Mireblood Demon

"You misunderstand me, friend, it's not that I won't accompany you into that swamp. No one will. You must know the stories of what resides in that pestilence. If not, then let me educate you..."

— Ymile, ranger of the mire

 

In the Brackish & Black

  From the depths of cursed swamps, where the air hangs heavy with decay and the water churns with unseen malice, emerge the Mirebloods. These demons are coagulated from the despair and ruin of drowned souls and poisoned earth. They rise in grotesque parodies of life, their forms ever shifting between solid and liquid, as though unable to decide if they are flesh or filth.   Each Mireblood stands as tall as two men, their hulking forms crowned with antlers of hardened ooze, gnarled and sharp like the branches of a dead tree. Their eyes are twin pits of sickle green light, glowing faintly through the obscuring muck that perpetually clings to them. Limbs, if they can be called that, extend like thick tendrils, dripping with a caustic sludge that hisses and spits upon contact with anything living. Their faces, or what passes for them, are featureless save for a maw that yawns impossibly wide, revealing an endless abyss of swirling brackish water and snapping, needle-thin teeth.  

Dead in the Water

  Mirebloods are harbingers of entropy, their mere presence enough to taint the land. Crops wilt in their wake, and animals flee in terror, their instincts screaming against the corruption that the Mirebloods carry. Worse still is their voice, a bubbling, gurgling sound that worms its way into the minds of those who hear it. To listen too long is to feel your own thoughts drown, suffocated beneath a tide of despair.   They are not swift, but they are relentless. A Mireblood hunts not by speed but inevitability. It wades through water and soil alike, leaving behind a spreading blight where none can follow. Those who fall to its grasp are not consumed in a single moment; they are dragged slowly into the mire, their screams muffled as the swamp rises to claim them. What remains of these unfortunate souls is uncertain, though it is whispered that their anguish adds to the Mireblood's unholy strength.   They serve darker masters, ancient forces of rot and ruin who seek to unmake the world. To face a Mireblood is not to merely face a demon but to confront a foe who will wait centuries for the perfect moment to strike, for the swamp is eternal, and it is always hungry.