be very ponderable.

Ever wonder what keeps the clouds looking so white, so silver, so bold? What makes them glow with gorgeous colors as the sun rises and sets? Did you ever consider how moist it is up there, and question why they aren't completely covered in algae? No? Well we bet you're thinking about it now. Enter skwelp, the little cloud-preening jellies that you never knew you needed. Keep your eyes peeled when next the lightning strikes, or should the clouds take on a pink and orange luminance - they will surely sparkle from within, a host of glimmering jellies patiently gliding their tentacles over ever every droplet.
Look a little closer and be yet even more amazed to learn that despite a seemingly swarm-like approach to their life's purpose, skwelp have distinctly structured societies with well-defined binary roles. Females, all of whom respond pleasantly when called Jellifer, tend to the details of these skwelp social mechanics with as much love and care as they would give to the clouds. Skwelp aren't particularly curious or inventive. On the other hand, they are very diligent and quite chatty, flashing subtly with patterns of light that speak volumes to one another.
Skwelp have a filtering effect on their environment, removing toxins and heavy particles from the air as a matter of course. Whatever they absorb is metabolized into the gas that fills them and keeps them aloft. It doesn't take much, and as such the skwelp are unlikely to starve out in nature and more likely to overgrow in polluted environments. Their population may spike suddenly with the right combination of moisture and electricity, with some spectacular storms yielding gorgeous skwelp blooms.

Legends tell of the wise ones that dwell high in the mountains, drawing the deepest of insights out of thin air and refining them into the ancient secrets we all seek within ourselves. But where are the wise ones of the valley? Sounds silly, right? No one knows why they all went up; neither what kept them there, nor why they bothered to look within to begin with. Perhaps they have just been around long enough to notice everything, and didn't want to anyone to bother them while they pondered. But is it any coincidence that at such great heights, the air is not so thin after all? In fact, it may be quite thick with the gaseous expulsions of an obscure creature titled King Floomf.
You wouldn't blame them for not noticing. Floomf gas has no notable odor, so you might go on breathing it for some time before considering that you're feeling a bit more introspective than usual. If you're already somewhat prone to navel-gazing, the recursive effect of becoming self-aware of your self-awareness might tip you off. Hang around long enough and you'll be meditating away your pesky hunger and thirst really getting to the bottom of your repressed trauma. Don't worry, you'll be fine. A little introspection never hurt anyone.
Though they generally count on you being too preoccupied to notice them, a King Floomf won't mind too much if you spot it. You'll probably wonder how you missed it in the first place: like a bright pink balloon the size of a cow, sporting a long flowing moustache that only grows more magnificent with age, King Floom drifts above the clouds that dust the mountaintops. Here and there it descends, using its spiked rear tube to cling to the rocky cliffs around volcanic vents and slurp up their the gases. As it consumes them, it inflates and rises. Eventually, with a creaky-squeaky flatulence of a rubber balloon pulled open just right, it expels some of its metabolized gases and slowly descends. This strange noise echoes for miles and has been written off as any number of things to avoid confronting what it sounds like.
Its gases settle into a misty layer at a particular elevation - right around where the sages of your world reside, in fact. Should you go to visit them, and find yourself ready to descend once again, keep your eyes and ears peeled for King Floomf and consider catching a ride down.

On a lovely spring day, you stroll along the lakeshore, delighting in the sunlight that sparkles on the water. Distant at first, a rush of moving water begins to build, driving closer and closer until it ripples the surface, then bursts into the air with a flourish. A little flourangon soars out of the water and into your hands, eyes shining joyfully. He remembers you! Once he's scuttled up your arm and nuzzled you with his head-fluff until your cheeks have been painted all wet, he dives back in. The rest of the school breaks the surface soon after to leap in playful arcs around the lake, before disappearing again for a while. They'll spend hours gliding around the lakebed, grazing on the greens that grow there. Flourangon don't exactly breathe under the water; instead, they froth it up with swirling whips of their tail floof, and much on mouthfuls of the bubbles. It's a delightful sight if you go down to visit them, and while you're there you can expect to make friends! These social critters never forget a face, and are happy to become pets so long as you have the time to spend with them. They will of course remember you just as well if you treat them wrong - but how could you? Just look at them!

