Blood Moss

Humanity has long associated the color red with violence, passion, and danger. The color of blood, it awakens both our most primal fears and our most instinctive desires. Neither fear nor desire is stirred when witnessing a gang of drunk jellyfish break into a shop at night and guzzle all the ketchup (which is how jellyfish get drunk, if you didn’t know).

Ceaselessly discharged from the bowels of Hell and coiled to strike. Don’t relax and pooh-pooh them as a passing threat or you’ll be caught short, for their motions lay waste without relief and force thousands to evacuate. Flushing them out is a big job that takes guts, and only the bravest have ever wrecked ‘em. (Note to self: void this log before dumping it on the publisher. It’s crap.)

The stench of decomposition clings to every foul inch of these pestilential wretches. Once innocent villagers, they were twisted by the Priesthood of Putrefaction to serve as their foot soldiers. They’d cling on every word their Decayed Deacons say, if any of them had enough fingers left with which to cling.