Player: Lindsay
Race: Halfling (Wyrdling)
Appearance
About three feet tall and skinny with it, Morgy looks every bit the street kid — a round freckled face permanently smudged with grime, large bright hazel eyes, long pointed ears, and a mop of thick curly chestnut hair pinned up in messy loops and small braids with beads, rings and stolen trinkets knotted through it. She wears whatever she has found: a ragged olive-green hooded shawl over a dirty brown belted tunic and patched cropped trousers, a dark maroon scarf knotted at her throat, stacked brass and leather bracelets on both wrists and both ankles, and a few small pendants on cords. She goes barefoot, always.
The ooze shows itself in one unmistakable place. A single thick translucent tentacle of pale green-grey slime emerges from her right side, out from under the hem of her tunic — soft, slick, always moving, faintly luminous from within, and forever trailing strings and heavy drips of clear ooze. Slime beads along the rag hems where it meets the cloth, and she leaves a glossy handprint on anything she braces against. Her magic seeps out the same way, in strange slimy ways rather than in anything anyone would call a spell.
Cute, in short, but a little slimy — and far more often delighted by what she is becoming than frightened of it.
“If it looks edible enough, it is.”
Origins
Nobody has ever managed to make “Morgoth” stick as a name for very long — to the rest of Barovia, and to herself, she’s simply Morgy: a chaotic, fast-fingered halfling urchin who has spent her whole short life scraping by on whatever she could steal, scavenge, or talk her way into. She answers to no one, keeps no schedule, and has never met a rule she couldn’t find a gap in.
Food has always been the scarcest thing in Morgy’s life, so when she found what looked like a heel of moldy bread wedged behind a fisherman’s pub in Barovia, the plague-choked village below Castle Ravenloft, hunger did the deciding for her and she ate it without a second thought. It wasn’t mold. The pale, faintly glistening slime coating that bread has since taken up residence in Morgy, and it hasn’t been idle — she’s slowly, unmistakably begun to change into something a little less halfling and a little more slimy sewer thing. She hasn’t told anyone. Some days she’s horrified. Other days, when she discovers she can suddenly squeeze through a gap that shouldn’t fit her, she’s a little delighted.
The Gloaming
Morgy is, in her own words, a resident of Ravenloft now — one more stray thing that slipped into Strahd’s cursed domain and simply never found a reason to leave. She’s made a home of the flooded, dripping passages beneath the castle itself, partly because it’s easier to disappear down there, and partly because the tunnels seem to suit her a lot better than they used to. It was down in that dark warren that she caught the smell of a feast somewhere above her: real food, more of it in one place than she’s smelled in her whole life. Driven by hunger and curiosity in roughly equal measure, she followed the scent up through the pipes until she found a loose grate beneath the castle and hauled herself through it.
She had no idea whose room she’d just climbed into, or who was about to find a slime-crusted halfling crawling out of their floor. She was hoping, at minimum, that nobody would scream before she got a chance to explain about the free food.
No one screamed. The grate had let her out into the castle’s kitchen — the same room the rest of the party would later kick their way into and tear apart — and it was already occupied. A cluster of witches turned at the sound of her landing, and before Morgy could scramble back for the pipe, cold hands closed around her collar: a pair of Strahd’s vampire spawn, posted at the kitchen door, hauling her out into the light. She thrashed, bit, and tried every trick she’d ever used to slip a grip, and none of it worked. A cold, sharp pain bloomed at her neck, and then there was only darkness.
She woke caged, the bars slick and cold, strung up alongside what she first mistook for other prisoners and then realized, with a lurch, was meat — rotting, unidentifiable cuts hanging from hooks around her. She wasn’t alone in the cage, either. Slumped against the far side of it, still unconscious, was a dwarf in a captain’s coat she’d never met: Captain Gor.
When the party finally cut the cage open in Session 2, Morgy discovered a kinship with the castle she hadn’t expected — her own ooze-touched nature came in handy again and again. She swept the throne room clean around a witch’s cackle-cursed broom, accidentally knocked loose the trap on a cursed spellbook (later revealed to be Strahd’s own diary), and handed the recovered book off to Randoah once she confirmed it wasn’t shiny enough to interest her. She was first down the rope off the castle’s exterior balcony — flawlessly, though she left it ooze-slick behind her, to everyone else’s disadvantage — and later dug Cap out of a flash flood of copper coins in a baron’s tomb, pocketing a small fortune of her own in the process. In the Weeping Tomb, she met the ghost of Sergei, Strahd’s murdered brother, who mistook her for his lost love before recounting his own death and asking the party to reunite him with Tatiana.
Attendance Log
- Session 2: The Bells of Ravenloft August 23, 2026