Bark and vine knit around stolen plate armor, roots cinched tight like straps. Moss hangs in rotting curtains, and thorned fingers flex with splintered patience. Every movement sheds gray spores that smudge the air. Rust-red sap weeps from cracks, and the forest’s old name sits buried in its grain—waiting to be carved free.
Whispered among forest dwellers is the tale of a cursed vine, said to creep into the bodies of the living or the dead, twisting them into woodwarped. These wooden creations of tangled roots and bark take shape into a crude yet eerily familiar imitation of their hosts. Those that slay their hosts are sometimes clad in the stolen clothing and armor of their victims, silently wandering the woods with hollow eyes that reflect the unnatural force that binds them to the forest. Cutting pieces from their bodies is a dangerous proposition, as the fragments quickly grow into new woodwarped.
Woodwarped possess a deep fear of axes— tools capable of severing not only their bodies but their bond to the forest. The mere sight of an axe is enough to hold the creatures at bay, and the bite of its blade slices them like smoke.
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