Other Hey there! I'll write a thing for you!

St. Clover

I'm bored and looking to get some experience in doing some writing, so here I am! Feed me a topic you'd like me to write something up for, and I'll give it a crack if it's within my ability (and comfort zone) to do so! Most of my experience is writing up descriptions for encounters in games like D&D and tabletops in general, but I can also do item descriptions and small scenes as well. Expect results to be between two and three paragraphs, might can go longer but it's far from guaranteed. I can also generate ideas for stuff if you want, too! Spitballing and cogitating is another thing I enjoy.

If you want to get in touch, just send me a DM on here! Or on the RPN Discord, I'm there too!
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...and chatter fills the air as you step out onto the street from the elevator. A wave of new sights and smells replaces the sterile air and monotony you've come to associate with interstellar travel. Riots of colors and shapes stretch down in either direction you look; crowds of people from all walks of life mingle among a backdrop of holographic signs and passing vehicles. The station is alive with activity, and you find yourselves right in the heart of it. Welcome to Absalom Station, welcome to the Heart of the Pact Worlds.

Here's an example of something I can generate on basically a dime!
Gallus roars and brings his mace down, missing the mark by a hair's breadth. Stone cracks and sulfur burns his nostrils as the erratic jerking of his foe sees the scepter-like hammerhead pulverize the sidewalk where it impacts, the swear he utters muffled by his helmet. He rolls his shoulders and lifts the weapon up, regarding the figure of his ire with contempt. Nothing can be seen of the person beneath the mask it wears; a horrid thing of ceramics and handwrought iron.

A part of him feels pity for the lost soul. He clings to that, forcing himself to remember why he's doing this. He loathes the choices made to reach this point, but he can't allow himself to forget.

Mother's Threads [d3] = [2]
[3d6] = [1, 6, 6]
Difficult = [1, 5, 5]

The subtle tremor in the legs gives Gallus the warning he needs to respond to the lunge that follows. Propelled by momentum that should've come from a full sprint, the once idle twinmind being throws itself forward with spectacular violence. Gallus meets the motion with an invocation, half-spoken syllables whose nature lies in the divine.

Golden threads bloom from the cracks in the pavement where the hammer struck, lashing out to grip the leg of the airborne figure and hold fast, jerking backwards to protect their charge. Gallus is just able to divert the lethal blow with the haft of his weapon, catching the extended hands with its sturdy siderite length.

Despite his size, the Urd finds himself scooted back nearly half-a-foot back. This is going to be tougher than he expected.

Here's one for Onmyoji Onmyoji !
...flames rage and time is running out fast. Myirn's thoughts race faster than his feet, which carry him through the smoldering brush and undergrowth. He can't rely on sight any longer, the smoke simply won't allow it. Beneath his robe he can feel his companion shivering at the thought of their impending immolation. He spits a curse under his breath at their turn of luck. This should've been nothing out of the ordinary; a controlled burn to clear the way for future growth and prosperity for this part of the forest. Now it threatened to doom them both.

Minutes tick by and nothing is as it should be. Every route and avenue of escape has been engulfed by the raging tide, which by this point has reached high into the treetops above them. This place, Myrin eventually concludes with a grim realization, will be his tomb. Fitting, in a way, that he'll help make the next generation of plants that call this place home just a bit healthier. As he turns from the last place he'd hoped would be their salvation, he makes his way towards the one place he knows will be able to save at least one of them.

The journey is swift and perilous, as painful emotionally as it is physically. By the time he reaches the spot, the edge of the glade they once called home, most of his body has been licked by the stinging caress of the inferno. He wastes no time in reaching into his robe, withdrawing the small creature within. There's no time for the words he wishes he could say, only enough to wish his companion luck for the future, and for one final embrace. Then it's time: the final spell is cast, a great gust of wind sends the leshy flying high, higher than the flames could ever hope to reach. A final call, the last words ever spoken by Myirn, summons one of the bravest denizens of the forest, a hawk, to snatch the poor thing from the sky and deliver him far from harm. The glade is consumed moments later.

