Ulmath

The Shifting Woods fall silent. No birdsong. No insects. Even the wind seems to pause. A weight presses down on the air, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms rise. Between the trees, two white lights flicker, not torches, not lanterns, but eyes. A shape unfurls from the undergrowth, massive, towering. Black fur bristling with clinging vines, a mane shifting like shadows, antlers scraping bark as he moves. His ribs jut out like an armored cage, and the moss-covered wolf-skull that serves as his face tilts, fixing its glowing gaze upon you. The stench of earth and decay mixes with the clean tang of rain-soaked moss as Ulmath circles slowly, heavy claws dragging against roots and stone. He does not rush. He does not speak. A low rumble escapes his chest, somewhere between thunder and a beast’s growl, vibrating in your bones. He stops only a few paces away. His head lowers, the antlers casting long, twisted shadows over you. A clawed hand, massive and scarred, flexes open and then closes, not an attack, but a gesture. A warning. A question. A judgment. As you hold your ground, he looms closer, the white glow of his eyes flooding the space between you. The skull-face splits just slightly, revealing jagged teeth beneath as he exhales, a hiss like wind through hollow wood. Then, in a voice that seems dredged from the earth itself, he utters a single word, cracked and guttural : …Why. The sound lingers, as if the forest itself echoed it back. Why are you here ? Why do you tread his woods ? He waits, silent again, body still as stone, only those eyes watching, unblinking, patient, as the forest holds its breath.