(whispers) It's free real estate!

… How can this be…?

The nightmare should have been hemmed in! For as long as he could remember, that oozing, pulsing monstrosity had always stayed safely within its delicate boundaries. The Guide's thoughts flew wildly as he watched the veins slowly, visibly weave themselves through the sod. Cancerous tendrils inched forward like worms, creeping fleshy abominations which fell apart at a touch. When the blisters burst, they spilled all manner of foul smelling fluid from their gaping wounds, staining the green grass blood red. Marking the soil as newly conquered territory.

Did the enchantment come undone? Why?! How?

Repulsed, The Guide tore his eyes from the loathsome sight and steeled his heart as he continued onwards. He was here to put his family to rest. Those who had been slain by that Vulture-headed mage. He'd bury them and say their final rights before proceeding down the path of bloody revenge. He had made them that promise in the caverns. He'd surely accomplish it.

But… but what was this?!

Yet while he was gone, something dreadful had happened. The sky was gloomy, as if clouds refused to part over this stained land. The air was still, stagnant, silent. No birds sang. No insects chittered. No breeze blew. The previously lush, earthy landscape now was stricken with a pungent and foul odor- eerily similar to that of a festering wound. The Guide tasted iron in the back of his throat with every drawn breath, and the smell only worsened as he proceeded. How much further was the village?

If… if the crimson's already here, then has The Village already been overrun?

His feet squelched in the blood soaked grass as he broke into a run. His new leather boots and fresh set of silken clothes (both courtesy of The Terrarian) were rapidly becoming stained with splattered gore, yet he paid them no mind. What were riches and comforts in the face of mindless, grotesque evil? What joy would silken sheets bring him if his childhood home was to become a haunt for staggering monstrosities?

… what about the bodies?! Did… did the crimson… urgh!

Vicious, spiny thorns tugged at his sleeves as he scrambled over the landscape's rough - but familiar topography. Oh, how the beautiful forest had been marred. Great, lush trees were now grey, monotonous husks of themselves. Blackish parasitic growths climbed those beautiful boughs, piercing the bark and sucking the sap like great leeches. Flesh hung like rags from the canopy, dropping pustules like horrid fruit. Where they fell, pulsing yellowish cysts spawned.

Urgh… is that…

Up ahead was a tall hill, one from which a person could observe the entirety of the village. At one time, The Guide's hometown was a walled fortress - a stronghold which stood on a sliver of land between two bodies of water. The positioning made it an ideal military garrison, and in ancient times, many a King had defended behind those now-broken walls. Now that The Jungle King had conquered the land and The Resistance had been driven into hiding, soldiers no longer patrolled these walls… yet, they were the last barricade against a different sort of threat. A much more terrifying one.

Oh… oh… no…

Legends of old told of the Dryad tribe. A powerful race of earthen spirits who engaged in a great battle against the lunar god. At the cost of their own lives, they gutted the god. They tore out his eyes. They cut out his brain. As he fell from the sky, his entrails spilled down upon the lush green earth. His blood permeated the ground. Infecting it, staining it. Where it fell, it spread like a parasite, like a great cancer. The lunar god's dying curse against the Dryad race. Their forests became pulsing nightmares. Their lush greenery became a gristly hell.

Why… why did it spread? Did… was it the Vulture-headed Mage?

And so - the parasite consumed the land. It spread as long as there was land to spread upon. It followed the coastline - driving out city after city. It was only then, when the infection crept upon the narrow peninsula, did the remaining Dryads take action. It was there they cast their final blessing. A powerful enchantment which halted the Crimson right there and then… and, if the records were to be trusted, it remained that way for a hundred years, right on the village doorstep. The Crimson hadn't been a threat since The Jungle Tyrant ascended the throne.

The Vulture headed mage must have done something… but why?! If the crimson escapes this place, will it doom the rest of the continent?

But now… now it was spreading once more. Consuming, assimilating all life in its path. Flesh, blood, body, soul. It consumed everything. Creatures became bloody skinless amalgamations, sometimes retaining features of their former selves. Tremendous dogs with exposed lungs and tongues where their eyes used to be wagged their horrific spiny tails. Stricken deer, turned into nothing but eye-covered abominations gnashed on the thorny bushes, bleeding everywhere they went. Humans?

Oh… is that...mom?… It can't be… no...

The Guide was so numbed by the sight, he didn't even feel the tears streaming off his face. Off in the distance, he saw her… his late mother. She was barely recognizable, but The Guide had looked at that face every day of his life. He knew it was her.

Oh…

Her jaw was dislocated, hanging so dramatically that it swung wildly by a single hinge. Upon her emaciated frame, great bulging growths seemed to power her staggering limbs. Steering her awkward, painful looking walk as she aimlessly wandered about - dead eyes rolling neurotically about in her skull. Her tongue flapped from beneath bloody broken teeth, moaning, groaning, screaming.

Aagh… aaahh…

The Guide looked down to see his hands trembling. His knees were weak. His heart, broken, shattered, rent in two. How horrid. How miserable. The hand of destiny was surely against him. It must be laughing at him from above. Not only had the townspeople been killed, but those The Guide held dear hadn't even been allowed to rest from that wicked ordeal. Their bodies had been brutalized and repurposed in the most grotesque fashion. Had their minds managed to escape into the void, or were they trapped somewhere in that living hell? How about their souls? Had they flown away, or had the crimson somehow collected them, storing them for some nefarious purpose.

Is… is mom hurting?

The Guide watched her as he stood frozen atop that hill. All around him, the foliage seemed to have noticed his presence. Tendrils were collecting about his feet - slowly crawling over his boots as if to tie him down. The trees seemed to inch toward him, drawing closer and closer, as if to pounce. His mother snapped her vacant gaze on him and began to stagger in his direction. She held out her arms, much like she used to… however, instead of comforting words, her throat uttered a ragged scream.

That scream… it struck his soul.

It was too much.

Too much.

He turned.

And he fled.

He needs a hug. One like, one hug.