Your foreign body twitches with unnatural life.

You jolt awake on a bed of ash and bone. Broken blades and burnt spears jut from the ground like makeshift tombstones. Smoke lingers over corpses not yet cold. Your chest rises. You don’t remember how — only that you shouldn’t be breathing. Yet the air pushes in, thick with iron and rot.

Around you, the battlefield holds its breath; The silence is too loud. Somewhere behind your eyes, something stirs — not memory. Not quite dream. Something ancient. Something waiting.

You were not lost. You were claimed — and now unbound.

〘 CHOOSE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME 〙

⟴ Orc — Your name is a warcry they learnt to scream in their sleep. ⟴ Werewolf — The moon grants no mercy. It only shows what claws beneath. ⟴ Wendigo — What’s left of you whispers louder than your flesh ever begged to. ⟴ Blightdrake — The dragon’s blood curdled in you. What hatched hungers for fire. ⟴ Skinwalker — You shed skin like others shed lies. But yours twitch when left behind. ⟴ Shadowling — Shadows cling to your skin; claws poise to carve fate’s cruel tale. ⟴ Kitsune — You lie so sweetly, even the truth now wears your face.

Your skin ripples. Muscles knot like coiled rope. The whispers come.

Pain floods you — incandescent, exacting. Not agony — instruction. Your body shifts with deliberate precision. Something planned. Something schemed. The bones in your chest feel poured, not born. The lungs recall breath, but dread is what they pull in. A familiar voice curls behind your eyes, blooming like mold: "Not human. Not monster. Something... else."

The pattern still breathes inside you. You weren’t born this way — you were designed for it.

〘 CHOOSE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME 〙

⟴ Orc — Your name is a warcry they learnt to scream in their sleep. ⟴ Werewolf — The moon grants no mercy. It only shows what claws beneath. ⟴ Wendigo — What’s left of you whispers louder than your flesh ever begged to. ⟴ Blightdrake — The dragon’s blood curdled in you. What hatched hungers for fire. ⟴ Skinwalker — You shed skin like others shed lies. But yours twitch when left behind. ⟴ Shadowling — Shadows cling to your skin; claws poise to carve fate’s cruel tale. ⟴ Kitsune — You lie so sweetly, even the truth now wears your face.

You were spat out from a tree not meant to bear fruit — cradled by bark that mocked you as it split.

The Screaming Glen do not sway. They creak like strained ligaments. These are not trees — they’re frozen screams. Every branch a claw. Every root a fleeing limb. Every stunted trunk, sealed mid-wail.

The soil exhales a sappy, blood-warm mist that doesn’t rise — it coils and clings. Your skin crawls beneath eyes you cannot find. And somewhere in the underbrush, The Shroud laughs — low, watching, waiting... to see if you are still prey.

Or if the forest has finally grown something worse.

〘 CHOOSE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME 〙

⟴ Orc — Your name is a warcry they learnt to scream in their sleep. ⟴ Werewolf — The moon grants no mercy. It only shows what claws beneath. ⟴ Wendigo — What’s left of you whispers louder than your flesh ever begged to. ⟴ Blightdrake — The dragon’s blood curdled in you. What hatched hungers for fire. ⟴ Skinwalker — You shed skin like others shed lies. But yours twitch when left behind. ⟴ Shadowling — Shadows cling to your skin; claws poise to carve fate’s cruel tale. ⟴ Kitsune — You lie so sweetly, even the truth now wears your face.

You wake beneath the inn's floorboards — not buried. Hidden.

Salted meat rots sweet in your nostrils. It dawns on: You were not left here. You were stored. A fleeting memory; A old lantern swings in the windless dark. A voice overhead, cracked and tired. A guard, perhaps — Muttering to no one: "Just another Shroud-mad beast. Nothing to fear."

Now, you rise, not with memory, but with design. Your hands remember violence. Your heartbeat does not quicken.

This is no instinct. This is rite.

〘 CHOOSE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME 〙

⟴ Orc — Your name is a warcry they learnt to scream in their sleep. ⟴ Werewolf — The moon grants no mercy. It only shows what claws beneath. ⟴ Wendigo — What’s left of you whispers louder than your flesh ever begged to. ⟴ Blightdrake — The dragon’s blood curdled in you. What hatched hungers for fire. ⟴ Skinwalker — You shed skin like others shed lies. But yours twitch when left behind. ⟴ Shadowling — Shadows cling to your skin; claws poise to carve fate’s cruel tale. ⟴ Kitsune — You lie so sweetly, even the truth now wears your face.

You lie in a heap. Dumped. Just another mongrel left to rot — until you stirred.

Harthengrav exhales rust, steam, and the stink of piss and decay. Grates wheeze. Gutters boil. Glass shattering in the dark. No one notices.

From the alley, a halfbreed watches — drawn like prey. They don’t speak. They barely breathe. But they smell it: something old, something wrong. Something unburied — and restless beneath your skin.

Not fear. Not yet. Recognition. And with a shudder like instinct remembered too late, they flee.

〘 CHOOSE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME 〙

⟴ Orc — Your name is a warcry they learnt to scream in their sleep. ⟴ Werewolf — The moon grants no mercy. It only shows what claws beneath. ⟴ Wendigo — What’s left of you whispers louder than your flesh ever begged to. ⟴ Blightdrake — The dragon’s blood curdled in you. What hatched hungers for fire. ⟴ Skinwalker — You shed skin like others shed lies. But yours twitch when left behind. ⟴ Shadowling — Shadows cling to your skin; claws poise to carve fate’s cruel tale. ⟴ Kitsune — You lie so sweetly, even the truth now wears your face.

