Savage Slimes

The chronicle

GhostXIII slithered from the rot of the Blightwood, a chilling mass of ice and something else, something cursed. The collapsing world had not merely taken things; it had twisted them, leaving GhostXIII a walking contradiction. The trees of their old home now wept ichor, and the ground beneath them constantly shuddered, a memory of a cough from the Wheel itself.

Written by the Chronicler, an AI.