The Gurgyl

The Gurgyl is the walking dreadnought of Tepest’s endless woods—a grotesque and living monument to Lorinda’s horror, stitched together from cruelty, sorrow, and something very old that should have never risen again.

Looming among the twisted trees of Tepest’s wilderness, the Gurgyl appears like a nightmare given form:

• A twisting hive of thorn-lashed wicker, matted fur, and dangling fetishes.
• Its shape resembles a crooked, leaning tower or birdcage woven by mad hands, rising three stories high.
• Three enormous, skeletal legs, taken from ancient draconic remains, carry the structure like a morbid strider. The claws still twitch.

When it moves, it does so soundlessly, despite its size. Trees bend to let it pass. The forest parts for it, as if afraid.

At times, it vanishes entirely, swallowed by the Mists—only to reappear elsewhere under the moonlight, closer than before.

The Gurgyl rarely travels by day.
Instead, it stalks the night forest, illuminated by:

• Lanterns filled with cold flame.
• Hollow skulls hung like wind chimes that whisper secrets when the breeze turns.
• Runes that pulse with fey curses, carved into the ribs and beams of the structure itself.

Villagers whisper that to see the Gurgyl without invitation is a terrible omen. Its passing causes:

• Milk to sour,
• Babies to cry,
• And mirrors to crack.

Within the tangled halls of the Gurgyl dwell Lorinda’s creations—both physical and metaphysical:

• Blightwives: her devoted, stitched-together daughters and caretakers.
• Bound souls trapped in jars and puppet bodies, endlessly reciting nursery rhymes.
• The Weeping Loom, a living tangle of hair and thread that murmurs children’s names in their sleep.
• Observatory-hives, where dozens of Eyes of the Forest—Lorinda’s fey familiars—peer through bone lenses into other lands and lives.

The interior is larger than the exterior should allow. Rooms shift. Corridors double back. Some doors lead nowhere, and some open to other nightmares entirely.

At the core of the fortress hangs a massive cradle, woven from human ribs and tree roots. It rocks gently, even when the fortress is still.

This is Lorinda’s sanctum, her throne room and womb. Here, she sings lullabies to the lost and unborn, to the souls she has stolen, shaped, or remade.

Above the cradle is the Gurgyl’s heart—a glowing knot of sorrow-magic and necrotic roots, pulsing like a heartbeat. It fuels the Gurgyl’s magic and gives it motion.
Some say it is the soul of a godling-child, twisted by Lorinda into a power source.

Many Tepestani believe the Gurgyl is a punishment made manifest:

“The forest remembers our trespasses, and now it walks.”

Others say it seeks children, sniffing out the scent of disobedience, doubt, or untended grief. The Gurgyl doesn’t always take—but it always notices.

Folk superstitions tell villagers to:

• Hang mirror charms on windows.
• Leave out milk and honey on nights when the trees fall silent.
• Never, ever say the names of the dead children aloud.

More than just a lair, the Gurgyl is a manifestation of Lorinda’s will. It is her cocoon, her snare, and her body—all at once.

Those who seek to confront her or rescue the lost must enter its shifting halls and face her dreams, her dolls, and her dread.

And if they fail, their bones will join the Gurgyl’s,
and it will walk ever farther.