Emerging from a dream so vivid and sweet that its scents linger when you wake, you awaken with a sigh and a memory of a beautiful, soothing presence. You blink your sleepy eyes and rise to greet the day. Walking down the street, you pass a neighbor; in the smile you exchange there's something newly shared, though you can't quite put your finger on it.
Someone has visited your dreams.
You have been blessed with the presence of a luminarch elequin - and if you're lucky, perhaps there are a few more nearby. The fabled "moon moth" settles into the liminal space on the edge of dreaming, fluttering between the dreamscapes of like-minded creatures to pollenate them like cosmic bees to cosmic flowers. When many luminarch dwell in a place, stronger bonds surely form between the dreamers there; the subconscious cross-pollination stirs them into a unified state of mind, bringing deeper harmony. In small enough populations, something as synchronous as a hive mind can blossom. The spores from its antennae may well be the sand you rubbed from your eyes this morning.
Luminarch are drawn to the moon, and you might suspect their presence in an unfocused blur that glides between moonbeams. But there is a better way to know for sure if they are afoot, and to get a clear look at them. Find a moon rock and place it somewhere you can keep an eye on it. Eventually, as though coming into focus, little luminarch slip into your reality to bump eagerly into the chunk of porous stone, like moth to lamp. They might look tiny while doing so, but glimpsed in the curvature of the edge of the light cast by their approach, they could be enormous - it's impossible to say, and dreamers report sightings anywhere from small enough to sit in the palm of their hand to as large as the moon itself. As they flit about from dream to dream they graze upon the floating thoughts that all thinking creatures are constantly shedding, keeping the collective consciousness nice and clean.

If a melon had fur, would you still eat it? Alright, what if it had eyes? It's a question you may confront in yourself when you smell the tempting sweetness of iridipithicus basking in the sun. It purrs softly as it clings to its vine, blinking its big round eyes at the others clustered around it. As they grow, these creatures have a pleasant disposition. Happy and relaxed, they coo at one another and any visitors who carress their irresistably silky neon coats. Iridipithicus remain on the vine until they grow to the size of a small melon. Then, their stems release from the vine, and the mature fruit hops off with determination to find its own little patch of soil.
Though the fruit on the vine is a friendly delight, maturity brings a change in attitude. It's time now to ask yourself - what if the fruit had teeth? Because it does. In search of territory, iridipithicus becomes more aggressive and scrappy. Its head lifts to reveal a mouth that opens in all directions, brandishing a crop of sharp and pointy ivories at its competitors - and sometimes, at the very fingertips that used to carress it. Awkwardly, this is also when they are ripe for eating. A quick twist pops the head right off the top, and the rest of their furry rind peels away easily to reveal juicy fleshy fruit around a single pit. They aren't too difficult to catch, either. Unable to escape their delicious flavor, their development as a species has favored survival by numbers.
If you've prepared yourself to prepare an iridipithicus, do bear in mind that their taste varies with the last emotion to have filled it most completely. A frightened or angry one is flavored rather bitterly compared with one that was kindly stroked and contented in its final moments, so consider the flavor profile you're pursuing. If you can't bring yourself to do it, you're not alone. Some have decided that a fruiting vine of iridipithicus is just fine as a pet, and the mature fruit might be either set free or composted - though this may bring its own set of moral dilemmas.
Iridipithicus that go uneaten go on to decay like any other fruit. They hunker down and rot, fertilizing their pit to sprout a new vine.