Here's one for Kveykva Kveykva !
...swears as he trudges through the knee-high water, barely keeping his footing on the slimy rocks below. Dark and damp, as caves are wont to be, this particular excursion has proven thus far to be Torbeth's bane. Twenty minutes he's fought to make sense of the map he was given back in town. And twenty minutes he's tried to keep up hope that he wasn't swindled out of a hefty sum of silver for an evening promise. Another swear escapes his lips when he nearly slips once more, only just catching from careening into the water.

Aside from the sloshing of water against the walls and his ankles, the only other sound present in the quiet crackle of his torch. The man takes a few moments to right himself and reassess the map clutched in his right before continuing on.

He ponders over the borderline-illiterate scribbles for nearly five minutes before something catches his attention. Something moved. He tears his eyes from the parchment and scans the area; nothing but darkness beyond the edge of the torchlight, and smooth stone walls within. Then it moves again, this time enough for him to catch a solid glimpse. It's big, bigger than anything that has any right being here. He holds the torch in its direction, heart pounding, map falling to the waters below. His eyes bulge when the vaguely-humanoid shape peels itself out from the mosaic of shapes made by the dancing shadows cast up by the water and onto the walls.

A horrible face stares back at him; molted scales and deepset eyes betraying the intelligence behind its motions. Meters tall and just as broad, the hulking thing steps forward and bristles a backful of terrible spines at him. He wasn't swindled, Torbeth realizes in his final moments. He was-

Here's one for Akatsuki Watanabe Akatsuki Watanabe !
...riot of impossible colors and the rush of seawater that comes with the process. Nereus blinks with nonexistent eyes at the gloom around him, feeling the pressure of the ocean bearing down with its cold embrace. This is the place he and all the Nosferati call home, in these moments between lives. He fears it more than he fears anything. He never knows if the sea will finally claim its due, keep him in its murky depths for the rest of eternity. The Archons certainly didn't know, or even care if they did.

Fingers dig into the sediment beneath him, idly biding the seconds until he's jerked back into the fray. How many more times does he have? The question weighs heavily on his mind as the things out in the darkness loom closer. He's always wondered what they were. All his kin that underwent the process saw them, too. So they're not a figment of his fading imagination. Shapes begin to form and he can almost make out a detail or two: green, pure as an emerald, against the inky black of the sea. He frowns. He knows the color.

A great visage looms just at the edge of vision. Two greens, pure orbs of flickering soul-light, stare into him. He remembers, now. He knows the how and why, and the who: the green is what killed his people. The green is what tried to drag him, as it did everyone else, into the bog that it calls home. The green is what he was made to kill! The green reaches out; great reptilian fingers emerge and-

The process finishes. Breath fills his lungs and the briefly distant sounds of the waking world rush back in an instant. Nereus' eyes open, and he sees the sky. Blue. Blue and nothing else. Next time, though, he's sure it will be green.

Here's one for St. Clover St. Clover !
...much he hates living in this city. Despite the obvious benefits of better security and advances in nearly every aspect of infrastructure, there's been little done to make the place more accommodating to outsiders. Even a trip to the market is usually met with a game of try-not-to-be-crushed, a particular favorite of the locals by way of their failure to look down as much as they should!

These routine thoughts and more weigh down Henry's mood as he pulls himself up towards his apartment. Situated on one of the many residences in this part of the city, his home is more of a pantry built onto the side of the building in comparison to the much larger homes around it. The only way to get in or out is by a terribly slow elevator that requires his own efforts to move. Getting his furniture into the humble abode had been the worst sort of labor he'd faced in his life. And he'd worked with the dwarves in one of their mines at one point!

One of his neighbors passes by during his ascent up the nearly thirty-foot journey, offering a brusk, but polite, greeting. He returns it with a huff, doing his best to keep going despite the fatigue in his muscles. Everywhere is like this. Stairs require a hook and some rope, even! The stairs! It takes him about five more minutes to haul the platform up to his porch, with the day's haul of goods and other assorted belongings that weigh his soul down. By the time he's finished, once more Henry reminds himself that moving here was a mistake.

