Pink and purple skin pulsates in patterns. Large eyes leer in loops, full figure eights. Unblinking eye contact draws the victim in. A timid touch taints and tattoos the skin.
Long limp limbs lunge into lobes. Tendrils turn and twist memories, splicing and sculpting. Memories melted and munched down. The skull left empty, a hollow gourd. Small scuttling soles slap softly upon the slate stone. The trembling tentacles trail behind.
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A small speck kept within the purest distilled dark found within the deepest or dungeons. Behind hundreds of closed doors, legions of locks and tribes of traps it is a creature never to see the light. The lands deepest, darkest horror. Any word spoken of it is met with swift justice, anyone who searches for it is hunted down and hung. It must never be found and unleashed. It grows upon light and substance, it swallows all and becomes more of itself. A folding black being that swallows all.
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The lands beating saline soul bursting with salt. In the deepest recesses, in the dank dark dungeons and within the wooden forest of woe it can be found. Ancient, old ancestors salt. Every part a living, breathing and growing section of the ancient evils that trod through the land. Towering titans of terrible tribulations, awful alien beings that brought the end of destruction. Pregnant with potential magical powers the gods blood or Solenkrov is highly sought out.
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Long spent in Saltheim's shadow, an order of old women. Ancient words and wisdom spanning from decadent decades of the spawning of stars. Behind the hulking dreadful doors are rites and rituals only passed on from prospective sorceress to potential witch. All magic comes through and after them.
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Templar trios tread throughout the land. Corundum covered oil stained steel weapons at the ready, towering titans one and all. The sacred strike force stomp into the lands of evil, they eviscerate and eradicate with a holy fervor found within the purest or most zealous of all.
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The collective group gather around the table, all leaders or lords of varying factions or folds. From the king of thieves to the trade merchant god. Assassins, miners and alchemists the leaders of each domain group together and form the land as they see fit.
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Padded paws pounce down on unsuspecting prey. A long rumbling purr predicts the on coming storm. A flurry of feline fur flairs up into a towering tornado. Everyone stops dead still, any movement a death sentence. The heated breath washes over in fish smelling waves. The tangerine coloured beast roars its victory.
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Far beneath the land of Saltheim, deep within the dark dusty mountains it sleeps. Far below in places that even ancient evils dare not tread. The old man of the mountain snores, his once bright red scales old and tarnished, his eyes a milky white. Atop his kingdom of gold he waits for those that can bring his youth back.
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Everything goes under the pin, rolled and flattened. Every mote of life is transformed under her watchful thousand eyes. Her ginger bread arms extend out reaching for all within range. Everything that goes into the oven comes out changed and twisted.
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It sits within the wall sconce and silently waits, its patience is infinite. As a party creeps down the darkened passages, it watches. As they move under it the Light Keeper flares to life catching all by surprise. The dungeons warning system, the Light Keeper.
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The night forest a cacophony of noises. Everything equally stirs within the never ending pine trees. An evil presence constantly stirs up everything around. A single silent predator slinks from shadow to shadow. The literal living lack of noise hunts through the trees. A giant humanoid body heavy with long quills and a pair of shimmering eyes.
