Plague Wyrm

In the blackened crevices beneath the soil of Aethria, where the roots of the world seep with corruption, dwells the Plague Wyrm—an Aethertitan of rot and ruin, born not merely of the Sundering’s chaos but steeped in the essence of lingering death. This serpentine monstrosity slumbers beneath the earth, vast as a cathedral, its flesh sheened with scales that glisten like wet stone and split along vein-thick seams that leak virulent spores into the air around it. Few have seen it and lived, and fewer still have managed to describe its features beyond the grasp of nightmare—eyes like drowned stars, breath like a collapsing tomb, and a body that twitches with parasitic decay.
  It is Animyss-bound, twisted from something once living—perhaps draconic, perhaps something far fouler—into a being whose life is sustained not by hunger, but by the rot it spreads. The Plague Wyrm rarely surfaces, for it does not need to hunt. Instead, it spreads itself through the land with a vile, invisible hand: a diseased aura that infects wildlife and people alike. Those touched by its unseen presence do not die cleanly. Their bodies swell with unnatural fluids and darken with bruised veins, and when they fall, they rise again—puppets driven by fevered compulsion to gather the dead. These revenant thralls, bound to the wyrm’s will, scavenge corpses from villages, battlefields, and crypts, dragging them across leagues of land to crumbling sinkholes and miasma-choked hollows that lead down to the wyrm’s buried lair. It feeds not only on flesh, but on the dying resonance of Animyss that clings to the bodies it claims.
  Once infected, no cure exists. Healing can ease the symptoms—slow the decay, stave off the madness—but the corruption remains, nested deep in the soul. No cleric nor potion can dispel it fully. The only true cure is to end the source: slay the Plague Wyrm, and the sickness withers with it.
  But herein lies the crux of the hunt. The Plague Wyrm does not emerge easily. It surfaces only when glutted on corpses or disturbed by the rare vibrations of battle on sacred ground. Thus, hunters must lure it from its abyss. The most reliable means involves alchemy: a blend of rare herbs whose mingled scent mimics the energetic profile of sanctified dead—a delicacy to the wyrm, compelling enough to draw it upward.
  The lure requires four herbs: Twilight Fenroot, found near dying marsh willows and heavy with purifying essence; Ashen Thornflower, which blooms only in soil salted by battle and holds the memories of the slain; Cinderglass Ivy, a translucent vine infused with lingering Animyss pulses; and Gallowsmoss, scraped from hanged trees where injustices have stained the bark. Ground into a paste and burned over sacred coals, the resulting smoke forms a spiraling beacon that triggers the wyrm’s hunting response. It may take hours—or even days—but the wyrm will come, dragging its diseased mass through stone like wet clay.
  To face it in battle is a grim prospect. Its breath is not fire, but a choking exhalation of blight that kills and reanimates in moments. It strikes with crushing coils and a voice that can fracture reason—those who hear its scream too closely often wander off, delirious, to join the dead. Its lair is a blasphemous necrotic hive, but in open ground, it is vulnerable to radiant force and disruption of its corpse-bound network. Severing the revenants that link it to the surface weakens it. A skilled team must first destroy these corpse-herds before attempting to bait the wyrm above.
  When it rises, it must be slain quickly. The longer it remains in battle, the more its presence twists the land, summoning new undead and infecting the living. Strike with light, speed, and sanctified steel. Shield your mind. Burn its breath away. And should you survive, you may find that the sickness fades—not just from the body, but from the land itself. For with the Plague Wyrm’s death, the silence becomes clean once more.