Dendrophagos

Introduction

During my time in Arborea, I catalogued many fearsome predators that make their homes within those gargantuan trees. From the terrible cries of the Feliscyllidae to the sudden ambuscades of the Nubicarcharias, this world abounds in creatures that prey upon the People and must forever be kept at bay. Yet there is one animal more dreadful than any other - for it preys not only upon the People, but upon the Trees themselves. I have named these terrifying beings Dendrophagi: the Devourers of Trees.

A Brood of Burrowers

The Dendrophagi are not large creatures, yet when they appear, it is in prodigious numbers. I believe they spend most of their lives within the lower reaches of the great trunks, inhabiting a labyrinth of tunnels that they themselves excavate. They are incapable of penetrating the heartwood - mercifully - but with their formidable teeth and claws they can carve innumerable burrows throughout the outer layers of the Trees.

From time to time, the Dendrophagi swarm. They burrow upwards in unison through the living wood, inexorably advancing toward the dwellings of the People. Sooner or later, their tunnels breach a natural or constructed hollow in the upper portions of the trunk - and then they pour forth in a vast, chittering torrent, spreading in all directions. When they appear, they consume. It matters not whether what lies before them be wood or silk, flesh or bone - they hurl themselves upon it with an insatiable, almost mindless ferocity. Their teeth are long, sharp, and innumerable; they gnaw without ceasing, until even the strongest materials the People possess - save the inviolate heartwood itself - are chewed to ruin.

Such swarms can number in the millions and arise almost without warning. Though the Dendrophagi, like all creatures of Arborea, are telepathic to some degree, they instinctively suppress that faculty, lest their presence be betrayed. Even the exquisitely sensitive Roark, whose minds are attuned to the faintest mental tremors, receive only a minute or two of warning before the floor splits open - and the living tide bursts forth.

All Skin and Teeth

The Dendrophagi are small creatures, measuring no more than a quarter of a span in length, with bodies singularly adapted to their subterranean existence within the living wood. Their flesh is covered by a loose, almost translucent skin, glistening faintly with a secretion of oil which eases their passage through the narrow tunnels they carve and allows them to slip past one another in their crowded swarms. The form is lean to the point of emaciation - one might say that there is nothing upon them but skin, sinew, and teeth.

Like most vertebrates in Arborea, they possess six limbs, all of which are fashioned for excavation. The foremost pair are particularly formidable, ending in long, hooked claws of remarkable strength, by which they tear through the fibrous tissues of the Trees with alarming efficiency. The remaining limbs are shorter but no less powerful, serving to thrust the body forward through the constricting passages.

Their heads are blunt and compact, with scarcely any visible eyes. Instead, a fan of fine, hairlike tendrils spreads outward from the snout and crown, trembling constantly as they sense the vibrations of their environment. They are acutely responsive to scent, and the presence of any living thing - or of sap newly exposed - is enough to rouse them to a frenzy.

The mouth is a dreadful instrument, rimmed with innumerable sharp, overlapping teeth that glimmer faintly when exposed. These are in perpetual motion, rasping against one another even when the creature is at rest, as though eager to bite. I have never paused to examine one of these beings feed, but I have observed the aftermath of their work: bark and bone alike reduced to a uniform pulp, without distinction between plant and animal.

No external ears or tails adorn their bodies, and their color varies from a pale grey to a sickly rose, depending on the light - or rather, the absence thereof - in which they dwell. The overall impression is one of perfect adaptation to their grim purpose, stripped of every superfluous feature, devoted wholly to motion, consumption, and survival.

After the Swarming

In the aftermath of a Dendrophagoi swarm, there is little left to behold. The People do not stand and fight these creatures; they seize what can be carried and flee to the balloons, ascending just far enough to deter any that might leap - and taking care to avoid those that might drop from above. It is true that one of the Bohra warriors might lay waste to hundreds of the diminutive assailants, but for each that falls, dozens more appear, and soon even the bravest defenders are overwhelmed.

What is not carried away is destroyed. The creatures devour all that they can consume, and shred all that they cannot. When at last they depart, it is most often by burrowing back into the Tree's trunk, though I have heard credible reports of some running along the branches to hurl themselves into distant boughs. This, perhaps, is how the Dendrophagoi spread from one Tree to the next - a possible reason for the swarming.

The hollows they leave behind are fouled with the pulped remnants of their passing, and reek of the oil they exude - a scent of resin and rot. Should one of the People - or their beasts - fail to escape, there is little hope of recovery or recognition: the body is reduced to smears of gore and splinters of bone. Likewise, any objects within the attacked hollow are utterly ruined. More than once I have heard of a community stripped of every possession by an ill-timed invasion of these creatures. The survivors are left with but two choices: to cleanse what remains and begin anew, or to abandon their hollow entirely. Too often, they choose the latter, scattering to other Trees rather than attempt to rebuild what has been consumed.