I have a small palm-sized brown notebook. When I was bored at work I would take it out and try to make a monster for LOTFP.
Because the pages were so small I could only fit in a few sentences of description. This was a good thing. You have to understand what the thing is and work out what it does from a few lines. That means if they turn up in a game it all gets created very quickly in your head. That means less time for your conscious mind to dick around worrying about a Necromancers exact methods or the fucking Shadowfell or whatever.
It was those guys in Jason and the Argonauts, done by Ray Harryhausen.
They really seemed to enjoy being skeletons, and they were clearly pricks. So it makes sense that the people who end up becoming Skeletons are exactly the kind of shitbag that would actually enjoy it.
You knew these people at school, never saw them since. Eventually they have to get old and die, right? Did you think they wouldn't jump at the chance to mess you around again?
Why do they have Roses in their eyes? I don't know, assumed I would find out during play.
XP - 25
AC - 12
Hit Dice - 1
Move - Human
Attacks - 1
Damage – d6
Morale - 7
Roses are their eyes, and leafy vines throng in their ribs.
The petty, vindictive minds of small-souled killers squat in these innocent bone like toads. They will miss no chance to do harm of any kind, no matter how small. They fear above all things, an innocent soul, which to them, burns like a pillar of flame. This they will flee, or try to kill from a distance.
Miss in melee with an edged weapon? Then pass a strength test or your blade is snatched out of your hand, caught in its ribcage or arm!
Zombies look sad. It doesn't scare you in the short term because you have other things to worry about, but over the days and weeks and months, the most powerful emotion has to be sadness, and despair.
It's worse when their wearing clothes becasue you know they're people.
The Sorrowful Dead
XP - 25
AC - 9
Hit Dice - 2
Move - 1/2 Human
Attacks - 1
Damage – 1d4
Morale - na
Those who die can be prevented from passing on. They do not fully understand what they are. Weeping and speechless they wander the paths of a forgotten memory. Life wounds them. To the dead, a bed of flowers is like a cacophony of bells and a living man is an orchestra in a rage of sound. Slowly, weeping and silently crying, they will try to squeeze life from out of the world.