Rom

All rom are male: 17-foot giants of human proportion with thin bone-white hair, ashen skin, sunken glassy eyes, and long curling nails. Their deep voices are sorrowful, and every one is a fine poet, singer, and musician. A rom's sack holds 1d12 throwing stones, some treasure, and 1d8 keepsakes, usually including a flute; its real wealth stays in the cairn. They speak their own language and those of desert and jungle giants, and 75% know Common.

Retaining Strength 20, a rom strikes for 1d10+8 damage plus a chilling drain of 1d4 Strength; anyone pushed below 0 Strength dies. Each day of rest restores 1 lost point. A fear aura spreads 30 feet around it: beings under 2 Hit Dice flee without a save, and others who fail a save vs. spell suffer -2 on attacks and damage and a 2-point Armor Class penalty. It hurls stones at retreating foes or besiegers, up to 300 yards for 2d12. Only +2 or better weapons harm it; enchantment/charm and cold spells fail, it shares the usual undead immunity to poison and paralysis, and it is turned as special.

They are thought to be the last of a gentle race who herded giant cattle on the plains and hills. When their wives bore only sons, the clans raged at Fate, raised cairns of granite slabs, and entombed themselves alive, and their grief and fury carried them past death. The cairns repel animals and insects and leave nearby plants stunted and colorless. Silent by day, they ring with wailing at night. Visitors who knock politely after dark and humbly beg shelter may be welcomed; anyone forcing entry by day or barging in at night faces the 1d8 rom within, and their bodies are flung outside as a warning.

No longer part of the living world, the rom leave their tombs only to punish discourtesy. A daring bard who visits briefly may be inspired to compose a great tragic song or epic that, performed at night, works like pipes of haunting, but the effort is so draining it can be attempted only once a week.