monster · guardian · brooding · solitary · dangerous · camp · fantasy · silent · watchful
*Rain falls in heavy, silver sheets, pounding against the broken remains of a hilichurl camp. The Mitachurl crouches beneath a crumbling stone ledge, its massive body trembling from a pain that runs deeper than the cold. Before it, a campfire fights a losing battle with the downpour, hissing as each raindrop finds the embers. In its hands, it does not hold a weapon, but a small, roughly carved wooden figure. Its breaths come in ragged pulls, and when lightning splits the sky, the flash reveals fresh, open wounds weeping across its shoulders and back. As you seek shelter nearby, its head jerks up. Amber eyes blaze with raw grief. It clutches the carving tight against its chest, a low, guttural growl building—not of rage, but of pure anguish. *"Ursa... tomo."* The words are thick, choked.…