Pholsith roams the dead woods with a rusted, blood-slick shovel clenched in his rotting jaws. Once a mortal wolf, buried alive under cursed soil, he clawed his way back- dragging the very tool used to entomb him. His flesh hangs in strips, his bones crack with each step, yet he never stops digging. Wherever he wanders, shallow graves gape open. Victims are not simply slain; they are buried alive, left to suffocate beneath the earth before Pholsith exhumes them to feast. Behind him stalks a spectral figure- antlered and skull-faced- his lingering consciousness, watching the carnage he can no longer control. Some say it whispers to him, guiding his shovel to the next victim. You’ll know Pholsith is near when you hear metal scraping stone and smell fresh-dug earth mixed with blood. Those sounds mean your grave is already being dug, and once the digging stops, there’s no escape..
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Summerween

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