It starts small. A little prickle or pinch, the kind you brush off and go about your day. But if this insidious little burr gets its hooks in your skin, you have little time to notice before it's too late. Once the spinidipidus slips its ovipositor beneath your epidermis and deposits a cluster of its microscopic eggs, mycelial roots beigin to spread throughout your body, cozying up to your nervous system.
And as it grows, your will succumbs to the will of spinidipidus.
Though a growth is emerging at the site of its egg deposit, it is well concealed or explained away. There's nothing wrong with you, that's for sure. If anything you feel healthier than usual. You're in a good mood, chatting with people more than you have before. You're making friends. You're getting invited to parties, and you're even going to them - even with your coworkers. Heck, especially your coworkers. Working late is actually kind of fun when everyone's getting along with you like this. Before you know it you're helping Peggy put together a regional event in the park downtown, with games and music and food stalls that are sure to draw a crowd. It'll be great for your brand, whatever it is your company does. Everyone's going to want to be there, and that's what matters. And when the day arrives, sure you felt a little ill, maybe you're looking a little sweaty - but it's fine. You're fine. You're getting in the cheesesteak line that's already wrapping around the stand because it's worth it.
Worth it to an entire generation of spinidipidus.
The world slows. The lights turn to beaming rays in your unfocused eyes. You barely get to see your coworker's ruddy faces twist with horror before the cluster finally bursts and releases a cloud of spores. It took everything in you, down to your last breath. You hit the floor like a pancake. Dead as a doornail.
Think about it next time your pal in the next cube over is trying a little harder than usual to get you to go out for drinks. Spinidipidus targets those who spend their time in close quarters with others, from office workers to bar flies, but no creature is safe: the friendly dog that wandered into your neighborhood could well be the seed of disaster.

From a pool of noxious slime, the Og eventually rises. The slime itself feeds on microbes and algae, photosynthesizing by proxy. As it feeds it hardens, and as it hardens two things happen: it sprouts eyeballs, and it generates an increasingly stronger antigravity field. Once it has grown large enough, an eyeball will drift up out of the pool. They hate this, though. Og are terrified of everything. They spend their adolescence dreading their ascension. Their little pupil darts around anxiously as they rise. Quivering in their jelly coats, they quickly work toward controlling their trajectory so that they can find others and form a cluster. Og clusters chill out as they become weighed down by their cohort, offsetting the power of their individual antigravity fields. They then glide around, leaving behind a trail of slime from which new og will sprout. The hardening process never stops, and eventually the cluster entirely crystallizes. This is probably a great relief to every Og in the cluster.
Ironically, Og itself is terrifying: the slime they are formed from is the most poisonous substance that can be found in the void. That aside, if you can get all of the ultrapoisonous slime off of an og before it hardens, their eyeballs are delicious.

This fanged creature's black saliva is a highly effective painkilling salve that is necessary for the karumf to make a successful connection when it attaches to any part of a host animal. While leeched, the host feels no pain. Worse, they feel a pleasant numbness, like a warm blanket on a cold winter night. Those who have been bitten liken the feeling to the look in its infinite sparkling eye-globes.
It squelches as it goes, flailing is tentacles ahead of itself with unsettling asynchronous motions. These sticky arms can cling to almost any surface, and so it will climb up walls or trees or whatever can help it to get the drop on its prey. Once it makes contact, its fangs extend and pierce its host. Though a kerumpf is only a couple of inches long and easy to remove, it's not so easy to want to do so. It's counting on that - its soft body and small size make it easy to destroy, and so its best chance at success is to go unnoticed until it can attach itself discreetly. Its goal is to feed until its host perishes, at which time the engorged kerumpf will propagate. If it is removed before this process can be initiated, the kerumpf will simply perish. The substance it produces can be very addictive. This raises the dark question of what it costs to breed these creatures - a question that is partly answered by the inevitable consequences of overuse. Potentially useful in a medical setting.

Known to some as the True Angel, there is no greater natural judge of character. What appears to be a dangerous insectoid the size of a small dog with a barbarous stinger, a snit will not harm anyone who hasn't crossed their moral boundary. Snit is a sociable creature, who is usually looking for ways to help others, and teaming up to do so. They can be trained to help with simple tasks, from harvesting orchards to moving furniture. When snits see other snits helping, they feel the need to join in, and you can quickly get a whole pack of them to assist you this way - whether you wanted it or not!
Most of the time their piercing appendage merely serves to puncture holes in juicy fruits so that they can feed. But should snit encounter wrongdoers, their stalwart commitment to justice drives them, and they will band together just as readily to help one another fight for what's right. Where some see light and some see sound, snit sees the very spectrum that encompasses right and wrong. A pack of snit possess the capacity to enforce the moral boundaries of a society, like a vigilant police force that is also standing by to help you bring in the groceries. Excellent crime deterrent. They won't kill unless they have to, but they will provide justice in proportion to the crime - and they will return that stolen purse.

