Once, there was a great beast,
that claimed the woods of Northmoor,
until an even greater hunter felled it,
with a crack of gunpowder and lead.
Vengeance filled its dying heart.
“Flesh!” It cried out,
“Do not leave me here,
for my work is not yet finished!”
But the beast’s flesh paid no mind,
rotting and crumbling into the soil.
Its muscles and claws became dust and dirt,
its vengeful heart and watchful eyes became ash.
When naught remained but bones,
the ground felt its anger,
the flowers mourned its beauty,
the trees missed its strength.
“Beast!” the forest thundered,
“We will grant you this second life,
so that you may walk our lands again,
but let it be known you are bound to us.”
So the wood began to rebuilt the great beast.
The ground released the bones from its embrace.
The trees healed its broken skull with sap and oak.
Roots bound the bones together.
Vines crawled from their trees to become muscle.
Thorns dropped from the bushes to replace its claws and teeth.
But the beast was still dead,
for the forest had made a plant, not a beast.
So the forest placed gemstones of sunny topaz and bloody ruby in its eyes,
so it could hunt once more.
Finally, the bullet that felled it was dropped down its throat.
And became its heart.
Therein, it burned and raged,
and the beast woke.
Beware the woods of Northmoor,
those mossy reaches,
for the beast began to hunt,
and it has yet to stop.
Fear the moment the forest grows quiet,
and carry no weapons,
for the forest is hungry,
and its maw is open.