The tomb loomed ahead, cloaked in shadows, and as dusk deepened over the hills, the light from Torm’s signet felt weaker in the cleric’s hand. Garren, a cleric of Torm, clutched his holy symbol tightly as he moved through the ancient crypt entrance. The air hung heavy with decay and the acrid tang of old stone, and his every step echoed back at him from the depths below. Somewhere in that shadowed maze, his brother lay.
Garren’s brother, Alden, had once been his closest companion. Though a skilled archer and ranger devoted to Torm, Alden had never felt the calling to serve as a cleric or paladin of their faith. It was a matter the two had argued about many times—Garren, who saw signs of Torm’s guidance everywhere, and Alden, who found faith in the silent language of the wilds and trusted his heart to know what was right.
Six months ago, Alden had entered this very tomb, seeking ancient relics left behind by an order of knights lost to history. But he had not returned, and Garren’s prayers for guidance on his brother’s fate had been met with silence. Now, finally, Garren had gathered the strength to return alone and retrieve his brother’s body. To let him rest, once and for all.
Garren tightened his grip on his holy symbol, an iron gauntlet engraved with Torm's emblem, feeling its comforting weight as he stepped into the tomb’s eerie darkness. Despite the chill pressing in on him, he felt the warmth of Torm's presence—a gentle, steady reassurance, as if he was not leading the way into the darkness, but rather, following something, someone greater than himself.
This was his brother's resting place, desecrated by something dark and terrible, and he was here to do what honor demanded. He would find Alden, bring him peace, and put an end to the curse that twisted his spirit.
As he ventured deeper, Garren whispered prayers, his voice unwavering. "In Torm's name, I walk without fear," he murmured. "For the Loyal Fury watches over me."
The tomb’s shadows seemed to shift around him, and he saw flickering images of battles long past, remnants of spirits condemned here, perhaps by the same evil that had claimed his brother.
There was an edge to these visions, a sense of injustice, of futility, of cruel ends for worthless reasons, if there was any reason at all. It was a pervading sense of the evil done to the innocent, of loss, and of resentment, it seeped into his bones like he was wading through a cold and muddy marsh that went on forever, it was a place of despair, and hatred.
Soon, a cold dread filled the air, and before him materialized a translucent figure draped in tattered robes. The skeletal shape glided forward, emerging from the solid stone as if it were water.
Garren's heart clenched. Though its face was naught but bone, he recognized the broken ribs and the twisted arm—wounds Alden had borne in life. His brother, his dear brother, had become this cursed thing.
“Alden,” Garren whispered, reaching out a hand, though he knew his brother could not touch it. “I am here to set you free.”
The apparition’s jaw clicked open, and the shadows of bony fingers reached toward Garren’s throat. Yet Garren stood firm, whispering words of courage and devotion to Torm. He would not falter. “In the name of Torm,” he commanded, his voice steady, “I swear you shall find rest, my brother.”
Alden’s apparition withdrew, twisting and recoiling as if in pain, but its hollow, lifeless eyes locked onto Garren. Garren knew then that Alden’s soul was not alone in this prison of shadows—some darker spirit, some more ancient and twisted evil, held sway here. Torm’s teachings flooded back to him, in the quiet hall of devotion with its magnificent statue and beautiful stained glass window overlooking the yard where the paladins trained as he read from holy books and listened to the wisdom of his elders. He must confront not just the symptom of the curse, but its source.
Closing his eyes, Garren called on Torm for strength to carry out his sacred duty. “Great Torm, grant me passage to the Veil of Death, the Spirit Realm, so that I may end this blight.” He knew this could be done, though it was not common for priests militant of the Tormtar, or that of Tyr or Ilmater, he knew of an ability the priests of Kelemvor used when they called on their god.
A surge of divine energy rippled through him, and as he opened his eyes, the tomb around him took on an ethereal glow. He had crossed into the spirit realm, the land of the dead. Before him, towering and more monstrous than Alden’s shade, loomed the apparition of an ancient creature—a being of pure malice, the one who had condemned his brother to this fate.
Garren faced the dark apparition, lifting his holy symbol high. “By Torm’s command, I shall release the souls you hold captive and end your reign of terror. For justice, for loyalty, and for my brother!”
The apparition hissed, a sound like rusted steel tearing through cloth, and rushed at Garren with skeletal claws outstretched. For a moment, the cleric felt a chill gnaw at his courage, but he focused on Torm’s principles: his sense of duty, his loyalty, his willingness to sacrifice all for this final confrontation.
Channeling Torm’s divine power, Garren unleashed a radiant pulse of light from his holy symbol. The apparition’s form faltered, its dark energy fraying. Still, it lashed out, but Garren held his ground, his prayers to Torm forming a shield of radiant energy around him.
With each word he spoke, each prayer that escaped his lips, the apparition grew weaker, dissolving into tendrils of smoke. In its final moments, the apparition let out a ghastly wail and vanished, leaving only silence.
Garren looked to where his brother’s shade had been, and for the briefest moment, he saw Alden, his face at peace, nodding in silent thanks. Then, like a whisper on the wind, his spirit was gone, finally free.
