Wraithkin
Overview
Wraithkin are tragic, corrupted remnants of elves and other forest creatures who have fully succumbed to the creeping corruption within the Gloomwood. Reduced to hollow husks, these entities wander aimlessly, driven only by primal instinct and hunger. Intelligence and identity are almost entirely gone, leaving them barely sentient, hollow shells who respond only to the scent of blood, the sound of battle, or the anguished cries of prey.
Physical Description
Gaunt and spectral, Wraithkin move with a shambling gait, their bodies emaciated and twisted by corruption. Skin stretched thinly over bone, their flesh has turned ashen gray, eyes sunken and dull, faintly glowing with an eerie, crimson sheen. Hair is lank and matted, tangled with dirt and leaves. Mouths hang slack, occasionally emitting mournful, wordless moans of suffering.
Though slow-moving, Wraithkin possess terrifying resilience, their corrupted bodies almost impossible to destroy fully. Wounds knit together unnaturally quickly, and they continue to stagger forward relentlessly until completely dismembered or burned. They inspire dread, not for their speed or cunning, but for their inexorable persistence.
Behavior
Wraithkin drift through the forest silently, without direction or purpose, responding solely to external stimuli such as blood, battle, or prey in distress. Once triggered, they converge mindlessly, driven by endless hunger and pain. To see them is to witness the cruelty of corruption in its purest form, a reminder of what awaits those who lose themselves fully to darkness.
Lothian crept silently through the tangled underbrush, bow drawn tightly, senses alert for danger. Yet nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when he stepped into the clearing.
Standing there, hunched and swaying slightly, was a figure shrouded in shadows and decay. A wraithkin. Lothian's breath caught in his throat, but as moonlight struck her face, recognition sliced through his heart.
"Elaria?" he whispered, voice trembling with disbelief and grief. She had been lost long ago, vanished during a hunt, mourned by all.
The creature slowly lifted its head, dull crimson eyes locking vaguely onto him. Her ashen skin hung from bones too sharp and pronounced. Yet it was undeniably her—his sister, transformed into something monstrous.
Tears blurred Lothian’s vision as he stepped forward, bow lowering. "Elaria, it’s me. Lothian. Do you remember?"
A groan, mournful and hollow, escaped her lips. She staggered forward slowly, arms outstretched, fingers curled like claws. Still, he hesitated, heart frozen between hope and horror.
"Please," he begged softly, voice cracking, unable to lift his weapon against her.
She reached him, her cold, dead hands gripping his throat with unnatural strength. Yet even as his breath caught painfully, he could not bring himself to strike her down. Tears streamed down his face, his final whispered words a desperate plea: "Forgive me."
As darkness overtook him, a final glimpse of crimson flickered faintly in her empty eyes—a spark of recognition? Perhaps only a reflection of the distant moon, coldly indifferent to the sorrowful tableau below. The clearing fell silent once more, consumed again by shadow.
Comments