Known Blightborn Variants

• The Hollowed Dead
• The Whisperers
• The Blightburst
• The Broken Lords
• The Stillborn
• The Drowned
• The Wretched
• The Rotspitter

The Hollowed Dead

The Restless Rot

They are the ones we expected. The ones we thought we understood. The ones we thought we could handle. But it is not just their hunger that makes them terrifying—it is their numbers.

When people speak of the Rotmire Blight, they often conjure images of horrors beyond comprehension—Whisperers that mimic lost voices, Broken Lords that fight as they did in life, or the Husked, forever watching. But those are merely the variations, the mutations of something far older, far simpler. The Hollowed Dead are the true heart of the Blight—the inevitable, the endless, the unavoidable fate of those who perish upon this cursed land.

They are what remains when the flesh refuses to rest. The Hollowed Dead, or Shamblers, were once farmers, hunters, soldiers, nobles—people who thought death would be their final chapter. Instead, they rise, stripped of all thought, all memory, reduced to nothing but hunger and instinct. Some shamble slowly, their decomposed limbs barely able to carry them forward. Others move with unnatural speed, driven by an urgency that no longer serves a purpose. But all of them seek the same thing—the warmth of the living, the pulse of something they can no longer have.

They are the most common of the Blighted, and perhaps the most dangerous for that reason alone. One Hollowed Dead is no threat. Five are a nuisance. Ten are a problem. But when the moans of the dead begin to rise in unison, when the ground trembles with their ceaseless march, when there is nowhere left to run… then you will understand what the Blight truly is.

The Hollowed Dead are exactly what they appear to be—the mindless, shambling remnants of the fallen. They are neither particularly strong nor particularly fast, but they make up for this in sheer numbers. One is not a threat. Five are manageable. But a hundred? A thousand? That is the true horror of the Hollowed Dead. If you must fight them, fire is your greatest tool—a single torch can clear a path through a swarm of them. Silvered weapons cut through them with greater efficiency, but if overwhelmed, your best strategy is to create distractions—they are drawn to movement and sound more than anything else. Most importantly, identify the runners early—some Hollowed are faster than others, and they will reach you first if given the chance. If you hear the moans of the dead, you have already wasted too much time. Leave before they arrive.

They do not think. They do not feel. They do not stop. And when the last of Faulmoor’s lights are extinguished, when the final doors are broken down, when the last survivors are dragged into the dirt, they will still be here.

Waiting. Wandering. Growing in number.

Be wary of a lone Hollowed Dead on the road. Not because it is a threat, but because it is never alone.

---

Stat Block

Medium Undead, unaligned

Armor Class:	10
Hit Points:	20 (3d8 + 6)
Speed:	25 ft.

STR	DEX	CON	INT	WIS	CHA
11 (+0)	6 (-2)	14 (+2)	3 (-4)	6 (-2)	3 (-4)

Damage Immunities: Poison
Condition Immunities: Poisoned, Exhaustion
Senses: Darkvision 60 ft., Passive Perception 8
Challenge: 1/4 (50 XP)

Actions

• Clumsy Strike:
  Melee Attack: +2 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target.
  Damage: 4 (1d6 + 1) bludgeoning damage.

The Whisperers

The Lying Dead

They don’t fight like the others. They make you come to them.

Of all the horrors the Blight has birthed, the Whisperers remain the most insidious. They do not lurch forward with guttural moans like the mindless husks of lesser undead. No, these creatures are still, waiting with a patience that belies their rotting forms. They watch. They listen. And when the moment is right, they speak.

A Whisperer is never alone. It stands amongst the corpses of the fallen—sometimes in the ruins of a burned homestead, sometimes on the outskirts of a once-thriving village, waiting like a vulture in human form. But unlike scavengers, it does not pick at remains—it creates them.

When a traveler strays too near, the Whisperer mimics a voice from its past life. Perhaps it was a husband, a wife, a child—perhaps it was a guard, begging for help. And so it begins. Soft, uncertain calls echo from the fog, carried on the wind like the final gasps of a dying man. The closer one gets, the clearer the voice becomes. And then, when the traveler finally steps too near, the Whisperer lunges—no longer whispering, but screaming. 