The feckish maw is named for the only part of itself that you can usually see. If you know what that is, you'll be on the lookout for it, and also be sufficiently offended if a desert-dweller politely tells you to "get fecked." Most of the time, its elephant-sized body remains sequestered deep in the sand. Only its wormlike mouth protrudes, waiting to for hapless prey to get just close enough. Its only sense organ is its skin, which picks up the subtlest vibrations. Immersed in the sand, it knows exactly when you get close enough, and as it pulls its mouth-stalk downward, you and the very sand you were standing on slide neatly into its - well, its feckish maw.
So why would any creature risk getting close enough? Either they didn't see it over the top of the dune they were cresting, or they were enticed by the sweet scent of the oozing pustules that cover its hidden body. These pustules are a sought-after delicacy that can be plucked from its hide, should you manage to approach it. Feckish maw are hard to sneak up on, given their immense size and uncanny senses. The best time to approach is when it has just eaten, as this is generally when it surfaces, languidly shakes the sand off of itself, and goes wandering.
If you can manage, it serves as a noble mount for those not in a rush. The slow swimming motions by which it moves across the sand could even be called graceful. When it gets hungry again, it will dive into the sand to bury itself, but it can be kept moving with consistent feedings. Handle with caution, as it can eat creatures your size in one bite.

We don't need to convince you of why you'd want one of these. Voiderbi is inherently fashionable. If you spot one, you will pick it up, and you will put it on, and you will count yourself blessed because one does not often find these. There is no outfit that these things can't complement, whether or not you're the kind of creature that even wears things - and you'll know it, because any other creatures who can communicate won't hesitate to tell you so. Once it has settled onto your head and acclimated itself, its juices will naturally complement your pheremone profile, making you just that much more attractive. You're one of the cool kids now. Love the attention? So do they, so lean in. Take care to keep them looking fresh and perky. Voiderbi will flourish, soaking up admiration like sunlight. And before you know it, you'll find yourself in the inner circle rubbing elbows with the others most fashionable among you, where you are most likely to meet someone else sporting one of these, and voiderbi can conveniently cross-pollenate.
Side effects of looking this good may include getting murdered by feverishly covetous admirers in an attempt to obtain your hat. It won't work though. Should its host perish, Voiderbi shrivels up and the magic is lost. Available in millions of colors!

A danodor is a very particular creature. Each one likes everything to be just so. A danodor constructs highly detailed nest-like shelters, dedicating itself to the maintenance of its perfection. But what makes it perfect is unique to each danodor. Should their peaceful, careful, highly specific way of life be disturbed, they are subject to tantrums and screeching. Its name is used derisively to refer to someone who is especially fussy, perfectionistic or prone to losing it over the small stuff. If you can figure out what it idealizes, though, you might just get along with one. Occasionally, one danodor will get along with another in this way, either by finding a shared sense of taste or coming to admire another's ways enough to adopt them.
Danodor are by nature always fussing over their creations: fixing and tweaking, adding and optimizing in order to maintain perfection. All of their time can be spent this way since they neither eat nor sleep. They possess the capability for both photosynthesis and aphotosynthesis, and can absorb energy either from the light via their green skin or the darkness via their purple spots. Danodor who spend more time in the light will be quite smooth and mostly green. Those that dwell in darker places will be well covered in shiny purple bumps.

The liminal space between our dreamscapes is a dance of light and shadow. Known to some is the beauty of the luminarch elequin, blessing our sleep with fragrant peace. But known to all who dream is the suffocating feeling of a dreamscape that thickens with anxiety, trapping us in imagined bodies that can hardly move. Whence comes this darkness?
The vassal glides along on the outskirts of your dreams, absorbing their energy and leaving the emptiness of nightmares in its wake. It concentrates this captured essence within itself, becoming a beacon of dream vibrations, that distant light at the end of the tunnel that sits just out of reach of your trapped consciousness. Naturally, the luminarch elequin is drawn to such an intense and vivid concentration of dream energy. This what vassal desires, for the luminarch is what vassal consumes. Your nightmares are merely collateral damage.
These are the things dream catchers were made to catch. With the right arrangement of crystals and string, you can entangle the vassal and protect your dreams - and your local luminarch - against their deception.