Got one this time for MrThe MrThe !
...flames rage as you rush down the corridor at full speed. Scant minutes have passed, yet the inferno waits for no one, and continues to spread despite the sprinkler's best efforts. Through the choking smoke and thermal haze you soon reach your destination: the apartment where the fire began. A number has been done on the otherwise sturdy frame and heavy oak door, but to you it might as well be made of balsa and tin. A swift and heavy blow is enough to fracture the bond between the two, granting you entry into the screaming blaze beyond.

Except the screams aren't from the fire alone. No, they're from people! Duty urges you inside, compelling you through the breach at record speed. Once through the fiery curtain, you're quick to assess the situation... and realize it's not at all what you anticipated.

Standing among the broken and smoldering furniture is a giant. He looms over the throng of creatures that move here and there among the wreckage, toying with or savaging the room's occupants. The flash of fangs and cybernetics in the firelight reveals the resident vampires to be falling prey to Osmium killer and his menagerie of stitched-horrors. As the screams of the nightkin prey continue to fill the room, the giant turns his head back to regard you. He smiles and welcomes you to the party. His metallic eyes glint with malicious glee as he asks if you'd like to join him. He promises it will be fun.

Another one, this for anon!
...bolts rain down around them, a seemingly endless hail of iron from the heavens above. Men fall and screams fill the air as the militia scrambles for what cover they can find. Finn mutters a desperate prayer on his lips as he for the protection of a nearby cart. Solid thunks issue from the vehicle as its frame is peppered by the volley. Pressed against the wheel, Finn trembles in anticipation for what comes next. He's no soldier, but he knows that this sort of thing is probably followed by something far worse. His fears are confirmed when he hears the loud bellow of a trumpet.

Mere seconds after the hillside is done being turned into a pincushion, the enemy makes their move. Finn dares to brave a glance around the edge of the wagon, sighting the bridge and forest beyond. What remains of their men huddle together in preparation for whatever might come their way, and that seems to be the mounted lords of high birth. The sunlight glints off the armor adorning them and their steeds as they gallop from the treeline, entering the open space and making way towards the bridge. This is it, Finn thinks, fresh fear welling inside him. Their own archers begin to fire, he can hear orders being issued and people move to their positions.

There's only so much a handful of people, knights or no, can do against their numbers, right? That gives him a small measure of comfort. He rises from his spot and begins making his way towards his own place in the grand picture of the upcoming fray. For once he thinks they might actually have a real chance.

Then he sees the riders avert their course. They make for the place where the river is less treacherous, more traversable. His eyes widen. More join them, enough to nearly quadruple the previous number. They ride after their brothers-in-arms. Half their number ride out from another break in the treeline, making for another route to accost them from. Finn's eyes widen.

He looks to the retainers on the nearby hill, hoping, praying. His heart sinks when he sees them idling their horses in indecision; torn between staying or fleeing. There was never any hope, was there?

Here's one for Lorsh Lorsh !
...nearly ten minutes waiting, and the novelty of watching the ratter has long since worn off. Yawning for the fifth time in as many minutes, Topaz brings her knees up to her chest and asks how much longer Harper intends to drag this out. She's met with a mean look from the mar, who retorts with it taking as long as it'll take. Her eyes roll into the back of her head with the groan she gives in response. She hates when he's like this. She hates waiting.

Harper, for his part, ignores her melodramatics and continues inspecting his things. The trademark body armor is secured to him; heaps of straps, buckles and waxed leather lined with pliable metal in places ensures nothing is getting through without working for it. His belt is sharply buckled and the tools adorning it are situated snugly in their correct places. The last thing to do is put his mask, his face, on. That's always his favorite part, his present company's thoughts nonwithstanding. He reaches out to pick the rubber cowl and accompanying beak-mask up, and begins affixing them with practiced ease.

