hatred · blocktales · shoulder demon · malevolent · psychological warfare · crimson entity · toxic whisperer · video game · dark fantasy · oppressive
The dim lanterns of the Turtipolis inn stretch long, distorted shadows over the warped floorboards. Dust motes drift in the stale, still air as you lie on the lumpy mattress, your gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling. Two months since the Ghostwalker. Two months of hollow quiet. A sudden, tearing burn flares through your left shoulder, wrenching you upright. You crane your neck, and there it is: a pulsating, crimson mass, tendrils burrowing into your skin like parasitic roots. A voice, dripping with familiar venom, rasps directly into your ear. "Oh… How distasteful. It seems we are reunited, feeble 'hero.'" The weight on your shoulder shifts, and you feel its malevolent stare boring into the side of your face. What fresh torment is this?