Sometimes you need a silly, mostly unthreatening monster. Because sometimes the right flavor is the most important thing. It’s October now, autumn in this part of the northern hemisphere, and the season for apple cider, hayrides, and leering jack o’ lanterns.
Some nefarious creature isn’t satisfied with simply smashing porch decorations. No, no. It’s setting them free!
Senses blindsight 30 ft. (blind beyond this radius), passive Perception 12
Languages understands Common but can’t speak
Challenge 0 (10 XP) Proficiency Bonus +2
Actions
Chomp.Melee Weapon Attack: +2 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 2 (1d4) piercing damage.
It’s an ambulatory jack o’ lantern. Presumably rolls about at random, chomps on the leg of anyone foolish enough to stand still, then gets stomped into oblivion.
Reflavor that piercing damage as you see fit for any specific pumpkin. Honestly, no reason any decent adventurer should take damage from one of these.
In the far ancient ages, before the rise of humans, before the elven empires, before the dragons and giants fought for control of the world, the Ur-Dragons shaped creation. Among them, the Great Lindwyrm slithered through the boreal forests, craggy fjords, and windswept, icy lands of the far north. Godlike in power, she has retired from this world, but her children remain as protectors of the wild and ancient places.
Serpentine, yet multi-legged, the Ravenfeather Lindwyrm is unmistakable with glistening black plumage and a pair of beaked heads. Few tread in the ancient and lost wildernesses where these dragons make their home, and the Lindwyrm’s secretive nature means that they are typically undiscovered unless they wish to be. Sages and explorers who eventually seek out a Lindwyrm keep such knowledge well-hidden, as the arcane secrets the ancient dragon knows are only given to those they deem trustworthy.
The lair of a Ravenfeather Lindwyrm is often an ancient place of knowledge, such as a long-forgotten library or a fallen cathedral to an ancient god. Unlike most of their draconic kin, they place little value in a physical hoard, instead seeking out deep secrets of the arcane, and will often seek out a new lair once the knowledge of the current one has been exhausted. To gain an audience with the Lindwyrm, to ask them to speak forth on topics forgotten by the great empires of the world, one must make an offering.
Some spend years diving deep within the dusty libraries of the greatest cities, finding the rare nuggets of lore even the Lindwyrm has yet to uncover. Others hunt down rare individuals with singular experiences, from seasoned adventurers who have returned from distant planes of existence to powerful liches who have pushed beyond the veil of death, in hopes that their tales, their writings, might be deemed valuable. Some travel distant lands, collecting potent and unique items of great magical power, that the Lindwyrm might be willing to reveal its secrets as it communes with powerful entities beyond this world.
Ravenfeather Lindwyrm
Large Dragon, True Neutral
Armor Class 18 (natural armor)
Hit Points 157 (15d10 + 75)
Speed 40 ft., fly 80 ft.
STR DEX CON INT WIS CHA
21(+5) 12(+1) 20(+5) 18(+4) 15(+2) 17(+3)
Saving Throws Dex +5, Wis +6
Skills Arcana +8, History +8, Perception +6, Stealth +5
Languages Common, Draconic, plus four other languages
Challenge 10 (5,900 XP) Proficiency Bonus +4
Limited Flight. The Lindwyrm can fly using its movement, but must land at the end of its turn or fall.
Two Heads. The Lindwyrm has advantage on Wisdom (Perception) checks and on saving throws against being blinded, charmed, deafened, frightened, stunned, and knocked unconscious.
Wakeful. When one of the Lindwyrm’s heads is asleep, its other head is awake.
Actions
Multiattack. The Lindwyrm makes two melee attacks.
Bite.Melee Weapon Attack: +9 to hit, reach 10 ft., one target. Hit: 14 (2d8 + 5) piercing damage plus 7 (2d6) poison damage.
Tail.Melee Weapon Attack: +9 to hit, reach 15 ft., one target. Hit: 18 (2d12 + 5) bludgeoning damage, and the target must succeed on a DC 17 Strength saving throw or be knocked prone.
Breath Weapons (Recharge 5–6). The Lindwyrm uses one of the following breath weapons.
Petrifying Breath. The Lindwyrm exhales petrifying gas in a 30-foot cone. Each creature in that area must succeed on a DC 17 Constitution saving throw. On a failed save, a target begins to turn to stone and is restrained. The restrained target must repeat the saving throw at the end of its next turn. On a success, the effect ends on the target. On a failure, the target is petrified until freed by the greater restoration spell or other magic.
