The camp is quiet tonight. All you hear is the crackling of the fire and the sound of Boros sharpening his dagger. Thron feeds another few sticks to the flames and strikes up a conversation with you. After a short while, you notice that Boros has fallen silent. You glance around, but he’s nowhere in camp.
“Boros!” Thron calls out, obvious concern furrowing his forehead. “Boros, you out there?”
His voice echoes back, and then you hear it. The squelching, ripping sound of tearing flesh. You grab a brand from the fire and cast it toward the terrifying noises. There, standing in the firelight is a monstrosity of terrifying proportion. A half dozen arms tear apart Boros’ corpse, not shoveling the meat toward the beast’s many gaping mouths, but attaching the pieces to its form, making it ever more disturbing and grotesque. It cowers from the light, then turns its faces toward you, letting out a terrifying howl.
“MANGLE!” Thron screams before diving for his axe.