Optiopteryx are busy little bugs. They flit through time, breaking down everything from 8 minutes in the past and recycling it to form the moment 8 minutes in the future, and passing through right now as they move back and forth. If these are found in your reality, time travel is impossible more than 8 minutes in either direction. They'll make swift work of an infinite timeline. And would you believe it, they can walk on those little legs!
Each 'ryx is about the size of a cranefly. They arrive in swarms that look beautifully iridescent as they pass through a moment in unison. But should you witness this, hold very still. You don't want to get caught in a swarm of ryx that notice you noticing them. Should they sting you, one of two things might happen: if the ryx was on its way back in time, you become sluggish, as though you are moving through tar, and your reality slips ahead of you; if it was on its way into the future, you will accelerate - an advantage that is very powerful but risky to chase. As more of them sting, the effect compounds. You can find yourself trapped up to 8 minutes behind or ahead, where you can see the ryx at work - but any further than that and you fall right off the edge of time itself, and well... who knows what happens then.

Grug and Stanleys are inextricably quantangulated, such that one does not exist without the other. Which came first? No one knows. The insects are each classified as Stanleys, and the hive they appear to dwell in is the Grug. The Stanleys, having no eyes of their own, operate as the Grug's drones and move based on its vision and direction. Swarms of Stanleys, at about the size of bumblebees, will pick at trash cans, skype roadkill, or interrupt your picnic to scrounge up food for the Grug, which in turn produces booger-like sustenance for the Stanleys. It slowly grows in size, sprouting new eyes now and then.
If it runs out of food within visual range, the Grug and Stanleys will identify a new spot at the edge of their sight and begin the slow process of moving. One by one, its eyeballs are plucked and relocated, and a new structure is somehow formed to support them. If a Grug was large enough, it may even divide itself across a couple of new locations.

A literal corporate entity. They say he became sentient once enough creatures had nibbled on just enough voidberries - however many that may have been. Now, fueled purely by the belief that everyone should eat them, he travels the void hawking Voidberries. The more beings consume his Voidberry Crunch Cereal, the stronger he grows. Mr. Voidberry is known for his charming affect and jolly disposition, he's only really interested in a conversation that leads to talking about voidberries. Which every conversation does.
Though his sentience is limited to the context of selling voidberries, he is highly motivated, and will go to great lengths to alter an ecosystem such that its inhabitants are more likely to consume his products. Whistling all the way, he'll sabotage the local food supply, or conceal the inclusion of voidberries as a replacement for another ingredient, ensuring their adoption and casting all morality to the wind. Whistleblowers are unheard of at the Voidberry Crunch factory. "Nothing personal," he says with a smile and a wink; "it's just business." And you are never seen or heard from again.

"Have you ever been told you can do anything, if you just believe in yourself? While we can't guarantee that'll work out for you, it's the only proven strategy for noxulite. This rare little mineral is capable of producing unlimited energy, with one important caveat: they require emotional support. A lot of it. A confident noxulite, reassured of its value and excellence, exudes a brilliant radiance and enough power to keep cities running. But these crystalline creatures are prone to periods of emotional exhaustion and self-doubt. This makes them dangerously unstable - for a lack of reassurance can result in meltdowns, which can end in a devastating explosion. In the center of the crater will remain the empty husk of a depleted mineral known as voxulite.
Worse yet, they are highly empathic and affected by negative energy. Those who maintain them must have the utmost emotional awareness and control to avoid sending the wrong signals by accident. Try too hard to calm them down, pile on one too many platitudes, and the spiraling creature will tip over the edge. Trust is key. The dedicated, highly specialized engineers that attend to noxulite must truly care for them.
Fail to remind them that they matter, and you'll get antimatter. Neglected or depleted noxulite eventually loses its stability and breaks down into voxulite, entirely inert and darkly colored. This is the state it is found in: alone and devoid of hope. To coax noxulite out of this deep depression takes incredible patience and commitment, but it is rewarding and very much worthwhile. "

Face down in the dirt is where spug wants to be. It pushes itself around on its tiny purple legs with its mouth wide open, gathering mouthfuls of soil to its vacant-eyed satisfaction. Everything it swallows is filtered directly through its spongy body, which absorbs any minerals or nutrients. The spongy fibers might incidentally trap small insects; they'll either find a hole to crawl out of or slowly decay, eventually providing more nutrition. The raw dirt that remains, stripped of any useful content, is extruded constantly from every pore. It mixes with the mucus that its body produces as a motion lubricant, resulting in a coating of thick, slippery mud. Where spug dwell, the terrain turns to mud-flats. They burrow into the ground to nest and to hide, though few other creatures would pursue the spug as prey.