At first glance, a Whisperer is no different from any other corpse—until it speaks. These creatures rely on deception, using stolen voices to lure in the unsuspecting. The key to surviving an encounter with a Whisperer is not to listen. The moment it starts speaking, do not answer, do not engage, and do not step closer to investigate. They do not react well to fire; an open flame will often reveal them for what they are, forcing them to drop their act. They also struggle with ranged combat—if you can spot one before it spots you, put an arrow in its throat before it has the chance to whisper your name. Above all else, do not allow yourself to be surrounded. A Whisperer rarely works alone, and where one calls, others may be waiting in silence.

Those who have encountered these wretches and survived say the worst part is not their attack, nor their ghastly, rotted forms, but the fact that they keep speaking, even after they are slain. Severed heads still murmur to themselves, repeating names long forgotten, whispering secrets that no one should have to hear.

If you ever hear a voice in the mist, no matter how familiar—run.

---

Stat Block

Medium Undead, unaligned

Armor Class:	12 (natural armor)
Hit Points:	45 (6d8 + 18)
Speed:	30 ft.

STR	DEX	CON	INT	WIS	CHA
10 (+0)	14 (+2)	16 (+3)	6 (-2)	10 (+0)	14 (+2)

Damage Immunities: Poison
Condition Immunities: Poisoned, Charmed, Exhaustion
Senses: Darkvision 60 ft., Passive Perception 10
Languages: Understands languages it mimics
Challenge: 1 (200 XP)

Traits

• False Lure:
  At the start of each of its turns, any creature within 30 feet of the Whisperer that can hear it clearly must succeed on a DC 12 Wisdom saving throw or be compelled by the Whisperer’s false cries for help. On a failed save, the affected creature must use its movement to move up to half its speed closer to the Whisperer, using the shortest and safest route available. The affected creature can't willingly move away from the Whisperer until the start of its next turn.
  

  • Creatures immune to charm effects automatically succeed on this saving throw.
  • A creature who succeeds on this saving throw becomes immune to the Whisperer's Mimicry for 24 hours.

Actions

• Rending Claws:
  Melee Attack: +4 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target.
  Damage: 6 (1d6 + 3) slashing damage plus 1d4 psychic damage.

The Blightburst

Death Comes Bursting

At first, we mistook it for another of the countless pitiful shamblers that infest the marsh. It lurched toward us, stumbling through knee-deep muck, its bloated form swaying grotesquely, limbs swollen beyond recognition. We joked nervously, taking bets on who'd land the killing blow. How quickly our laughter died.

Of the numerous torments that the Rotmire Blight has visited upon Faulmoor, few are as cruelly deceptive as the creature known to locals simply as the Blightburst. These tragic beings were once ordinary people—farmers, merchants, and travelers—now reduced to hideous vessels swollen by decay, their bodies distended and distorted, stretched impossibly by vile fluids and trapped gases. Their skin, marbled with sickly shades of purple and green, is stretched taut like overripe fruit, pulsating disturbingly with each labored movement.

From afar, they appear harmless enough: sluggish and cumbersome, their steps slow and unsure as if uncertain of their grotesque new form. Yet this very frailty is a sinister deception. Within their bloated carcasses lies a foul concoction of rot and contagion, pressurized until even the slightest puncture can unleash a catastrophic explosion of infectious gore and suffocating spores.

Seasoned travelers and hunters alike know to fear their presence, for when ruptured—whether by blade, arrow, or even a particularly reckless shove—they burst violently, drenching nearby victims in thick, pungent ichor. This vile fluid clings stubbornly to clothing and skin, exuding a stench potent enough to attract every Blighted creature within leagues. Those unfortunate enough to become covered find themselves hunted relentlessly, as though marked by an invisible beacon of suffering and despair.

Grim tales speak of doomed expeditions and desperate warriors falling victim to the Blightburst’s terrible trap. It is said that entire scouting parties have been overwhelmed in mere minutes after mistakenly striking down one of these grotesque figures, their last moments spent frantically trying to scrape the poisonous muck from their bodies as the marsh itself seemed to come alive, disgorging hordes of ravenous undead drawn to the scent.

Thus, the wise traveler heeds the old marshfolk saying:

If you see it swollen, let it walk. Better lost minutes than lost lives.

Yet caution alone is not always enough. In the cruel, twisting marshes of Faulmoor, encounters with the Blightburst often occur at close quarters and with little warning. Their slow shuffle and pained moans, like the anguished groan of rotting timber under strain, can easily be drowned out by rain or masked by the dense fog. Many seasoned explorers carry long pikes or sturdy poles, gently pushing away the bloated creatures rather than risking direct confrontation.