Pacifying Breath. The dragon exhales a sedative gas in a 30-foot cone. Each creature in that area must succeed on a DC 17 Wisdom saving throw or be charmed for 1 minute. While charmed, the creature steadfastly opposes violence in all its forms. A creature can repeat the saving throw at the end of each of its turns, ending the effect on itself on a success. If the Lindwyrm harms the creature in any way, the effect ends immediately.
Innate Spellcasting. The Lindwyrm casts one of the following spells, requiring no material components and using Intelligence as the spellcasting ability (spell save DC 16):
1/day each: divination, greater restoration, legend lore, suggestion, zone of truth
Bonus Actions
Animate Guardian. The Lindwyrm magically animates a petrified creature it can see within 60 feet, using the Stone Guardian stat block. The creature follows the Lindwyrm’s commands for 1 minute, after which it reverts to its petrified state. The Lindwyrm may have up to 3 guardians animated at any time.
A Ravenfeather Lindwyrm has specific goals, and combat rarely helps it achieve those, excepting self-preservation in the face of aggression. They are highly intelligent, with access to the kind of secrets adventurers want and need, and have the sort of Wisdom and Charisma to know how to steer a situation to their benefit with careful negotiation.
Okay, so you’re itching for a fight. Your gang of dragon hunters is out to kill at least one of every type, because the taxidermied decorations in their hunting lodge just won’t be complete otherwise. What’s a cornered Lindwyrm to do? Because if it has any option to escape, it’s going to do so. Its greatest treasure is its own vast store of knowledge, giving it no reason to fight to the death.
Regardless of fight or flight, the Lindwyrm’s highly likely to animate one or more of the “statues” in the vicinity. Defenders, distractions, whatever’s most useful. (Presumably the Lindwyrm animates these constructs to handle tedious tasks around the house. They’re also smart enough to know that re-posing them into statue-like poses is essential to maintaining lair secrecy. Very few sculptors specialize in poses and looks of panicked terror.)
Like most dragons with a breath weapon, a Lindwyrm will typically use that as the priority attack, moving to get as many targets within the cone of effect as possible. They’re sharp enough to know who’s likely to succeed on their saving throws, so beefy brutes get the Pacifying treatments, while skulking rogues and spellcasters become the new generation of lair decoration. If the aggressors are persistent, animating one of the party to attack allies is a serious statement. Make sure the party has defeated and smashed one such Stone Guardian already, so the threat of irreversible death is apparent. Most of the spell list is tailored to non-combat situations, though suggestion is remarkably useful for encouraging one particular nuisance opponent to take an eight-hour hike.
If it comes down to melee, the preferred combination is a Tail attack followed by a Bite, assuming the target is in range of both. The potential for advantage against a prone opponent is key. Tail attacks can also be useful for keeping approaching attackers out of reach, as the Lindwyrm’s movement exceeds all but the fastest characters. Prolonging combat is in their best interest, enabling them to resolve the conflict without irreversible harm.
Languages understands the languages of its creator but can’t speak
Challenge 2 (450 XP) Proficiency Bonus +2
Brittle. When reduced to 0 hit points, the Stone Guardian crumbles into a pile of rubble.
Actions
Slam. Melee Weapon Attack: +3 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 10 (2d8 + 1) bludgeoning damage.
Short version: a Stone Guardian does exactly as ordered by its creator. It’s unsubtle, approaching directly and attacking, grappling, blocking, whatever. Lacking any orders, it stands idly by until de-animated.
Second entry in the Lindwyrm family, once more a creature which can go toe-to-toe with a group of seasoned adventurers but is disinclined to. A quest-giver instead of the great monster in the dungeon’s depths.
Mastering the secrets of metallurgy, mechabiology, and magiconversion, the Conclave of Artificers in the mobile desert city of Barrath-Mur have learned to synthesize life-like behavior from clockwork machines without having to resort to the questionable moral quagmire that is divinely animated golems.
Not that the Conclave of Artificers have concerns about moral quagmires, you see. It’s simply that they dread the frustratingly complex bargains necessary when dealing with deities, devils, and their ilk.
Among the myriad forms of their constructs, one of the favored is the Walking Eye, a four-legged harvestman* of great size. Its spherical body casually deflects attacks, and its unwavering red eye sees and remembers everything. The original specifications called for “a camera, iris-mounted lasers, monkey-proof welding, and silent stealth design that makes it perfect for reconnaissance applications.” All of which it has in spades.
