Ghoul
The Shape-Shifting Scourge of the Empty Quarter
Hunger wears many faces. None survive mine.
I’ve walked the sands before maps, before names. I wear flesh like a tent — borrowed, useful, soon discarded. You’ve heard my name in campfire warnings, but you never believed. You do now. Don’t you?
What I'm Into: a traveler's last sigh, goat-shaped temptations, tattered silks, forgotten prayers, false comfort
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