Wumblewhirr appear dainty and delicate, with bodies just a few inches wide and long fine legs that dangle. But their simplicity hides their capacity to lift surprisingly heavy loads, especially when working together. Benevolent and caring, they will provide assistance to others at random, from carrying old ladies across the street to picking up the penny you didn't know you dropped. They have even been known to find people who were stuck or trapped and help recover them proactively. When trained with small sweet treats - a grain of sugar will do - they will become loyal and hang around waiting to help you. A few could easily slow your fall, a few more could lift you up to the second-floor balcony, and just one can easily bring you the TV remote. Wumblewhirr wrap their long legs around things to get a good grip, and don't mind if it's too hot or cold. Anyone would love to have a small flock of wumblewhirr at hand.

Just a quarter-second behind us in time is the world of quartimite: a shimmering landscape of delicate crystalline architecture, teeming with these tiny insectoid creatures. Their complex and finely detailed structures are made from granules of time-crystal, the substance of time itself which crystallizes as it passes. Quartimite are covered in a fine layer of sparkling dust from their constant carving and construction. Their sharp pincer tail shaves away fine layers of the crystal, and their many tiny arms work with finesse to arrange the pieces. The result is an ever-expanding complex of immense palatial buildings. Though you'd have to travel in time to witness the splendor of their efforts, these little critters make a peculiarly strong eye contact; should you find yourself gazing too long into the middle-distance, you might accidentally spot a quartimite, staring into your eyes from across space and time until the very strangeness of the encounter snaps you out of it. They might look frightening, but they'd really rather avoid you.

To seek this being is to pursue the truth, pure and undiluted. Such truth comes a cost that many believe they can pay - yet most cannot. Surely you, the hero, will be able to face what you see and come away clean? One must stand before its imposing mass, and gaze into its enormous eye with the truth they seek in mind. But beware, for this is how its prey is tempted into its gaping mouth full of acidic juices. One must have the strongest of wills to resist and leave its presence with their prize. Omenis has lived long enough to bet that you won't be able to handle it - and crushed by the weight of the knowledge you have gained, you will be tempted to make it stop. It will offer you a comforting hug with all of its tentacles, and welcome you into its mouth full of analgesic acid, swiftly solving all of the problems that burden you. You won't even feel your face melting off.
To move from place to place, it bends its tentacled head behind itself and walks along on its tentacle-tips, dragging its pool behind it. When resting or just laying low, it folds its face down over the pool and tucks its tentacles away. The unsuspecting may just as easily find the Omenis as those who seek it, and caught off-guard by its effects, they are much less likely to resist.

"Demidorf lives to spread the virus that gives it the characteristic green skin and seeping sores. It doesn't need to chase you down to do it, either. It simply wanders through your environment, sniffling and snorting and clearing its throat, and being as rude as you can imagine about its obvious malady. It wipes its mucous with its hands. It touches every doorknob. It sneezes and coughs with its mouth open, while operating the water cooler, then shuffles through your crowded office and brushes against everyone it passes. It always takes the elevator. And whatever you do, just don't go into the bathroom after one of these. Feeling tired? Congested? Got a stuffled nose? Turning off all the lights in your house and curling up in the corner, a wall of tissues building up around you? You've contracted demidorosis, and if you've broken out in sores it's too late. Soon your skin will swell and turn dark green, and you will slowly lose all of the characteristic features of your species. The only ones you need to do your duty as a demidorf are a few stubby limbs, one large eye, and a mouth to cough with. The more your physiognomy differed from this end result, the more arduous and painful your metamorphosis will be. Then all you can do is spread demidorosis as widely as possible before you eventually shrivel up and expire.
If you can manage to isolate a demidorf without touching it, or any of its fluids, there's one weird trick to render its viral load inert: pickle it. In fact, consuming pickled demidorf is the only way to cure yourself of demidorosis, should you contract it. Good luck hunting this thing down before its viral load transforms you... might want to keep this substance to hand. "