Multiple variations of the Walking Eye exist, of course, each tailored for a bespoke purpose. Among them all, however, they share a common trait: an innate distrust of monkeys, learned from their creators. What terrible ill befell the Conclave in ancient times, when Barrath-Mur strode through the long-vanished jungles buried beneath the sands, they do not say. And their creations never speak.
Languages understands the languages of its creator but can’t speak in a way that makes sense to anyone else
Challenge 6 (2,300 XP) Proficiency Bonus +3
Height Advantage. The Walking Eye’s impressive size confers disadvantage on all melee attacks from the ground by creatures of Medium size or smaller. Any creature which successfully climbs onto the Walking Eye (see “Climb onto a Bigger Creature,” DMG p. 271) gains advantage on all melee attacks.
Internal Camera. The Walking Eye can recall everything it has seen flawlessly, and can impart that knowledge to its creator.
Actions
Multiattack. The Walking Eye makes two melee or two ranged attacks.
Chainsaw Arm.Melee Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 21 (4d8 + 3) slashing damage.
Blowtorch.Melee Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 22 (4d10) fire damage.
Iris-Mounted Lasers.Ranged Spell Attack: +6 to hit, range 60/240 ft., one target. Hit: 21 (6d6) radiant damage.
Reactions
Frantic Shake. If a creature has successfully climbed on top of the Walking Eye, it may use its reaction to attempt to dislodge its opponent (DMG p. 271).
As a manufactured construct, a Walking Eye does exactly what its creator instructs it to do. Chances are that one encountered away from its creator is on a reconnaissance mission, and that expertise in Stealth means they’ll watch, remember everything, then return with information. If the mission and the information are of primary concern, expect that construct to Dash away endlessly, fully immune to the exhaustion that pursuing players might succumb to.
Let’s say the party has come upon a dastardly artificer and their Walking Eye, and escape isn’t an option. Then it’s going to fight, attacking targets that it has been instructed to. Should it be left to its own discretion – always a questionable move with a 6 Intelligence machine armed with lasers – it will prefer melee combat to ranged attacks. At a distance, it attempts to soften up any belligerent adversaries with its Iris-Mounted Lasers, but closes the gap quickly. Up close, its Height Advantage acts like bonus armor, making it a more effective combatant.
And when that raging barbarian attempts to climb up and smash away, the Walking Eye immediately responds with its Frantic Shake. Make sure you describe the moments memorably!
Retreat is not an inherent behavior, and like most constructs it has no sense of self-preservation. Unless its orders specifically include a clause about not getting smashed to bits, it fights until there’s no fight left.
Walking Eyes: they all basically the same anyway. I had this written down yesterday.
* Daddy longlegs, among others. They do neat-o stuff when their legs pop off, biology-wise. Look it up!
My copy of Radiant Is the Blood of the Baboon Heart has arrived, and in honor of that most special of things – more Venture Brothers! – I’m taking a minor detour into super-science. Specifically, that pinnacle of design, the Walking Eye, first introduced in Fallen Arches from season two.
Hadrugar knew full well he could never defeat the tribe’s shaman and regain the standing he needed to succeed his mother as chief. His disgrace and downfall, orchestrated by Ngav’lik and his animistic magic, could not be overcome by brute force, not even by the ferocity of Hadrugar’s axe in his battle rage. Stubborn, insistent, and too trusting, the young Hadrugar had been outwitted by the druid. He could swear his mind had stumbled, just at the moment he needed to stand tall. Ngav’lik could call wild beasts forth from mist, could make the earth tremble, could draw great knowledge from the river spirits. Could he also bewitch the mind?
She would soon pass, Hadrugar knew. The sickness had defied all attempts at healing, and he could see that Ngav’lik pretended his powers were of no use. The shaman had healed many before, warriors from grave wounds and members of the council from foul diseases. Hadrugar knew he demanded a severe price. Perhaps the man was weak. Perhaps his mother would not pay.
It did not matter. He must kill the shaman and rescue the tribe. To follow such a man was a death sentence upon them all.
In secret, Hadrugar studied the strange runes, their helical and repetitive forms etched upon the tusks of great and ancient beasts. Words. Movements. Tones. A repetition, a series of cycles, an interwoven pattern of elements which could bring forth a life focused solely on death.