One final detail persists among those few who have witnessed the aftermath firsthand: a faint, almost plaintive sound—a low hiss or sigh—often heard just before a Blightburst ruptures. Perhaps, in that briefest moment, something of their human soul remains, trapped within the horror they have become, desperately longing for release. Or perhaps it is simply the sound of foul gases escaping the prison of flesh at last. None remain close enough, nor brave enough, to learn which is true.

---

Stat Block

Medium Undead, unaligned

Armor Class:	10
Hit Points:	20 (2d8 + 12)
Speed:	20 ft.

STR	DEX	CON	INT	WIS	CHA
14 (+2)	6 (-2)	16 (+3)	3 (-4)	6 (-2)	3 (-4)

Damage Vulnerabilities: Fire
Damage Immunities: Poison
Condition Immunities: Poisoned, Exhaustion
Senses: Darkvision 60 ft., Passive Perception 8
Languages: —
Challenge: 1/2 (100 XP)

Traits

• Volatile Demise:
  On being reduced to 0 hit points, or upon receiving 10+ damage from a single attack, the Blightburst explodes violently in a 10 ft. radius. Creatures within range must make a DC 12 Dexterity saving throw or take 2d6 poison damage and become marked by infectious gore, attracting undead from up to 120 feet.
  • If marked by infectious gore, the affected can use an action to clean themselves off to remove the effect. The effect is removed at the end of combat.

Actions

• Slam:
  Melee Attack: +4 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target.
  Damage: 5 (1d6 + 2) bludgeoning damage.

The Broken Lords

The Unkillable

Steel does not forget. Neither do they.

The Broken Lords are unlike the other Blighted. They do not wander aimlessly through the ruins, nor do they mindlessly lunge at the scent of the living. Instead, they march, armor rattling softly in the still air, following roads that no longer lead anywhere, standing guard over fortresses long abandoned. They fight with purpose, though they have none, and they follow orders, though none remain to give them. They are relics of a war that ended long ago, soldiers who never laid down their arms, even when the flesh rotted from their bones.

Unlike the shambling dead, the Broken Lords retain fragments of training, enough to make them far deadlier than the uncoordinated masses of the Blight. They parry attacks, they flank their prey, and, most disturbingly, they fight as a unit. Some travelers have reported seeing them form ranks before attacking, shields raised in a display of discipline that should have died with them. Others swear they have witnessed them standing motionless, as if waiting for orders, only to strike the moment a weapon is drawn against them.

They are most often found on the sites of old battles, standing over the rusted wreckage of war, as if still waiting for their commanders to return. Their armor is battered and rusting, their tabards faded beyond recognition, their once-proud weapons dulled by time. But steel does not forget—and neither do they.

The Broken Lords fight with more than just instinct—they fight with discipline. Unlike other Blighted, they do not break formation, they do not attack blindly, and they work together as if their minds are still bound to old tactics. This is both their strength and their weakness. They are predictable, following strict formations and structured combat styles. Disrupt their coordination, and they become significantly easier to handle—separating them from their unit, breaking their lines, or forcing them onto uneven ground can throw them off. If heavily armored, strip their protection first—their defense is what makes them formidable. Fire may weaken them, but it does not scatter them as it does other Blighted. If cornered by a Broken Lord patrol, remember this: they do not retreat, and they do not surrender—you must commit to the fight, or you must flee before they surround you.

Some claim there are ways to avoid them. That uttering the right command, or raising an old sigil, might cause them to hesitate. But those are rumors—whispers of desperate men trying to explain why they survived when others did not. What is certain is this: The Broken Lords do not run. They do not falter. And if they fall, they will rise again, formations closing, weapons raised, waiting for an enemy that never left.

If you find yourself standing on a battlefield long since abandoned, and the wind carries the sound of metal shifting in the mist—leave. Do not call out. Do not draw your sword. And for the love of whatever gods still listen, do not step between them and their forgotten duty.

---

Stat Block

Medium Undead, unaligned

Armor Class:	14 (tattered armor & shield)
Hit Points:	50 (6d8 + 18)
Speed:	25 ft.