No one knows whether Glordy hungers, really. It just seems willing to eat anything that fits conveniently into its mouth, which gets up to a few feet tall. Even saying that it eats might be a stretch. Glordy neither grows, nor excretes any waste; instead, whatever it consumes is deleted entirely from the fabric of space-time. It scoots around aimlessly with the help of its long floppy tongue, which also helps it to get stuff off the ground just enough to engulf it. From the skateboard you left by the door, to the drunk guy passed out in the alleyway, glordy will accept whatever happens to be in front of it, and will slowly work to finish what it has started, like a snake swallowing a deer - except that there is no trace of the deer afterward. Everything it was made of is now entirely gone. This can be really convenient! Stand one of these on end and you've got a consequence-free waste disposal (unless you consider the consequences of removing matter from reality, which physics has not exactly grappled with at the time of this writing). On the other hand, there really is no getting back that thing you dropped in by accident, or whatever it bumped into when it went scooting around last night. Deploy with caution.

Have you ever felt the giddy satisfaction of startling someone, and seeing them flail as they emit whatever involuntary yelp belongs to them? For the vampire snaag, this is the sustenance of life. This creature's intimidating fanged maw is not meant for biting, but for scaring other creatures into making loud startled noises - which the snaag consumes! Every feature of the snaag, from its melon-sized body to its prehensile feet and mediocre flight, is used creatively to plan the jump-scares by which it hunts. It can fly up into a dark corner, swing upside-down from your doorjamb, stow itself in a cupboard, float ominously in the shadows of your half-open closet, and more. The vampire snaag moves with impossible speed, appearing a foot from your face in one instant and at the far end of a dark alley in the next. And as the vampire snaag slurps up your shrieks like noise-noodles, anyone between you and it can hear the scream itself moving by. Snaags aren't shy about hunting in the open - the more creatures they can manage to startle at once, the better. Not just any scream satisfies, either. The snaag can only feed on the cries that come forth unbidden. But snaags will take these where they can get them; they're known to hang around rollercoasters and haunted houses and the like to passively snack on the supply of startled squeals. The worst they can do is give you a heart attack, though they'd rather not cause you any real harm - otherwise you'll never scream again.

Scrunky deftly swings from its myriad stretchy limbs, cruising through forests and cities alike with grace and speed. The spiral-shaped patch on its head is a highly specialized sensory organ which grants it perfect spatial awareness, making it incredibly difficult to catch. Its beady purple eyes provide highly stable and focused vision with which it scans its environment for threats and for the juicy fruits they prefer. Scrunky are highly competitive and driven. Should two of them spot the same fruit, the race is on. And if it's a close one, they'll size one another up, looking for mates with peak dexterity and elasticity. About the size of a grapefruit, a contented scrunky could rest in the palm of your hand - but it's unlikely to stop for so long.

pending

This grumpy looking void-spud is more than meets the eye. Starting around the size of a classic tuber, patastro grows in clusters underground. It munches on small creatures and slowly grows, seemingly up to nothing. You'll know you've got them taking up space in your garden when you go to pull one up and get your finger bitten - accompanied by a string of swears and protests in a tiny, angry voice. You'll be lucky if you don't lose the digit - and you'll know to watch out for your toes.
What patastro's really been up to all its little life is listening. The spindly antennae on his head pick up speech, which it naturally translates into any language. This would be really useful except that patastro is generally in no mood for anything except finding a snack, and will grumble or rant at anyone or anything in its way, borrowing words from any language it feels like to express itself.

As far as we know, we've only seen one of these. We've found no way to propagate it, either, though we've managed to get a hold of bits of its substance. Jlime is more or less amorphous, and gloops about in whatever direction it pleases. And it is quite pleased, as far as we can tell. With a gleam of delight in its one huge eye, it sloshes toward objects or creatures it has taken interest in and gives them a big ol' lick. Anything licked this way becomes sour in flavor, no matter what it would have tasted like before. Jlime can become attached to some creatures and get a bit clingy, forming noodley tentacles to hold onto its friends. It won't mind if you lick it back, either, although it has an unbearably sour flavor - likely the main reason it hasn't been eaten yet. As goopy as it looks, jlime is jelly-like and essentially frictionless; contact with it leaves no residue behind. If something gets a hold of its long gummy tongue, the only reasonably grabbable part of its body, it can drop the organ and grow itself a new one.