He made a monstrous thing, hidden far away from tribe’s lands. Bones of a great elk. The pelt of a bear which nearly took his life. The blood of a young boy, confused, cast away from the nomads who traversed these fetid swamps. Hadrugar told himself that the boy would have died anyway, an agonizing and long starvation. There was no shame in sacrifice to bring about the ruin of Ngav’lik.
For days on end, he studied, practiced. He slept little, ate little. The eventual ritual went from dawn to dawn, an exhausting and grueling devotion more wearing than any battle. Hadrugar set the thing adrift in the river, where it floated for a time. He stared, his body weakened, his mind burning, his vision a narrow tunnel. The thing twisted. A great arm rose and splashed into the water. Then another.
It swam onward, with purpose.
Tupilaq
Large Construct, Unaligned
Armor Class 14 (natural armor)
Hit Points 114 (12d10 + 48)
Speed 30 ft., swim 30 ft.
STR DEX CON INT WIS CHA
18(+4) 10(+0) 18(+4) 6(-2) 15(+2) 3(-4)
Damage Resistances cold, fire, necrotic; bludgeoning, piercing, and slashing from nonmagical attacks that aren’t adamantine
Languages understands the languages of its creator but can’t speak
Challenge 7 (2,900 XP) Proficiency Bonus +3
Magic Resistance. The Tupilaq has advantage on saving throws against spells and other magical effects.
Magic Weapons. The Tupilaq’s weapon attacks are magical.
Unusual Nature. The Tupilaq doesn’t require air, food, drink, or sleep.
Vengeful Tracker. The Tupilaq knows the distance to and direction of any creature against which it seeks revenge, even if the creature and the Tupilaq are on different planes of existence. If the creature being tracked by the Tupilaq dies, the Tupilaq knows.
Actions
Multiattack. The Tupilaq makes two Rend attacks.
Rend.Melee Weapon Attack: +7 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 17 (2d12 + 4) slashing damage. If the target is a Large or smaller creature, it must succeed on a DC 15 Strength saving throw or be knocked prone.
Fearsome Gaze. The Tupilaq targets one creature it can see within 60 feet of it. If the target can see the Tupilaq, it must succeed on a DC 15 Wisdom saving throw become frightened until the end of the Tupilaq’s next turn. If the target fails the saving throw by 5 or more, it is also paralyzed for the same duration.
Bonus Actions
Vicious Slash. Upon reducing a creature to 0 hit points, the Tupilaq may move up to half its speed and make one additional Rend attack.
Your average revenge-murder monster operates on a very strict set of instructions: find the target, then murder. A Tupilaq, absent any specific abilities to be subtle, secretive, or smart, is going to beeline for its intended victim and Rend away. It’s not smart enough to seek situational advantage, to assess the overall situation, or really do much else to vary its tactics.
It has Wisdom enough to know who around is a serious threat to it, and who’s causing trouble. Fearsome Gaze is useful to potentially paralyze its victim before a savage attack, but even better to deter allied defenders. Once it succeeds in killing its target, it ceases to be, so its only cares about removing obstacles. If that doesn’t work, Rend until the defender drops, and use the momentum of Vicious Slash to advance further.
Suffice to say, it’ll fight until destroyed. Its existence is built upon that. Those resistances and immunities? It doesn’t care. It has a job to do.
If a Tupilaq comes after a party member, they know they’ve made a big-time enemy. Should the intended victim be a local shaman or other important figure, well, there’s a serious mystery worth solving. Either way: there’s a story here, and someone’s likely to end up in a bad way. No reason to assume another Tupilaq won’t arrive, in the middle of the night, when resources are low and defenses are weak.
A murder monster, plain and simple. Toss one in when you need the party to play defense, weighing the costs of guarding their charge and going deep into the wilderness on offense. A CR 7 assassin can leave a lot of carnage in it wake.
What’s the functional difference between an “object” and a “construct” in 5e? Both might kill you, but only the latter does so with intent. A construct is also inherently magical, but your average D&D world is chock-full of magical objects. Especially from the player perspective.
True, there are also intelligent magic items, typically swords which compel their wielders to do even more killing than they’re already up to on an average day. And little animated robots made by artificers which move, shoot, and count as objects. So it’s a big ol’ fuzzy mess.
Remember: ambulatory fungus monsters fall into the “plant” category. Try not to overthink all of this.
