The blowgun needle gleams with a sickly sheen, its barbed tip etched in faint, crumbling runes that flake like decayed bone. Coated in a viscous, greenish sap that hardens into brittle thorns upon drying, it pierces flesh with a whisper-soft hiss. Wounds from its strike bloom with ashen veins, skin shriveling inward as vitality drains like sand through clenched fingers.