Kuo-Toa

Kuo-Toa of Grizburg

 

Appearance

The kuo-toa of Grizburg are nightmarish fishfolk whose slimy, rubbery bodies gleam with canal filth. Their bulging eyes reflect lantern light like glass orbs, and their gaping mouths twitch with needle-like teeth. Many smear their skin with oils, moss, or river mud, disguising themselves as little more than shadows when they break the water’s surface. Kuo-toa adorn themselves with junk salvaged from the canals. Broken bottles become amulets, chains serve as belts, and scraps of rusted metal are nailed into their shields. In their hands, these trophies are not decoration but marks of faith, each relic offered to whatever grotesque god their feverish imagination demands.   ---  

Origins

Long ago, the kuo-toa of Grizburg fled unseen wars in the Underdark, pushing upward into the drowned arteries of the Whispering Depths. Their legends claim the bones of Zothra-Khaar guided them here, promising a city above whose faithless people could be preyed upon. In the centuries since, they have become a people of their own—half aberration, half cult, all madness.   Some still remember tales of Aboleth masters, others whisper of krakens that drove them into exile. Yet in Grizburg, the kuo-toa reshaped their myths, claiming the canals themselves were holy veins carrying them closer to apotheosis.   ---  

Habitats

Kuo-toa congregations thrive beneath Rustwater, the Greendocks, and the forgotten reservoirs of the Depths. They build sanctuaries half-flooded with stagnant water, their walls lined with shells, skulls, and idols stitched together from refuse. Fishermen often hear their croaking chants in the night, bubbling up from cracks in the water like drowned prayers. Some sanctuaries are no more than flooded cellars strung with rotting nets. Others are vast caverns deep beneath the city, lit by glowing pools of jellyfish where archpriests decree omens. These lairs are not just homes—they are theaters for the gods the kuo-toa invent anew with every generation.   ---  

Society and Hierarchy

At the base of kuo-toa society are the commoners, raiders armed with spears, nets, and slime-slick shields. They swarm in numbers, dragging captives beneath the waves to feed their faith.   Whips enforce order among them, lashing out with pincer staves and chanting to drive their kin to frenzy. Monitors oversee larger groups, their bone whips crackling with unnatural lightning as they direct both fishfolk and the chuuls they train as beasts of war.   At the top stand the archpriests—mad visionaries cloaked in shells, chains, and dripping vestments of rot. They claim to hear the voices of their gods, summoning storms of lightning and demanding sacrifice to keep the waterways sacred.   ---  

Faith and Madness

The kuo-toa believe themselves abandoned by their ancient gods and so invent new ones. Each sanctuary worships a different deity, cobbled from madness, superstition, and whatever scraps their priests find at hand. One might honor a barnacle-headed whale, another a jellyfish-bodied hag, and another still a treasure chest with squirming tentacles.   The terrible truth is that belief alone can make these gods real. In Grizburg, whispers tell of idols stitched from bone and rope that began to move on their own, lurching through the Depths to consume the faithful and their foes alike.   ---  

Relations with Other Factions

Rust Barons bargain with kuo-toa to unleash them against rivals, bribing them with relics dredged from shrines. Smugglers sometimes pay tribute in enchanted trinkets to guarantee safe passage through the canals. Assassins hire them to drag victims into the water, never to be seen again.   But kuo-toa alliances are fragile. Their priests read omens in the scum on water or the twitch of a dead fish’s eye, and at any moment they may turn on their allies, claiming the gods demand betrayal.   ---  

Ecology and Behavior

Though alien, the kuo-toa are hunters of flesh. They prefer live prey, ensnaring victims with sticky nets before dragging them screaming beneath the surface. Their slime shields can trap weapons, leaving enemies helpless as they are pulled into the dark.   They are nocturnal raiders, rarely surfacing by day due to their sensitivity to sunlight. At night, they move silently beneath barges, clinging to hulls until the moment comes to strike. When they attack, they do so with terrifying precision—nets first, then spears, then the priest’s spells to drown out resistance.   ---  

Legends

The Shrine of Eels speaks of a sanctuary whose walls writhe with living serpents chanting in chorus. Bargemen claim those who listen too long begin to pray in the same tongue.   The Bloody Lock recalls a kuo-toa colony nesting beneath a gatehouse, its croaking rumble heard for weeks until the entire lock collapsed into the water. Survivors swore the river itself drank dry that night.   The Sunken Bargain tells of an archpriest who cursed Rustwater miners, demanding they throw chains into the canals as tribute. To this day, bargemen rattle their chains in the water, hoping the fishfolk mistake them for offerings.   ---  

Cultural Superstitions

Canal-folk say never to drop a coin in black water, for the kuo-toa will take it as tribute. Hanging dead eels from doorways is said to keep them at bay, though others insist it only attracts their priests. Some whisper that every kuo-toa’s tentacles murmur prayers when pressed to the ear—a dangerous temptation for the desperate.   Children in Rustwater are warned: “Don’t stare into still water at night, for the big eyes will stare back.”   ---  

Threats to the City

One band of kuo-toa can sink a barge, slaughter a district, or desecrate a shrine. A colony of them threatens the very lifeblood of Grizburg’s trade. Worse still, their madness gives shape to gods of rust, rot, and ruin—beings born of belief, capable of toppling streets and poisoning waters.   Even the Barons tread carefully. To fight the kuo-toa is to risk not just ambush but apotheosis, for every blow struck might inspire them to dream harder—and dream something terrible into being.   ---  

Adventuring Hooks

• A kuo-toa archpriest raises an idol of chains and driftwood that begins to bleed into the canal.
• Monitors train chuuls to attack the Greendocks, their lightning whips echoing through the fog.
• Fishermen vanish near Rustwater, leaving only nets strung with bones.
• A whip declares a new god born of Zothra-Khaar’s ichor, demanding tribute from all who live near the river.
  ---  

Closing Words

The kuo-toa of Grizburg are more than raiders; they are a drowned people clawing for divinity. They embody the paranoia and hunger of the canals themselves, dragging the unwary into a world of madness where gods can be made of trash and blood.   ---  

Voices from the Canals

“We dragged nets that night, an’ what came up weren’t fish, but eyes. Too many eyes, prayin’ with every blink.”

— Rustwater Fisherman

“They’ll give ye a god fer every stone in the Sko. But some o’ them stones… they bleed when ye ain’t lookin’.”

— Slazgar, Rustwater Canal-Poet

“Best hope they dream of ye kindly. Else, they’ll dream ye dead, and make it so.”

— Fiona Walkingstick, Canal-Warden