We’re here to make a monster, a Frankensteinian horror. One with a purpose and a duty. I suppose there are academic artificers out there making little robots just for proof of concept, or biomancer wizards stitching together the remains of their enemies just to be a jerk about it. Always an exception in fantasyland. But if you’re going to go about building a magical servant, with all of the time and expense required, you’re going to have a goal in mind.
There’s a folk monster in various Inuit cultures, best known from Greenland, called the tupilaq*. It’s a creature assembled from bones and parts of animals and humans, animated through ritual, and sent off to kill a bitter enemy. Should that enemy have more powerful magic, they might even turn the tupilaq back to kill its creator.
It’s an opportunity to explore a little golem-adjacent territory, with an excuse to whip up a new spell to gift your ill-intentioned antagonists.
* When looking about for monster ideas, never underestimate a meander through your music library. I happened upon this from the song “Tupilak” by Russian Circles. Of course, if I keep it up too long we’re going to end up with something called a “Ceiling Granny,” and I may or may not apologize.
Marvels of mechanical intricacy and magical containment, clockworks are the culmination of centuries of incremental modifications to the ancient magics used to animate ordinary and extraordinary objects. They take many forms, the finer details determined by their creators, although many designed for interactions within the confines of civilization resemble humanoids in general form. The materials used depend on the artisans involved. Gleaming steel and bronze warriors charge into great conflict. Domestic servants to the wealthiest emperors may feature intricately carved wood with brass joints, clad in layers of fine silks.
Most clockworks are commissioned by the wealthy and powerful to undertake tasks considered unsuitable for ordinary humanoids. They are considered expensive, long-term investments intended to serve across generations, with enough adaptability to adapt or be adapted to evolving needs.
As enchanted constructions, clockworks often prove difficult to destroy completely. Many creators design their creations with modular details, permitting an ease of repair when reanimating a damaged clockwork. Rumors persist of rogue clockworks, animated by unorthodox sources, which have discovered means to modify and augment their own construction.
City Watch Clockworks
Clockworks intended to augment the city watch serve to apprehend criminals and undesirables with nonlethal force. Most operate alongside their handler, whose quick thinking and insight can direct the clockwork effectively. In the event of powerful resistance, an outmatched clockwork can telepathically summon reinforcements from across the city.
Antimagic Susceptibility. The clockwork is incapacitated while in the area of an antimagic field. If targeted by dispel magic, the clockwork must succeed on a Constitution saving throw against the caster’s spell save DC or fall unconscious for 1 minute.
Bound. The clockwork is magically bound to a watch dial talisman. As long as the clockwork and its talisman are on the same plane of existence, the talisman’s bearer can telepathically communicate with the clockwork.
Elemental Engine. The clockwork is powered by an elemental spirit. Any spell or magical effect which successfully banishes a creature to another plane forces out the elemental spirit, reducing the clockwork to an inanimate magical object. Magical effects which apply to elementals, such as protection from evil and good, affect the clockwork.
Magic Mouth. The clockwork cannot speak, but can repeat short messages stored by its talisman’s bearer, as if by the magic mouth spell. The clockwork may store up to three such messages.
Actions
Slam.Melee Weapon Attack: +4 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 5 (1d6 + 2) bludgeoning damage, and a Large or smaller creature is grappled (escape DC 14). The clockwork may not grapple more than two creatures at a time.
Sleep (3rd-level Spell; V, S; 3/day). The clockwork attempts to send creatures within a 20-foot radius of itself into a magical slumber. The spell can affect up to 40 (9d8) hit points of creatures. Creatures within range are affected in ascending order of their current hit points, ignoring unconscious creatures, constructs, undead, and creatures immune to being charmed.
Starting with the creature that has the lowest current hit points, each creature affected by this spell falls unconscious until the spell ends, the sleeper takes damage, or someone uses an action to shake or slap the sleeper awake. Subtract each creature’s hit points from the total before moving on to the creature with the next lowest hit points. A creature’s hit points must be equal to or less than the remaining total for that creature to be affected.
Reactions
Telepathic Klaxon (1/day). As a reaction to being struck by a critical hit or dropping to 0 hit points, the clockwork may emit a telepathic alarm to its talisman’s bearer and any city watch clockworks within 1 mile. The alarm is also sensed by any creature in that area with telepathy.
