Every dead palm gets felled. This one is still standing, and it rattles when the air is still.
Fire is what the Shroud runs on. Bring some to this thing and you are feeding it, not fighting it.
The cellar's been quiet for years. That should have been the warning, not the comfort.
The prettiest flowers in the Weald don't need water -- just someone close enough to grab.
“You swear it’s watching you… right up until it bursts and you realize the eye was only there to make you stare.”
“Breathe, little storms of flesh. The rot remembers you… and I remember the rot.”
Deep in the lightless heart of the Mangrove Marshlands, something stirs beneath the thick green water.