From the world of the City, here are five wielders of magic to challenge any party of adventurers:
The Algophilist: He’s older than current civilization, and he wants to make you hurt. His mistress is a goddess of pain, dead since the sinking of Meropis. Every tear evoked by her devoted servant, every scream and anguished cry he draws forth from his victims, brings his goddess incrementally closer to raising. Having learned (and suffered) at his goddess’ several hands for seven times seven years, the Algophilist knows numerous and varied ways to get his sacrifices. He can be met anywhere where the shadows make it easier for him to find victims, but he’s discovered a “backdoor” in and out of the alien city that overlaps with Hoborxen and often strikes from there, taking whoever mets his fancy to his sadist’s dungeon demiplane.
Hieronymus Gaunt: Lich and bon vivant (bon mourant?) currently on a world tour of debauchery and mayhem with a gang of followers in a stolen elephant-shaped hotel. In addition to his own sorcery, he's got a store of stolen magic items from all over the world.
Cheroot: Croaker (medicine man) and mugwump of a large hobogoblin tribe in the Steel League. He holds court in a large dump outside of Sunderland where he nightly incites the ‘goblins to ever greater crimes against humans. He wears a worn tophat which has the power to animate anything it is set upon (as long as it stays on it)--and Cheroot can command the animate to his service. The trash heap where he makes his throne is actually a garbage golem which will rise and fight for the shaman if needed.
Tsan Chan: Yianese nobleman, and leader of the Five-Headed Dragon Society crime cult. He rules from the shadows of San Tiburon’s Yiantown, commanding hundreds of axe-weilding soldier-fanatics willing to die at his command. For those who have particularly earned his displeasure, he sends his pet shadow dragon, who swims silently out of the night and drains foes of their very life.
The Unpleasant Woman in the Basement: What she lacks in looks, she doubly lacks in personality. She squats like a gigantic toad amid the packages, correspondence, and pneumatic tubes in the basement mailroom of a midtown office building in the City. She's been there for fifty years and three building owners. Those who displease her die in bizarre accidents or by suicide. Nightgaunts fly at her whim. Scorpions will grow from her shed blood.
2 hours ago