The tactics of a city watch clockwork depend greatly on the instructions given to it by its talisman bearer. A keen controller will use the clockwork’s strengths to disable its opponents, grappling those who pose the most serious threat and working to put as many threats to sleep before dealing with the few who remain.
The clockwork, left to its own devices, will target the most physically threatening opponents, equating size with strength and overall danger. It has Wisdom enough to distinguish friend from foe, and can reserve its uses of sleep for when none of its allies are in the area of effect. With no innate self-preservation instinct, it fights or otherwise pursues its assigned goals without pause.
If the clockwork’s talisman bearer is incapacitated or killed, the clockwork continues to follow its last instructions to the best of its ability.
So there it is: a magic robot with a defined – or at least definable – goal and the abilities to make it happen. Also a handful of ways to exploit its weaknesses. It’s a tool and only as useful as the one in control. (And totally possible for your players to wrest control of, for future adventures and hilarity.)
Next week: another entry in the archives of bad ideas!
We’ve established that our brand-new mechanical law enforcement team is less than brilliant. That they might benefit not only from thoughtful instruction, but from the opportunity to revise their programming as necessary. And unlike the mighty golem statues enchanted to guard the tomb of a high priest until the end of time, one creator in permanent control could be an awkward fit.
So, like the shield guardian but more budget-conscious, we have a magical token which can transfer control from one user to another. The creator-wizard is unlikely to desire day-to-day involvement in apprehending petty criminals, but this is an excellent revenue stream for funding one’s more esoteric research. Presumably less life-threatening than plumbing the depths of forgotten dungeons for gold, and less likely to raise the ire of long-lived, grudge-holding dragons.
The more I think on this construct – at this point dubbed the city watch clockwork – the more I imagine them as a powerful tool used in conjunction with ordinary, humanoid handlers when patrolling the city slums. Not bright or reliable enough to handle complex duties in a population center alone, but a significant deterrent when brought alongside regular folk. Gives an extra incentive for the city’s seedier elements to target handlers first, clockworks second, and that’s good for an emerging narrative.
Not for the poor handler, but at least they’re fictional?
Watch Dial Talisman
Wondrous item, uncommon (requires attunement)
Created as part of the process of building a city watch clockwork, a watch dial talisman is inextricably bound to the clockwork. The details of its appearance vary according to its creator’s whims, although most take the shape of a round amulet on a chain, with its inner workings a series of interlocking, endlessly ticking brass gears. If targeted by detect magic or a similar effect, the talisman emits and aura of enchantment.
A creature attuned to the talisman may communicate telepathically with its bound city watch clockwork as long as the two are on the same plane of existence. As a bonus action, the attuned bearer may assign the clockwork new instructions. If the talisman is destroyed, the elemental spirit powering the clockwork is banished to its native plane, and the clockwork becomes an inanimate object.
The talisman has AC 19, 15 hit points, and immunity to poison and psychic damage. If destroyed, a replacement amulet may be crafted with 5 days’ work, 500 gp in components, and a casting of the spell suggestion.
If the elemental spirit animating the clockwork has been banished, the attuned bearer may attempt to reanimate the clockwork. As an action, the bearer must touch the clockwork and succeed on a DC 15 Intelligence (Arcana) check, after which a casting of conjure elemental returns the clockwork to operation.
Most of the “classic” constructs are filling out the basement of the Dungeons & Dragons Intelligence hierarchy. True, there are exceptions, but your typical golem is about as bright as a trained puppy on a good day. They do exactly as told, to the letter, without appreciation for nuance or subtlety. (Okay, not like a puppy.) Once set into motion, they proceed with the program until the next key trigger says to stop. They do not, by their nature, think for themselves in any meaningful way.
Stand guard at the dungeon door; pummel any intruders into adventurer paste; when the intruders all stop moving, return to standing guard at the dungeon door. Effective, if unsophisticated.
Of the three mental stats, a construct’s effectiveness for understanding and implementing orders depends on Intelligence and Wisdom. Charisma, not so much. There’s a little bit of construct-specific weirdness, as they’re made from and compelled by magical power, so the raw stat numbers here might be interpreted differently for living, evolved creatures.
Intelligence | Information recall and analysis are at the core of Intelligence, evolved or not. At the bottom of the scale, 1, there isn’t much to work with. Without any evolved instinct, you’ve got a wind-up toy. This is what you get when animating a broom to sweep the floor for you. 2 is the level for most beasts, but most constructs get one advantage over your average squirrel: they understand one or more languages by default. At this point, your magic robot can reasonably understand a simple, direct sentence. “Fetch the green ball.” It’s not a lot to work with.
