Slithering beneath the scum of shadow, greasy film of desolation reflecting the filth of the fenland, hiding that which lies beneath the squalid depths. The one the shamans whisper herald of the Swamp Spirit, the one they call Burier, concealer of dreams and maker of pain. Wielding the hammer of plague since the age of 2019, this marsh monstrosity has been breathing foulest of incantation since this time, coiling vine thorns of sadism around its victims that grow tighter with each spell spent into the drain hole of existence. As those thorny vines grow tighter around mortal throats, Burier has ensorcelled its most realised incantation to date, and through the iron gilded lantern of GoatowaRex verdigris putrefaction does it come to acolytes in physical form. Dreams of infinite agony made flesh upon terror of tape.
