Susan Hurls Chunk
In the dim light of the clearing, a heavy silence falls as the glowing spirit of the world tree hovers before Susan, a towering figure clad in ominous dark armor. The spirit, radiant and ethereal, extends a tendril of shimmering light toward Susan, intending to heal the knight’s hidden wounds. But as the light makes contact, Susan convulses violently, their massive frame shuddering uncontrollably. A low, guttural groan escapes their lips, quickly escalating into a series of agonizing spasms that wrack their body.
Susan’s companions, a mix of seasoned adventurers, stand frozen in a semicircle around the knight, their faces etched with concern and horror. Duckfoot, the lithe ranger, instinctively grips the hilt of his sword, while Pip the archer takes a step back, eyes wide and bow at the ready. Barry Masculine, the stoic druid, murmurs an incantation under his breath, his eyes fixed on Susan. The Dragonborn oracle, clutches his staff tightly, sensing the violent shift in the air, while Jridys, the wizard, mutters arcane words, preparing for whatever might come next. Drax, the hulking fighter, squares his shoulders, bracing himself for battle.
Suddenly, Susan doubles over, their massive frame crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. The companions flinch as Susan’s head contorts grotesquely, swelling as if under immense pressure. Then, with a sickening, wet sound, Susan’s head bursts open, and the air is filled with the nauseating stench of death. From the gaping wound, a figure emerges, heaving itself free from Susan’s lifeless form.
A woman, covered in slick, black tar, is vomited onto the ground, her body writhing as she gasps for breath. The black substance clings to her like a second skin, oozing off her in thick, viscous strands. For a moment, the clearing is still, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the crackling of the spirit’s light.
Around the scene, several dryads stand at the edge of the clearing, their wooden forms blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. They watch the grisly transformation with passive, unreadable expressions, their ancient eyes reflecting neither fear nor curiosity. The ethereal connection between the world tree’s spirit and the dryads seems unbroken, even as they witness the horrific spectacle.
The companions exchange uneasy glances, each of them grappling with the unfolding nightmare. Pip is the first to speak up, unconcerned, she turns to Sårheler, the newborn spirit of the world tree and asks “so, do you have any magic items for us?”