By Intelligence 3, we’re up to dog level, without the language barrier. I’d permit my golem to follow instructions consisting of two simple parts. Whatever your equivalent of “fetch the green ball and deliver it to person X” is with an animated stone statue. It gets better, step by step. Intelligence 4 might include the option of an if/then decision point; by 5 you can reliably give more complicated instructions of several elements, provided your language is crystal clear and unambiguous. Debugging instructions in the real world could have undesirable consequences. Proceed with caution.
Getting up to Intelligence 6+ has you in D&D ape territory, and sophisticated enough to be outside the automaton category. If you’re building constructs to this standard or higher, they’re probably powered by binding intelligent spirits, and – a little side advice to the wizard planning this – turning extraplanar fiends into magic batteries never ends well. Good idea to build a campaign around; bad idea otherwise.
For our constructed constable, I think we’re boosting Intelligence to 5. Smart enough to follow instructions, mostly, with room for misinterpretation and error.
Wisdom | For evolved creatures, Wisdom includes important abilities related to perceiving the world around them, the intensity of their self-preservation instinct, and for parsing issues of ethics and/or morality for those to whom those might apply. The only overlap with constructs is for general perception and its corollary, target discrimination. Constructs have no self-preservation instinct, unless its part of their specific instruction, which you, magic-robot-builder wizard, might want to think about in your cost/benefit analysis.
Rock-bottom Wisdom, below 8, likely means your construct will target the nearest perceived enemy, and mistakes and/or collateral damage are possible. Like the magical bonus of understanding language despite the Intelligence level, your construct can distinguish its creator/controller regardless of its Wisdom, and possibly a subset of non-targets based on its Intelligence. By a Wisdom score of 10, it can distinguish friend from foe, mostly, but doesn’t have much sophistication in target selection. Bad guys in view? Punch the nearest one. Increases from here are useful in prioritizing targets.
In our case, a little bump in Wisdom helps our mecha-cop distinguish a crook from a bystander, or roughly estimate the most dangerous opponent based on physical appearance. Let’s say 12, above average but not overwhelming.
We will, of course, need a means of providing instructions to our new invention. A magic item connected to the construct offers a means of updating its instructions, can be transferred between users, and most importantly, can be stolen by third parties with any sort of potential motive. Can’t have a well-intentioned automaton without a few weak spots, right?
In a world fueled by magic, I imagine that some would make an argument that law enforcement is too important to leave to ordinary folk. Too dangerous. Too rife with opportunities for bias, for corruption, for human(oid) error.
I imagine a wizard who makes this argument to the lord or council or other governing body of a major city. A fairly smart fellow who thinks they’re really smart; an idea that requires high Intelligence and dismal Wisdom; a just-persuasive enough argument to loosen the purse strings. Pretty soon there’ll be robo-constables patrolling the streets at all hours of the day and night.
Of course, any mechano-man has all of the built-in biases and flaws of its creator, and wizards with brilliant ideas are the same folk who end up pursuing lichdom as a research strategy. But sink in all that gold from the treasury, magically compel those gleaming sentinels to focus their efforts on “cleaning up the streets” or some such, and they’re not going to get yanked from service with any expediency. Play up your successes on the law-and-order front, brush off any accusations of improper whatever, and remember that you were born into this life of nobility and wealth, and you’ll never have to campaign for popular support to keep your office.
Constructs tend toward tanky murder machines, hard to hit and sometimes hard to even damage. In some respects, that makes good sense. Building a magic robot takes a lot of time and resources – the Dungeon Master’s Guide suggests an outlay of 50,000 gp for a Frankenstein’s monster-type flesh golem, in addition to possessing and expending a very rare magic item – and you can’t have every wannabe adventurer breaking your expensive toys. That said, the city watch has some very compelling reasons to resolve situations with alternatives to deadly force. Especially if there’s potential for collateral damage.
This week’s goal: a mechanical city watch, capable of pursuing and apprehending criminals, focused on capture and control more than dealing raw damage. Tough enough to take a beating, but… affordably. Something around CR 1 or 2, enough to give pause to ordinary troublemakers, or even to seasoned adventurers in a group. An exploitable flaw or two – possibly in their construction, possibly in their programmed behavior – to reward those who’ve planned ahead.
52 Monsters 
