Lord Chunk

The chamber reeks before you even enter: warm, sour, a faint metallic tang under the rot. Lord Chunk lounges atop a throne carved from fungus-choked stone, bloated form spilling over its edges. His robes sag like putrid velvet, embroidered with writhing rats and grotesque visages frozen in ecstatic torment. Spores drift lazily from his skin, curling through the air like smoke, settling on the boots of the Virum Caster kneeling before him. The Virum Caster’s eyes glint in the half-light, pale with fevered devotion. Their hands twitch, stained with ink and blood, sigils etched across their skin like a map of corruption. Around them, Chunk’s Legionaries stand, hulking and pestilent, their armor tarnished and pitted with green mold, their movements slow but precise, as if disease itself guides their rhythm. Chunk’s head tilts, just enough for a glimpse of his maw—a grin stretched wide across blotched, slick skin, teeth yellowed and uneven. His eyes, bright and ratlike, flick between the Caster and his Legionaries, calculating amusement and potential. Every twitch of his fat fingers, every subtle shift of his weight, radiates indulgence and menace alike. A faint rustle moves through the chamber; the spores thicken. The Caster whispers a chant, the syllables wet and crawling, and Chunk hums—a low, resonant sound that seems to vibrate the walls. The Legionaries lean closer, patient and immovable, as if they’ve been waiting centuries for this moment. A continuation of my series friends, hope you enjoy. <More loaves 🍞 and love, ignore the voice>