The ABC's of DND: E is for...

Previously I spoke about ancient horrors lurking beneath the waves, but not every memorable monster has to be a world-ending aberration with enough psychic power to make even your squishy wizard cry. Sometimes the best monsters are the ones that catch your players completely off guard. They look harmless. They sound harmless. And then, before anyone has realised what is happening, the party has somehow found itself in a situation that has spiralled gloriously out of control.

Because let’s be honest, aren’t all DM’s secretly hoping for that ‘oh fuck’ moment? The sound of people scrambling to check their spell sheet? The silence that precedes the moment of panic as the party finally realise just what sort of danger they have really got themselves into? With that in mind, I would like to introduce one of my favourite lesser-known creatures. Small in stature, endlessly mischievous, and capable of turning an ordinary encounter into an unforgettable session. But first, let us set the scene. Your party has spent days crossing an ancient woodland. Supplies are beginning to run low, tempers are wearing thin, and the ranger insists they are absolutely not lost despite walking past the same suspiciously shaped tree three times already. Eventually, just as morale begins to falter, the forest opens into a tranquil clearing. Crystal water bubbles from a spring. Wildflowers sway gently in the breeze. Tiny mushrooms dot the forest floor. And for a moment the party breathes a sigh of relief. They found whatever it was that perception check was for. Then somewhere in the bushes up ahead, you hear laughter. Not the laughter of children. It’s somehow more guttural, although still filled with mirth. At first you see only movement. Small shapes darting between roots and leaves. Then one steps into view. No taller than a halfling child, with enormous eyes, exaggerated features and a grin far too wide to inspire confidence. It bows theatrically before introducing itself with impossible politeness, the quills on it’s back shaking with glee every time it moves. “Greetings wanders, have you come to join the game?” The bard smiles. The rogue reaches for their coin pouch, just to make sure it is still there. The barbarian, somehow sensing danger despite possessing an Intelligence score usually reserved for livestock, quietly mutters that they should leave. Minutes later the party's weapons have mysteriously disappeared. The horses have wandered off wearing flower crowns. The wizard is somehow convinced he agreed to swap his spellbook for an acorn. Nobody can remember exactly how any of this happened. Hidden among the trees, dozens more tiny faces are watching. The Dungeon Master smiles. Because your players have just wandered into the territory of an Enkki. Now, if you've never encountered an Enkki before, you're missing out on one of the most entertaining tools a Dungeon Master can have. The cute factor. Appearing like anthropomorphic hedgehogs, these tiny Fey embody everything that makes the Feywild such an unpredictable place. But a wayward portal or an accidental thinning of the vield between realms means they can appear almost anywhere. Enkki aren't evil in the traditional sense. In fact, most of the time they don't even see themselves as villains. They're simply curious and mortals merely endlessly fascinating toys. Unlike goblins, who generally solve problems by stabbing them, or devils, who rely on contracts and manipulation, Enkki delight in confusion for its own sake. The are chaos wrapped in prickly fluff. They'll hide equipment, imitate voices, redirect travellers onto completely different roads and create elaborate practical jokes that might last for days before the punchline is finally revealed. The important thing is that everything they do feels intentional. There is always a plan. Even if nobody else can work out what it is. That alone makes them wonderful roleplaying encounters, and as a DM gives you a chance to dig into your repertoire of silly voices and really lean into the energy of ‘I know you are but what am I?’ should you begin to flounder for a response. Far too often monsters become little more than bags of hit points standing between the players and their next level. Enkki refuse to play by those rules. They encourage conversation before combat. Negotiation before initiative. Your players will spend the entire interaction trying to determine whether these strange little creatures are allies, enemies or simply entertaining themselves at everyone else's expense. The answer, of course, is usually yes. One of my favourite things about Enkki is how easily they fit into almost any campaign. Travelling through an enchanted forest? Enkki. Exploring forgotten Fey crossings? Enkki. Investigating why an entire village has started speaking backwards every Tuesday? Surprisingly, still Enkki. They're the perfect explanation for bizarre local legends. Missing livestock. Strange lights in the woods. Entire campsites mysteriously rearranged overnight. Unlike many monsters whose presence immediately signals combat, Enkki create a story first and battles second. If combat does break out, they're hardly straightforward opponents either. Rather than standing toe-to-toe trading blows, they use illusion, trickery and clever positioning to frustrate the party. They force players to think differently. They force the DM to think differently. The fighter can't simply swing at every problem if the enemy has already convinced him his sword is a particularly attractive tree branch. The DM is going to have to stretch their improvisation skills to see if they can twist the party up in the mischief. Perhaps the greatest strength of the Enkki, however, lies in what they tell your players about your world. A campaign setting feels alive when not every creature exists purely to kill adventurers. Some creatures have their own goals, their own customs and most importantly, their own bizarre sense of humour. An encounter with Enkki reminds players that the Fey are fundamentally alien. Their morality and logic isn't human. Sometimes they'll save a traveller from certain death simply because they found his singing amusing. Other times they'll curse an entire merchant caravan because somebody forgot to say "thank you." Predictability dies the moment they enter the story. As a Dungeon Master, that unpredictability is priceless. Players remember the dragon they defeated. But they never forget the tiny woodland creature that somehow convinced the paladin to challenge a squirrel to single combat. Even more so if the squirrel somehow goes on to win and steal his holy symbol. So the next time you're planning a journey through ancient forests or the twisting paths of the Feywild, resist the temptation to fill every clearing with wolves or bandits. Instead, let the laughter echo through the trees. Let your players believe they've found somewhere safe. Then introduce them to an Enkki. Because the best encounters aren't always the deadliest. Sometimes they're simply the ones your players spend years laughing about afterwards.