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Hulngal
The horizon glows a bilious green, extra-dimensional light bleeding in an aurora over the sundered skyline of Marrowmont’s downtown core. Hulngal watches the brilliant lights shift like cloudsweep as she stands guard over the two human witches kneeling to examine something on the ground. Hulngal in her true form, all twelve naked feet of her glowing a hazy gold in the eerie light, heavy of hip and breast, cock swinging free, her spread, white-tipped wings sheltering the two far smaller humans behind her. Hulngal’s antlers glowing faintly luminous with reflected light from the blazing disc that hangs like a halo behind her wife, Igibala’s, head. Igibala as tall as her lover, though far lither and muscular: a bronzed warrior bearing a spear near as long as she is, her weapon readied.
Between them, the two towering immortals keep a wary eye for the Maw’s scything tentacles that have torn the city apart. The beast’s roars echo down every empty causeway, every street and alley, of the once-thriving city. The Maidens who built Marrowmont and bound the beast for three long centuries working equally hard to keep it from expanding further into the ruined metropolis – and push it back as they can – as they do to rend its seeking limbs.
All options a losing battle. Barely two days since the Maw began seeping into their world through a crack in reality opened by a traitor whose identity they still don’t know, and they’ve not yet seen whatever else of the beast exists in its own dimension. With no hidden heart revealing itself to strike at, there is only an endless spill of appendages to contend with as they shift into and out of physical space, devouring everything they touch but the Maidens.
Sometimes Hulngal wonders if there is no more to the Maw – merely an endless seep of squelching tendrils, tangled into infinity; whatever lives beyond the gateway through which more of the Maw appears every day a mystery to which she has no answers.
Her attention is dragged sharply back mid-thought to the end of the street she’s been watching as a tentacle, the size and width of a skyscraper, crashes through the side of a building, setting it creaking as the tower leans perilously out into the street. Before the tendril rears up, festooned with too many Maidens to track; the host of them swarming over that inky length, their white-clad forms rending chunks of it as the beast squeals.
Hulngal thankful in that moment the Maidens are too far to see clearly; no Maiden dies well, each bearing the manner of their murder. Even Hulngal, bringer of death and eater of souls, no stranger to horrors, does not care to look at them long.