A stag-antlered fey stalks through damp moss, cloak hanging in mud-stained tatters. Fungus plates bloom from one shoulder, and a dead mask dangles from its staff beside a bleached skull. Its skin is bark-rough and bruise-brown, smelling of leaf-mold and old graves. It speaks in a low, patient cadence, then looses hunters’ blades to widen the kingdom of rot. Cold iron links biting into its wrists make the posture sag, power muffled as if the forest itself has been gagged.
Rotweavers were Fey caretakers of the natural world or fey planes who’ve been corrupted by the power of rot. Rotweavers serve powerful beings of withering and blight as minor acolytes and hunters, working to spread the bounds of their beloved decay.
The rotweavers’ fey nature still holds; binding them with iron, such as manacles or a chain, mutes their strength.
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