The Fecund Forest Fiend [EVIL END]

In the forests of the Old World, a new horror now stalks the beast-paths. No more does Drycha wear the wrathful form of the Briarmaven of Woe; now, she embodies an even more sinister aspect.

First come her hounds. The Old World's woodland has always been home to particularly fierce breeds of wolf, but now they bound forward on two legs, snarling and howling as they search for fresh meat to gorge on and warm holes to bury their knots in. When they pass, their guttural tongue echoes around for miles, pack members ceaselessly announcing the presence of frightened prey and fertile mates to their brothers. Behind them, they leave their victims insensate with rough pleasure and their meals as naught but a red smear and scattered bones.

Then come the Slaangors. Raucous and wild, even by the standards of the Cloven Ones, they are a riot of discordant music and screamed devotion to the Prince of Pleasure as they caper and run after their canine kin. Hound-ravaged women are seized and used even more thoroughly than before, driven truly mad by the slurping tongues and twisted cocks of Slaanesh's caprine servitors.

Then come her consorts. A trio of towering Ghorgons, their hunger not for flesh to eat, but for souls to drink. Their musk invades the senses and ravages the minds of everyone for miles around, their passage marked by puddles of corruptive semen that nourish twisted, perverse plants and taint brooks and streams into mutagenic slime.

At last, she comes. Towering and curvaceous of body, clear and enticing of voice, Drycha comes. Her height puts her level with the tops of ancient oaks, her tread at once as loud as thunder and as soft as morning dew, she strides the paths with a roll of her canopy-broad hips and an easy grace to her steps that only millennia of practice can bring. Her colossal globes jiggle with every footfall, her boulder-sized bust bounces in time and her cloudy, fervent gaze is always roving in search of promising consorts. From every hole - her swollen cunt, her gaping asshole, her pouting lips, her drooling nipples - pours the same seed that leaks from her heralds. Where they leave puddles and twisted trees, she leaves ponds and grotesque glades. Where they taint streams and brooks, she turns whole rivers into frothing serpents of corruption that writhe across the land. Within her massive, swollen belly gestates a thing of lust so powerful that every resident of her woodlands feel its caress on their minds and its feverish whispers in their dreams - and now the time of birthing nears.

This is Drycha, Elder Spirit of Ecstasy.