STR	DEX	CON	INT	WIS	CHA
15 (+2)	8 (-1)	16 (+3)	6 (-2)	8 (-1)	5 (-3)

Damage Resistances: Bludgeoning, Piercing, and Slashing from Nonmagical Attacks that aren't Silvered
Damage Immunities: Poison
Condition Immunities: Charmed, Poisoned
Senses: Darkvision 60 ft., Passive Perception 10
Challenge: 1 (200 XP)

Traits

• Martial Remnants:
  Gains advantage on its first attack roll each round if an ally is within 5 ft. of its target.

Actions

• Rusting Longsword:
  Melee Attack: +5 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target.
  Damage: 7 (1d8 + 3) slashing damage.
  
  
• Splintered Crossbow:
  Ranged Attack: +4 to hit, reach 60/120 ft., one target.
  Damage: 5 (1d10) piercing damage.
  • After firing, the Broken Lord must spend its next bonus action reloading.
    
    
• Shield Bash:
  Melee Weapon Attack: +4 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target.
  Damage: 4 (1d4 + 2) bludgeoning damage, and the target must succeed on a DC 12 Strength saving throw or be knocked prone.

The Stillborn

The Watching Dead

They just… stand there. Staring. Like they're waiting for something.

There is a sickness that spreads through the minds of those who travel Faulmoor’s abandoned roads. It is not a fever, nor a plague of the flesh, but rather something more insidious—a feeling. That creeping, undeniable certainty that you are being watched.

In most cases, the feeling is dismissed as paranoia, a trick of the mind brought on by exhaustion and the ever-present mist. But in some cases, it is not just paranoia. It is them.

The Stillborn are perhaps the most unsettling of the Blighted, not because they strike quickly, nor because they hunger as others do, but because they do nothing at all. They stand, still as statues, in the midst of forgotten places—at crossroads, near the ruins of villages, or within abandoned waystations, their bodies mummified by time and rot, their sunken eyes black and glistening like oil.

They do not move. They do not breathe. They simply wait.

The Stillborn are a puzzle wrapped in silence and stillness. They do not attack at first—they simply watch. If you see one standing motionless in the distance, do not turn your back for too long, and do not let them out of your sight. They react poorly to fire, though unlike other Blighted, it does not destroy them—it simply forces them into action. If you must fight them, force them to move first. They rely on fear to control the battlefield, and a strong, direct approach may make them falter. However, they are best avoided entirely—many travelers have found themselves surrounded after ignoring the feeling of being watched for too long.

Survivors say that once a Stillborn has turned its gaze upon you, it will not look away. It does not matter if you turn your back, if you close your eyes—it will still be there. But do not make the mistake of thinking it is harmless. For the moment you ignore it for too long, or let it out of your sight, you will find it closer.

Many believe the Stillborn serve some unseen purpose, that they herd travelers into places they should not go, or that they are merely biding their time—waiting for the day the Blight fully takes what remains of Faulmoor.

If you find yourself being watched by one, there is only one thing to do. Walk away. Slowly. And never look back.

---

Stat Block

Medium Undead, unaligned

Armor Class:	11
Hit Points:	35 (5d8 + 10)
Speed:	30 ft.

STR	DEX	CON	INT	WIS	CHA
13 (+1)	10 (+0)	14 (+2)	5 (-3)	7 (-2)	3 (-4)

Damage Immunities: Poison
Condition Immunities: Poisoned, Exhaustion
Senses: Darkvision 60 ft., Passive Perception 8
Challenge: 1/2 (100 XP)

Traits

• Aura of Dread:
  Creatures that start their turn within 20 feet of The Stillborn and can see it clearly must succeed on a DC 14 Wisdom saving throw or have disadvantage on their next attack roll before the start of their next turn due to overwhelming dread and distraction. This effect does not stack.

Actions

• Slam:
  Melee Attack: +3 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target.
  Damage: 5 (1d6 + 2) bludgeoning damage.

The Drowned

They Do Not Need to Breathe

I swear on my life, we sank the boat. They shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t be here.

Many years ago, when the first signs of the Blight appeared, the people of Faulmoor sought ways to contain it. They thought water would be its tomb.

They were wrong.

The Drowned are the remains of those who were thrown into Faulmoor’s rivers, lakes, and coastal waters, weighted down with chains or cast overboard from doomed vessels. Some were criminals, some were the infected, some were simply sacrifices in the name of survival. But rather than finding peace in the depths, they rose again.

They do not float. They do not drift. They remain beneath the surface, waiting, their bodies bloated and split from prolonged decay. Their mouths hang open, endlessly dripping with blackened water, their movements eerily slow—until they strike.

