Vhorral the Mirefather

Something in the mire learned to wear a face. Vhorral surfaces in deep relief — a brow of knotted overgrowth pressing down over sunken, glowing eyes, root tendrils spilling from where a mouth should be, every ridge and striation carved deep enough to hold shadow. The ColorStacked layers shift from moss green through rot-orange into black silt, like the swamp deciding, layer by layer, what to keep and what to bury. This is not a swamp decoration. This is a relic dredged from the soft ground where the old Skullwood paths end. The forest didn't grow Vhorral — the mire did, packing peat and root around something that refused to finish dying. Travelers who knelt to drink spoke of a face rising in the still water. None of them spoke of it twice. Every striation is deliberate — FDM layer work pushed until the surface reads like bark grown over bone, unearthed rather than manufactured.