Set: Wozes

The Wozes

No one knows where the Woz come from. Residue of some old magic, a spell digested by time: there is no shortage of theories, and none of them holds for long. What is known is that a Woz becomes what it absorbs, the color, the smell, the virtues and the poisons of its surroundings. Two Woz born of the same mud, kept apart long enough, end up strangers to each other.
For a GM, this is a gift, because a Woz reads like a map. Its hue tells where it has lived, the debris it carries tells what it has eaten. A forest Woz at the bottom of a cellar did not get there alone. Someone carried it, and the real question is why.
It has no fang or claw of its own. It finds its prey by their breath, reaches for nose and mouth, and squeezes until no air gets through. Whatever does not breathe holds no interest for it: the dead, the undead, automatons can file past without it stirring, and some necromancers understood this long before adventurers did. A corridor guarded by a Woz, where skeletons come and go unhindered, says a great deal about the master of the place.
Its real danger is not always itself. Once someone is engulfed, the worst enemy becomes the eager ally who strikes the jelly to free them and finishes them through it. And if you do get out, the dirty wounds left by its debris fester instead of bleeding. You will need a temple, a healer, or a great deal of luck.
They say holding your breath is enough to slip past it. Not everyone who tried it down a corridor that was too long is around to tell.
A Woz is not just an encounter. It is a clue that crawls.