The Drowned are not creatures you fight in the open—they are creatures you never fight at all. If they drag you into deep water, you will not escape. The key to survival is staying out of their reach. Never fight them while in or near deep water, and never assume that still waters are empty. They are slow and sluggish on dry land—lure them ashore if you must engage. Once out of the water, they become vulnerable to fire, which dries them out and weakens them. If caught, do not struggle directly against their grip—instead, strike their arms or fingers to break free before they pull you under. Above all, if you hear water moving when the wind is still, leave immediately.

The worst part of the Drowned is that they never let go. When they take hold of a victim, they do not claw or bite—they drag them down, deeper and deeper, until their thrashing stops. Their fingers clamp like iron, their bodies press downward, and their victims are left to drown in the same fate they once suffered.

Should you ever need to cross the waters of Faulmoor, do so quickly. The dead are waiting below, and they are always hungry.

---

Stat Block

Medium Undead, unaligned

Armor Class:	12 (rotting skin)
Hit Points:	40 (5d8 + 15)
Speed:	20 ft., swim 40 ft.

STR	DEX	CON	INT	WIS	CHA
13 (+1)	10 (+0)	16 (+3)	5 (-3)	7 (-2)	4 (-3)

Damage Resistances: Fire
Damage Immunities: Poison
Condition Immunities: Poisoned, Exhaustion
Senses: Darkvision 60 ft., Passive Perception 8
Challenge: 1 (200 XP)

Traits

• Aquatic Predator:
  Advantage on attack rolls while in water; can breathe underwater indefinitely.
  
  

• Dragging Grasp:
  If a Drowned hits with its Slam attack, the target must succeed on a DC 12 Strength saving throw or be grappled and pulled 5 feet toward water or deeper into it.

Actions

• Waterlogged Slam:
  Melee Attack: +4 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target.
  Damage: 7 (1d8 + 3) bludgeoning damage, and target must succeed on DC 12 Strength saving throw or be grappled (escape DC 12).

The Wretched

The Starving Dead

They leapt from the shadows, hitting us like starving beasts. Their ferocity wasn’t human—it was primal, desperate. I watched as one tackled a companion to the ground, jaws snapping wildly. Avoid letting them close the distance at all costs; they’ll drag you down, and you won’t get up again.

The Wretched are not like the others. They do not hunt the living for sustenance, nor do they seek to spread the Blight. They were something different, something terrible, even before the infection took them.

They were the starving.

The Wretched are what remains of those who lasted too long in isolation, in quarantined villages where no food remained, where men and women turned upon one another in desperation. Their bodies are emaciated to the point of breaking, their bellies grotesquely swollen from their last, terrible feast. Their mouths hang open, filled with jagged, broken teeth, their skeletal fingers twitching with a hunger that can never be sated.

Unlike other Blighted, the Wretched do not immediately attack the living—they attack anything they believe is food. This is their greatest weakness, and it can be exploited. If you are carrying fresh rations, you have already become their target—drop food and they may fixate on it instead of you. If no food is available, loud noises can cause them to panic, breaking their coordination and making them easier to dispatch. Do not let them latch onto you—once they grab hold, they do not release easily, and their frenzied hunger makes them faster than they appear. Most importantly, if a Wretched is already feeding, do not engage. They will not stop until their hunger is momentarily sated—use this time to escape.

The only mercy of the Wretched is that they cannot resist food. If flesh—be it human or animal—is already available, they will abandon their chase. But beware, for once a Wretched has started eating, it does not stop—not until there is nothing left to consume.

---

Stat Block

Medium Undead, unaligned

Armor Class:	11 (tattered clothing)
Hit Points:	30 (4d8 + 12)
Speed:	35 ft.

STR	DEX	CON	INT	WIS	CHA
13 (+1)	14 (+2)	16 (+3)	4 (-3)	6 (-2)	3 (-4)

Damage Immunities: Poison
Condition Immunities: Poisoned, Exhaustion, Frightened
Senses: Darkvision 60 ft., Passive Perception 8
Languages: —
Challenge: 1/2 (100 XP)

Traits

• Ravenous Frenzy:
  If another undead ally is within 5 ft. of its target, the Wretched makes attack rolls with advantage, driven into a frenzy by competition for prey.
  
