A chill wind rustles through the swamplands, carrying the scent of burnt soil and decay. Lanterns flicker in the fog, their flames trembling like fearful hearts. Beneath the pale moon, fields long left fallow begin to stir, their roots whispering secrets to the dead. From that whisper rises laughter, the hollow kind that echoes through empty pumpkins.
The Harvest returns. Not with blessing, but with hunger. From the twisted vines crawl horrors born of devotion and blight: hollow-eyed zealots, burning husks, and beasts of living rot. Above them all, the Gourdmother stirs once more, her laughter shaking the fields as her avatar claws free from the soil.
To wander her lands is to challenge the pact of life itself, where faith feeds the flame and even the devout are not spared the harvest.