“For it is of old rumour that the soul of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but fats and instructs the very worm that gnaws; til out of corruption horrid life springs, and the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and swell monstrous to plague it. Great holes secretly are digged where earth’s pores ought to suffice, and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl.”
H. P. Lovecraft, The Festival
AC: By armor type
Hit Dice: 3
Damage 1d4 or By Weapon Type
# Appear: 1d10
Special See Below
Worm Sentinels are colonies of fat, putrid worms fed on the corpses of the recently slain. In the presence of such a victim the worms will consume the corpse’s flesh and reproduce rapidly, filling the victim’s clothing and wrapping around its bones until it becomes a vile parody of who the person was in life.
The Worm Sentinel is dimly aware of its host’s memories. It will be able to cast any spells the victim had memorized at the time of his or her death, but once cast the spell will be lost and cannot be regained. It will be able to use the weapons and armor of the corpse.
The Sentinel will stay within the area of the corpse’s death, only moving away in pursuit of prey. It will seek to slay any creature that comes into its area, detaching a mass of worms from itself to infest new corpses. The transformation process takes 3-9 hours (1d6 +3) to complete.
Worm Sentinels will recognize people from their victims’ memories and may seem to communicate with them, their speech coming from dozens of tiny maws, but they are not truly capable of communication and understanding. They will repeat names and common phrases but nothing more.
Worm Sentinels take half damage from weapons but double damage from fire and acid. After the Sentinel has taken half its hit points in damage a cluster of 3d4 worms will drop off and try to slither to safety. These worms will seek out new corpses to start a colony with. Individual worms have 1 HP and an AC equal to leather armor.
Thy mouth, whereof the worm was amorous, They brows, whereon some waning moon had power, Thy breasts, corruptible as any flower, And all thy troubled beausty tremulous- From Memorial By Clark Ashton Smith