  

• Pounce:
  If The Wretched moves at least 15 ft. straight toward a creature and hits it with a claw attack on the same turn, that target must succeed on a DC 12 Strength saving throw or be knocked prone. If the target is prone, The Wretched can make one additional bite attack against it as a bonus action.

Actions

• Frenzied Claws:
  Melee Weapon Attack: +4 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target.
  Damage: 6 (1d6 + 3) piercing damage.
  
  
• Bite (Bonus Action, only after successful Pounce):
  Melee Weapon Attack: +4 to hit, reach 5 ft., one prone target.
  Damage: 7 (1d8 + 3) piercing damage.

The Rotspitter

Decay from Within

It wasn't an attack—not at first. It began as a convulsion, the corpse doubled over, chest heaving like bellows stoking an unseen furnace. Then its jaw snapped open, and that burning, foul liquid spewed forth, melting through wood, steel, and flesh alike. I still dream of the sound—like boiling tar poured from a rusted kettle.

The creatures commonly called Rotspitters are an especially grotesque manifestation of the Rotmire Blight. Their bodies were once human, now twisted by the relentless decay and corruption that defines the plague. Unlike typical shamblers, however, their internal rot has mutated, producing potent, acidic bile within their throats and chests, eating them away from within even as it serves as their most fearsome weapon.

Rotspitters appear as hunched, emaciated undead, their fragile forms barely able to support their own weight. Skin hangs loosely over jutting bones, and their limbs are gnarled, warped by the Blight’s cruel grip. The most distinctive—and disturbing—feature of these abominations is their throats and upper torsos, grotesquely swollen with acidic fluid, throbbing and convulsing visibly beneath paper-thin, blistering skin. Their slack, perpetually open mouths drip continuously with corrosive, greenish-black bile, sizzling audibly as it pools around their feet, melting small pits into stone or wood.

They dwell primarily in elevated, secluded positions—on battlements, in trees, atop dilapidated buildings—always choosing terrain that allows them to safely unleash their corrosive payload from afar. Rotspitters instinctively avoid direct confrontation, shambling away clumsily if forced into close combat, driven only by an instinctive need to release the painful internal pressure that builds endlessly inside their decaying frames.

Encounters with Rotspitters are tense affairs, forcing travelers to manage line-of-sight and move tactically under cover to avoid their caustic projectile attacks. Adventurers who underestimate their capabilities or hesitate too long find their armor and flesh burned by an agonizing, sticky bile that clings persistently, dissolving their protections and weakening their bodies.

Veteran explorers warn of their final, dreadful retaliation: upon being slain, a Rotspitter’s corpse ruptures violently, spraying nearby foes with its remaining internal reservoir of acid. This final spiteful eruption ensures that even victorious adventurers must carefully consider the cost of their triumph, reinforcing the necessity of ranged combat and strategic positioning.

Stories of Rotspitters carry beyond battlefields into tales whispered around desperate campfires—grim reminders of how even after death, humanity continues to twist and suffer under the Rotmire Blight’s relentless advance. They serve as potent symbols of Faulmoor’s unending decay, teaching travelers never to underestimate how far the corruption can spread, nor the grotesque forms it can create.

---

Stat Block

Medium undead, unaligned

Armor Class:	11 (natural armor)
Hit Points:	30 (4d8 + 12)
Speed:	20 ft.

STR	DEX	CON	INT	WIS	CHA
10 (+0)	13 (+1)	16 (+3)	3 (-4)	7 (-2)	3 (-4)

Damage Immunities: Poison, Acid
Condition Immunities: Poisoned, Exhaustion
Senses: Darkvision 60 ft., Passive Perception 8
Languages: —
Challenge: 1/2 (100 XP)

Special Traits

• Caustic Death:
  Upon being reduced to 0 hit points, the Rotspitter ruptures, spilling corrosive fluids. Each creature within 10 ft. must succeed on a DC 12 Dexterity saving throw or take 2d4 acid damage.

Actions

• Caustic Spew:
  Ranged Weapon Attack: +4 to hit, range 30/60 ft., one target.
  Hit: 7 (2d6) acid damage. The target must succeed on a DC 12 Constitution saving throw or suffer 1d4 additional acid damage at the start of their next turn as the corrosive bile continues to burn their flesh and equipment.
  
  
• Caustic Swipe: (if forced into melee)
  Melee Weapon Attack: +3 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target.
  Hit: 4 (1d6 + 1) bludgeoning damage plus 2 (1d4) acid damage.