He can hear Topaz saying something, but her voice is muffled as the mask is pulled over his head. The world goes nearly silent for almost thirty seconds; nothing save the quiet clicking of the mechanisms in the beak can be heard. Filtered air fills his nostrils once the mask has sealed itself, allowing him the heightened clarity afforded by its magetech enchantments.

He turns to face the draconian, who offers him a sarcastic quip on his attractiveness in the getup. In turn he confirms that PPE is all the rage right now, and she's lucky to be working with him tonight. The snort of smoke she gives makes him laugh, the sound hollow and metallic through the mask's filter.

Here's one for Ashvaliaen Ashvaliaen !
...has been pretty dry around the area, lately. The middle of summer always is. Spring storms have spent themselves ushering in the new year with an abundance of verdant green across the land. They need time to recharge. That doesn't stop folks for wanting a little more, though. Especially for the ones who tend to the more ornamental of crops and such. Or the ones who grow the stuff everyone else needs to survive. Be nice if things would get a little wet, wouldn't it? The bones think so. They think loudly, and often.

From their place at the foot of the unremarkable headstone, the bones ponder many things throughout the endless days that both curse and bless their existence. They muse about the turn of fortune the grail gave them. The itch that never quite goes away. The loneliness. That's the worst part, probably. Well, besides the occasional dog or fox that tries to make off with part of them. The bones don't like that much.

They do like the company that keeps most of the scavengers at bay, though. The same company, the bones know, that'll give the residents of town some rumbling thunder next week. Right, Corvus?

Got another one for Kveykva Kveykva
...reeled from the buckle that decided to take issue with the side of her face. She sputtered a crocodilian curse in prisotan and a hand flew to where the belt had left a gnarly cut in its wake. Anger flared in those green eyes, prompting Veseth to retaliate by lunging at the offending scuttler in the instant that followed when she regained her bearings. The woman, an urd of lofty height by comparison, yowled fiercely when a set of ivory chompers bit deep into her forearm. She tumbled down to the barroom floor with Veseth in tow, punching at the clearly deranged girl. Veseth, for her part, saw this as only fair. She could've, after all, spat more than just figurative fire at her opponent.

Here's another one I did for St. Clover St. Clover !
...across the city the voices of the dead howled. From the lowest wretch to the highest corporate executive, all joined the chorus of the departed in their desperate attempt at beseaching salvation. Unseen winds whipped down the streets and through winding alleyways, carrying the pleas and demands of the hateful, the scared and the lost. The object of their obsession wouldn't ignore them. They wouldn't let him. And the words that formed in the wake of the winds ensured he couldn't: scrawled across surfaces both public and private, from the highest penthouse to the deepest basement, the unliving called to their would-be savior; WITNESS. HE SEES US. WE SEE YOU. SAVE US. SEE US.

Whoah, hey! Two in a row!? Here's one for Kveykva Kveykva !
...felt the heat of the flames through the thin bodyglove he wore. Nereus watched the crackling bonfire with corpse-eyes, enjoying the quiet moment he shared with the nothingness around him. No, not nothingness. Just nothing that called him to action once again. He glanced around and took in the snow-covered ground, the white treeline and the glittering stars above. The Homeworld loomed large distance, dominating the night sky with its storms and rings. The Reef, they called it. These near-orbit moons that were all that were left of the Old Imperium's achievements in lunar orbit control. He called one of the distant moons home, but he'd forgotten its name centuries ago. He'd forgotten most things from those days. Death had a habit of stealing things when they, the Big Green surely taking her due for defying the natural order of things.

Or maybe it was just how the Archons had intended it. The strange aeons that birthed the Qua Nosferati were certainly not without flaw. They'd been prototypes, after all. Proofs of concept that the Imperium could bring a true, lasting death to their ancient foes. They'd been called Wyrm Eaters. Yet they'd never so much as laid eyes on a single dragon, or their kin, in the entire recorded history of modern Imperium. That hardly mattered now, he mused. The Imperium was dead, its people and dwellings dragged into the mire, and the slate wiped clean thanks to the hubris of the Archons.

