Mosswraith

"You think there's anything in there but moss and rat bones?"
"Of course not, we'd have seen or heard something."
"What about mosswraiths?"
"What about them? You don't really believe those stories, do you?"

— Two unfortunate adventurers

 

A Soft Green Resting Place

  There are places where the wet and decayed has turned into its own form of sustenance, where life clings too hard, refusing to yield even to the press of time. It is in these places; ancient ruins swallowed by the earth, stones crumbled under endless rain, that mosswraiths arise. They do not grow, but instead coalesce, as if the damp and decay had something thought to itself, "I will endure."   A mosswraith is not easily noticed at first. It begins as a patch of moss no different from any other: soft, green, and clinging to rock or root. But those who linger too long near a mosswraith's domain might hear the faintest rustle in the stillness of catch a flicker of movement in the corner of their eye. When fully awakened, the mosswraith reveals itself - a creeping, amorphous mass of moss, lichen, and shadow. Its body shifts and flows with a sluggish determination, spreading tendrils like patient fingers. From within, spores glow faintly in pulses, like fireflies trapped beneath a forest canopy.   Unlike the treants or dryads who serve to protect nature in its balance, mosswraiths are uncaring of such order. They are creatures of consumption, not malice, seeking to claim all things into their soft, cloying embrace. A careless adventurer who falls prey to a mosswraith's grasp finds themselves wrapped in a carpet of green and brown, warmth seeping from their body as the moss feasts on their vitality. Clothing, armour, and flesh are broken down and absorbed, leaving only bones as pale markers of their folly.  

Too Soft, Too Embracing

  Yet, the mosswraith is not entirely without purpose. Legends say that within the heart of every mosswraith lies a single spore of immense power - a seed that can grow life in even the most barren soil. Alchemists and druids alike seek these spores, though few ever find them, and fewer still return with them.   Whispers speak of the oldest mosswraiths possessing a dim awareness, an intelligence that barely delves deeper than surface roots and just as slow as a growing forest. These elder wraiths are thought to harbour knowledge of the ruins they haunt, and may, in rare instances, allow passage in exchange for offerings of blood, bone, or memory. It is not known if these tales are true, but be wary nonetheless, as patience is endless for something like a mosswraith, and its hunger is eternal.