Squirming Swill

Grotesque pieces of cast-off animal carcasses slowly stew into an overcooked mass at the bottom of a witch or hag's cauldron. The animals' magical organs-the eyes of the newt, the tongue of the frog-have already been removed, leaving only these sad remains. Nevertheless, animated by long exposure to magic, they sometimes peel free from the sides of the cauldron and wriggle out to freedom. The refuse moves in one giant mass, its skin blackened and crispy, leaving a trail of dripping grease and gravy. Its body is perpetually steaming hot, as though fresh from the pot, fat popping and sizzling.

Squirming swills wander kitchens, sewers, swamps, midden pits, and grimy city canals. With little intelligence and no agenda, they come after any creature that remotely resembles the one who stewed them-usually, anything humanoid will do. Most swills try immediately to kill the creature, but some approach longingly, as though reuniting with a lost parent. They also seem to show sympathy or fellowship to other small animals. Unfortunately, their grotesque scent or the heat of their touch tends to scare away the living. Handily, the squirming swill is just as happy to befriend a small animal's corpse, unconcerned about its level of decay.