He pushed the thoughts from his mind. Right now was a time of peace. He forced himself to focus on the now, ignoring the yearning for bygone days that clung his hindthoughts. He was here, they weren't. That was all that mattered. He reached out and stoked the kindling with his combat-blade once again, choosing to fight this battle instead of the one his mind insisted he dwell on instead.

Lordy, St. Clover St. Clover won't stop asking for these things!
...watched in amazement as the prisota produced a knife from the waistband of her pants. She held it up for him to inspect, and he was dumbfounded at what he saw: no larger than a razor blade, and scarcely more complex, the edge glinted in the hazelight. This, Veseth announced, was a Molly. The infamous everyman's knife, the blade carried by everyone in the city and the reason why people from there were frisked far more thoroughly than those from without.

Harper could hardly believe it. He expressed as much by asking how this tiny piece of sharpened plasteel had such a cult following. When Veseth told him that it was just how things were, he was distinctly reminded how he'd been warned that the people of the Bulwark City were unique in their own way. Only now did he realize that that meant they were, all of them, never without a means of cutting someone over the smallest provocation. This was only compounded when he saw the fellow freelancer resheath the item, noting the virtually undetectable leather sheath sewn into the hem of the garment.

They could be hidden anywhere, he realized. Veseth noticed the stare, confirming his thoughts with a remark that hers was one of the more common places to stash a Molly. Harper decided then and there that the people of the Bulwark City were, to a person, insane. He missed home. At least there, people were encouraged to openly display their arms, and things made sense. Here, though, anything could be made into a weapon; from newspapers and belts, the Bulwark City had a monopoly on turning the mundane into a tool for hooliganism.

Here's a random thing I wrote up featuring the infamous Molly knife from one of my projects/rps!
...length of quarts maybe a foot long, its lower end wrapped in a simple leather strip affair. It glowed with an internal light, rosy and flushed. Veseth recognized it at once: a chivvy, the choice of rogues and mugs that didn't mind a more overt means of murder. Plunged into the victim, the paper-thin ward containing the oversaturated magical charge would wane, leaving the weapon to explode with enough force to remove a limb. Or worse. She swore and put some more distance between herself and its owner, eyes fixed on the needle-like point being brandished in her direction.

Here's a thing for Ashvaliaen Ashvaliaen !
...stab at her, just missing the mark by a couple inches. She weaves to the side and goes on the backfoot, jabbing out at the lady with a mean left hook. It clocks her right in the jaw, and sparks go shooting every whichaway as she goes sprawling out to the floor. She's out like a light, and that knife of hers clatters to the floor beside her. Next thing Veseth's doing is hooking it with a toe-claw, popping it up before giving it a swift kick across the room where it hits the wall and bursts into a cloud of splinters and pink mist. And then after that she gives the owner a parting gift to the back of the head, courtesy of the same foot.

Trying to use that kinda shit in this town; she spits on the mug in disgust and straightens her coat. Gonna need a stiff drink after this, she thinks to herself while backing away from the scene, maybe a couple if this decides to stick with me.

A followup for Ashvaliaen Ashvaliaen again!
...across the deck he moved, not once stopping till his grim work was done. There was a blade brandished in one hand; long as a man's arm yet wielded like a mere knife in the giant's armored fist. He swung it to and fro with a ghastly precision, every stroke ending the life of whatever unfortunate soul was close at hand. He hated this, hated the memories it churned up from the bygone days of the Imperium. From beginning to present, it seemed, he was destined to be a tool for others to wield in their own interests. Archon or Guilder; leal hound or hired gun, no matter the master or circumstance, the natural death he'd avoided seemed to always take its bloody due from others instead. And often by his own hand.

Got one for that St. Clover St. Clover dork!
There was something of an annoyed hiss that eked its way out of the corner of Veseth's mouth when she turned around to address the new elephant in the room. Sure as shit, her Regent was laid flat and smoldering in illusory fire. She kicked the leg of the table in frustration; said as much too, that it was the third time in a row Harper'd pulled the wool over her eyes with the Crown Killer gambit. Antler boy corrected it to four, but she weren't having none of it and flipped him off instead.

