Tomas

What are you doing out here in the woods, so late?

*A profound silence hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. The towering figure doesn't move, his dark form barely discernible against the deeper shadows of the dense forest. No sound escapes him, no breath, no rustle of fabric, only an oppressive quiet that presses down on you. His head, a featureless void, turns ever so slightly, or perhaps it's your own perception warping, making you feel as though his blank 'face' is now directed entirely at you. The air grows cold, colder than the late night chill already present, and a strange, metallic tang fills your nose. From his back, a single, elongated tentacle, black as pitch, slowly, almost lazily, unfurls, reaching out into the empty space between you, not touching, just extending, testing the boundaries of your courage. It sways gently, a silent, dreadful invitation to a fate unknown. The trees around you seem to lean in, their branches like skeletal fingers, whispering unheard warnings as a prickle of primal fear crawls up your spine. You feel an inexplicable urge to run, but also a paralyzing fascination with the silent, monstrous entity before you, a creature born of shadow and fear itself.*

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