Garren knelt in the tomb’s eerie quiet, pressing his hand to his heart. “Torm, my thanks for the strength you granted me. May Alden’s soul now rest, and may I be worthy of your guidance always.”
With a heavy heart, Garren rose and made his way out of the tomb, feeling the weight of his duty fulfilled yet knowing that his path, as a servant of Torm, was far from over.
Apparitions come to us from the original Fiend Folio published in 1981. They are one of those monsters that feel like a Dungeon Master's mean prank—designed to weaponize a player's assumptions and land their characters in serious trouble if they underestimate what they’re dealing with. This mischievous, sometimes deadly trickery is a hallmark of classic creatures from the Fiend Folio, like the infamous Disenchanter or the Nilbog.
An apparition is a spectral form of undead that comes into existence primarily as the result of a curse, binding its soul to the Ethereal Plane in an unending loop of terror and rage. It takes on the appearance of a skeletal figure cloaked in decaying, filthy bandages, existing in a semi-solid form only when attacking, but otherwise appearing airy and insubstantial. Apparitions are notable for being able to cross from the Ethereal Plane to the Prime Material Plane frequently, requiring only a momentary lapse in reality to phase between planes.
The nature of the apparition's torment is a psychic agony, locking the undead spirit into a fractured and relentless pattern of behavior that drives it to lash out with murderous rage at any living beings it encounters. The apparition exists in a twisted mindset, wherein it blames the living for its plight. This compulsion to strangle its victims, though, does nothing to relieve its suffering or lift its curse. It merely acts out of a blind rage, strangling the living in a futile attempt to alleviate the endless torment it feels.
When crossing over into the Material Plane, apparitions appear from within solid, non-living structures—whether walls, floors, or furniture—catching intruders off guard with frightening ease. This ambush quality imposes disadvantage on the surprise rolls of any creature within reach, as the apparition seems to materialize from within the structure itself. Moreover, an apparition can sense any creature with an Intelligence score of 5 or greater within a range of 100 feet, making it especially dangerous in confined spaces or structures filled with unaware victims.
What makes the apparition particularly dreadful is its method of attack. It does not engage in direct physical combat; rather, it employs a potent, supernatural form of suggestion to instill a horrific illusion that convinces its victim they are being strangled by spectral hands. There is no need for the apparition to touch the victim directly. Instead, the target must succeed in an Intelligence check, with disadvantage, to disbelieve the attack. Failure results in the victim experiencing a fear effect, fleeing as if under a fear spell for 1-4 rounds, and becoming susceptible to another attempt if the apparition attacks again. However, if this roll fails entirely, the victim may be “scared to death,” suffering an immediate, fatal heart attack. If a remove fear spell is not applied within the same round, the victim's death is final. For the slain, unless returned to life within 24 hours, there is a high likelihood (80%) that they will rise as an apparition 2-8 hours later, continuing the grim cycle.
An apparition’s drive to propagate its curse is an ingrained part of its undead nature. When it kills, it imparts a similar curse upon its victim, and those who perish without proper rites or purification are at risk of becoming apparitions themselves. Apparitions left to linger on the Material Plane without proper rites will often fixate on familiar souls or former companions, seeking them out to share in the torment that bound their own spirit to undeath. They don’t attack out of memory but rather through an instinctual drive to continue their curse, homing in on the living who they feel must suffer the same fate.
Apparitions have no need for sustenance, companionship, or dwellings, as they do not eat, drink, or sleep. A newly formed apparition may remain near the creature that originally created it, adjusting to its newly damned state before ultimately wandering off to pursue its own path of destruction.
In combat, they are a formidable opponent. Apparitions on the Material Plane can only be attacked while in their semi-solid state during an active attack, and only silver or magical weapons can affect them. On the Ethereal Plane, they can be confronted normally, although they possess an Armor Class of 5, adding to their resilience. Clerics can attempt to turn apparitions, but this task is difficult, and the apparition’s ethereal nature makes it a challenging foe to banish from any realm permanently.
Apparitions will reform in the Ethereal Plane 5-8 days after being struck down on the Material Plane unless destroyed in their native realm. Driven by the torment that curses them, they will seek out those who survived their attacks, drawn by the relentless compulsion to spread their fate. Only when an apparition is permanently destroyed in the Ethereal Plane does it find a release from its curse.
In Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, the apparition’s converted stats preserve much of its unnerving abilities. This horrific undead maintains its ethereal nature, possessing resistance to non-magical attacks and an unsettling suggestion ability that can paralyze and eventually kill by sheer fear. The apparition’s Horrific Suggestion compels its target to believe they are being strangled by ghostly hands, inciting terror, paralysis, and even death if not stopped. Once slain, the victim has a 50% chance of rising as an apparition themselves unless laid to rest by a blessing such as gentle repose or protection from evil and good.
In every way, the apparition embodies a terrible fate—one of restless vengeance, unending torment, and unquenchable hatred for the living. It stands as one of the most effective reminders in the game that undeath is often a fate far worse than death itself, a curse that breeds only more suffering, perpetuating itself through fear, pain, and endless horror.
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