Root is a Malnourished Spriggin with nearly Dried withered Bark like flesh completely wrap up in almost dried up Vines covered in thrones and bloomed Blood Red Flowers Each one seem to flow a deep shade of red.

Root's birth was a tragic twist of fate. Spriggins, beings of the forest, are generally protectors—nurtured by sunlight, rain, and the life-rich soil. But Root’s story began differently: a battlefield scarred with death, soaked in resentment, became his cradle. No trees, no animals, no joyful whispers of Fey creatures surrounded his sprouting. Instead, it was the blood of the fallen, hatred thick in the air, and the life essence seeping from lifeless bodies that nourished his roots.

As he grew, Root’s form reflected the bitterness of his environment—a small, twisted Spriggin with crimson-stained bark and an aura of hostility. Unlike his kin, Root didn’t know compassion or the gentle duty to protect; his days were spent consuming the remains of soldiers who had fallen, their lingering emotions merging with his essence.

One day, a human druid found his way to the barren field. Perhaps the druid, with his kind heart and reverence for all life, thought he could nurture Root, offer him a bond and a purpose beyond the horrors he’d emerged from. But to Root, this hand of friendship was something else entirely: an offering. Root saw the druid’s living energy as sustenance, far richer than the cold remnants of the dead. Without hesitation, Root consumed him, feeling for the first time the intense vitality of fresh life.

Now, Root understood the value of living nourishment over the decayed and abandoned. His nature, once a victim of circumstance, had shifted into something darker, something hungry—a twisted shadow of what Spriggins were meant to be.

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Other Spriggins

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