OSR: Znapkakka

Sweat trickles down Ned's brow. The air is filled with dust, mold, and decay in this underground hellhole. Every breath is a desperate sob. The thief's tired muscles scream for a recess, back heavily bent under the weight of the rolls of expensive silk.

Sir Edgar the Lion's Heart. Mightiest sword this side of the Vale. Pffft. Foolish prick with a silver spoon up his arse, that's what he was. Won't be having any share of this textile treasure. Didn't Ralagazzam the wizard tell him to drop the plate before delving to the bowels of the former dungeon? Those fucking roaches turned out to be more than the senile fantasy of the dreaming wizard.

Real vermin, big as plump rats from the City. Air around them smells of ozone, sweet and pungent. But oh, Sir Knight knows no fear, let's charge and slice those beasts. Snapped Edgar with lightning from the sky (or their bowels) before his first war-cry was over. His plate all charred and blackened, and the pungent smell of baked flesh to boot. Despite their rat-like size, the roaches bled green ichor as any other critter would, after a taste of Ned's sling.

"Ok, right, left, straight corridor with the scintillating blades where t' porters were turned to mince, and we're out o' here, ya?"

"Hmm according to my notes it should be right, RIGHT, straight, and out. See?"

The wizened magician points on a soaked and stained joke of parchment with tiny scribbled notes all over it. Crap. Why hadn't they used chalk to mark the way? Or caltrops? Crap. Crap. Crap.

"Ok, quick then mage, ma back's gonna snap!"

The pair makes their way back, quick, much quicker than the way they came in. Gone are the meticulous examinations done to every flagstone, every stain on the walls. Right, right, and... where are the blades? Instead, a circular chamber opens, onyx columns sustaining the ceiling up high, wherever that is.

The mage's torch flickers, suggesting a... throne? seat? at the edge of its light. A hulking figure with arms like logs, over sized head like an inverted pear, fangs like daggers menacing in the shadows.

"Fuck your map, mage" - Ned whispers.

"Ah the mighty Bürokraken. Not all is lost, my dear Ned!"

Znapkakka

HD: 1/2 (2HP)
Omen: ozone smell, sweet and pungent. Barely audible rapid taps of their legs against the cobblestone.
Appearance: big bloody roach, zaps of lightning around them.
Number Appearing: 3d6
Wants: a meal! metal!
Armour: as Leather.
Movement: Normal speed as unencumbered 120' (40').
Morale: 7 (unimpressed of fire)
Save As: as Fighter 1 (D: 12 W: 13 P: 14 B: 15 S: 16)
Attacks: +0 to hit. Bite as dagger (d4) and Electric Shock, if applicable.
Special:

• Electric Shock: d4 extra damage to those within melee range wearing chain, plate, or other significant metallic armor (or more than 200 coins).
• Despise Clean Water: accustomed to putrid humidity in dank undegrounds, will flee at contact with pure (holy) water, and heavily avoid it.