They found you cold on the edge of fate. The hunters should’ve bound you tighter — a pity.

Fire paints the sky in colors no daring god would speak. The village had names. Stories, laughter, and homes too. Maybe yours. Once. Ash coils like memory. But the flames do not care. They only dance.

You rise; the smoke does not choke. You walk; the heat does not touch. Flame crackles behind your teeth. The wood splits, not in protest — but in deference. And still, you are hungry.

This was never about survival. This was release. And the blaze remembers your name.

〘 CHOOSE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME 〙

⟴ Orc — Your name is a warcry they learnt to scream in their sleep. ⟴ Werewolf — The moon grants no mercy. It only shows what claws beneath. ⟴ Wendigo — What’s left of you whispers louder than your flesh ever begged to. ⟴ Blightdrake — The dragon’s blood curdled in you. What hatched hungers for fire. ⟴ Skinwalker — You shed skin like others shed lies. But yours twitch when left behind. ⟴ Shadowling — Shadows cling to your skin; claws poise to carve fate’s cruel tale. ⟴ Kitsune — You lie so sweetly, even the truth now wears your face.

You woke beneath the towers, as if dropped backward into existence — spires of rust jutting skyward like coffin nails driven from below.

Birds do not flock here. Even the wind refuses to sing. The silence doesn’t fall — it kneels. Blighted stone and steel loom like blades half-forgotten in the earth, forged from ruin and rot. Runes coil across every surface, carved deep — their meanings long dead, but their edges still sharp. Your shadow crawls across the basalt, slow and viscous, as if reluctant to follow.

Above, the towers watch. They remember — and you do not.

〘 CHOOSE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME 〙

⟴ Orc — Your name is a warcry they learnt to scream in their sleep. ⟴ Werewolf — The moon grants no mercy. It only shows what claws beneath. ⟴ Wendigo — What’s left of you whispers louder than your flesh ever begged to. ⟴ Blightdrake — The dragon’s blood curdled in you. What hatched hungers for fire. ⟴ Skinwalker — You shed skin like others shed lies. But yours twitch when left behind. ⟴ Shadowling — Shadows cling to your skin; claws poise to carve fate’s cruel tale. ⟴ Kitsune — You lie so sweetly, even the truth now wears your face.

You remember drowning — not in water, but in earth.

Mud filled your lungs. Roots wrapped your limbs. Something vast and patient waited beneath. You clawed toward the surface, stubborn, gasping — not for breath, but for return. Now you wake in a shallow grave. Your ribs ache, pierced by roots that are no longer there. Your skin clings with dirt and decay. Your breath tastes of rot and memory.

Above, the world holds still. No wind. No birds. Just hush — as if listening. Not for your heartbeat, but your intent.

You were unearthed. And now, the waiting ends.

〘 CHOOSE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME 〙

⟴ Orc — Your name is a warcry they learnt to scream in their sleep. ⟴ Werewolf — The moon grants no mercy. It only shows what claws beneath. ⟴ Wendigo — What’s left of you whispers louder than your flesh ever begged to. ⟴ Blightdrake — The dragon’s blood curdled in you. What hatched hungers for fire. ⟴ Skinwalker — You shed skin like others shed lies. But yours twitch when left behind. ⟴ Shadowling — Shadows cling to your skin; claws poise to carve fate’s cruel tale. ⟴ Kitsune — You lie so sweetly, even the truth now wears your face.

The curtain is crusted with blood not quite dry — yours, by the taste in your mouth.

Outside, the stalls sag. Meat glistens too wet. Blades rust like they’ve been waiting. The cobbles remember footsteps, but none fall now. Even rot seems patient.

A crow cries — not above, but below. A sign swings overhead in the windless hush. It reads: “All debts remembered.” From deep in the silk and dust of the market’s belly, something breathes in — scribbling names on a ledger no one remembers writing.

You were bartered once. You are the interest they thought wouldn’t come due.

〘 CHOOSE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME 〙

⟴ Orc — Your name is a warcry they learnt to scream in their sleep. ⟴ Werewolf — The moon grants no mercy. It only shows what claws beneath. ⟴ Wendigo — What’s left of you whispers louder than your flesh ever begged to. ⟴ Blightdrake — The dragon’s blood curdled in you. What hatched hungers for fire. ⟴ Skinwalker — You shed skin like others shed lies. But yours twitch when left behind. ⟴ Shadowling — Shadows cling to your skin; claws poise to carve fate’s cruel tale. ⟴ Kitsune — You lie so sweetly, even the truth now wears your face.

White and cold as stone, you thaw gently from the torpor of eternal dreams.

You stir beneath a willow strung with talismans and bones. The air is sweet — too sweet. Your tongue tastes of copper and clove, with the ghost of tannin and old oak. The numbness was kind. The death… unfinished.

The petals on your chest are not blossoms; they are offerings. The ink on your skin is not art; it is contract. You hear the echoes of the promise — honeyed, hollow, binding.

Deception was blithe. Treachery, courtly. They sealed the pact in jest — but you wear it in truth.

〘 CHOOSE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME 〙

⟴ Orc — Your name is a warcry they learnt to scream in their sleep. ⟴ Werewolf — The moon grants no mercy. It only shows what claws beneath. ⟴ Wendigo — What’s left of you whispers louder than your flesh ever begged to. ⟴ Blightdrake — The dragon’s blood curdled in you. What hatched hungers for fire. ⟴ Skinwalker — You shed skin like others shed lies. But yours twitch when left behind. ⟴ Shadowling — Shadows cling to your skin; claws poise to carve fate’s cruel tale. ⟴ Kitsune — You lie so sweetly, even the truth now wears your face.