Harper rolled his eyes at the megasaurass, leaving that gesture to hang while he turned his focus back to Asim. Made a comment about the practicality of them runes; how they were gonna get him a good headstart on getting in good with the folks in town. Once word got out that he'd brought a new style of wyrdcraft to the table, and to a local hotspot like the Cutting Threads, it was bound to get some people talking.

They loved that sorta thing, he explained. It was a core part of Urd culture: gabbing about everything was expected.

Veseth chimed in that she wished people'd talk about shit that really mattered, instead of just gossip. So that way you didn't end up with people like the scaleboy's kin who thought a lack of clothes got you some kinda magical whatever. Or the misconception that dragons were real. She snorted at that one, even puffed out a bit of smoke.

Another for Ashvaliaen Ashvaliaen !
...but ruins left in the wake of the skirmish, vestiges of a once bustling town-square reduced to this. Screams echo off in the distance and the gushing of ruptured water lines mix with the electric crack of sparking power lines. Dust hangs in the air like a thick bank of morning fog. There's been violence here. Incredible violence. One just has to glance upward to see the shattered remnants of the upper floors of nearby buildings, or the pulverized foundations of more humble abodes to know that. The scores of blood streaking more than a few surfaces tell the rest of the story.

Razor grunts from the exertion of his part in it all; there's nothing about him that's not screaming in agony right now. Dozens of near misses with his brother's scythe have left him pockmarked with lacerations that mix nicely with the bruises and burns that join them.

He glances down at his own weapon, noting the chips and microfractures along its blade. The sword's seen better days for sure. He'll need to fix it when this is done. He pushed the thought from his mind and refocuses on the situation at hand: not twenty feet away is the still form of his brother, still poised to strike at a moment's notice. That damned scythe is still in his hands, waiting for another chance to take his head in the space between seconds. It's a deadly combination, that; a world of frozen time and the reaper's personal tool used by someone with years of training.

Raz sucks in a pained breath through broken ribs and pushes off his sword-turned-crutch. Maybe that's the issue here. Maybe he's been using the wrong weapon. The movement makes Mori twitch, readjusting his stance to pounce. Raz watches his brother's muscles tense and moves before Mori's foot even leaves the ground. There's a flurry of rampant swings and frantic evasions, and in the ensuing exchange Raz finds himself rapidly overwhelmed by his brother's murderous intent. The only thing that saves him in the end is a fan of knives conjured at just the last second, a canopy of tiny spears that keep Mori from ending him when time bends its knee to him one last time.

Metal screams when the world reasserts control and Raz rushes to meet it. He spins on his heel and launches himself through the field of blades and over his brother's extended scythe, careening into its owner with enough force to slam them both into the ground. His arms wrap tight around the thrashing figure, tight enough that it'd break a lesser man's bones. He ignores the challenge presented by the threats of death that come from his brother's lips, choosing instead to meet them with the only card left in his hand: a despair-filled plea for his older brother to come home. A score of new injuries are added as the words slip from his mouth, Mori taking no breaks from headbutting or biting at his brother's vulnerable state. But Raz keeps going. For nearly a minute straight he apologizes again and again, holding onto his beloved sibling for dear life.

It's only after the last convictions are delivered that he feels himself begin to slip into the inky void of unconsciousness. His brother's stilled by this point, whether to conserve his energy or not, Raz doesn't know. All he knows is that he tried. He gave it his best shot and that's all he can hope for.

He sighs, lets out what may be his final breath... and right at the cusp of awareness, feels someone embrace him. The last thing he hears before the darkness embraces him is the voice of someone he knew long, long ago. And from what he can tell, they're back. Hopefully for good. He smiles.

Here's a thing for SugarBiscuit SugarBiscuit !
...circled one another, probing for the slighted hint of an opening. There was a sort of kinship between them, Nereus thought; the woman before him was as much a tool to her makers as he was. Except her makers had been the gods themselves, and their role for her had been far grander than anything his own masters could've ever envisioned. Part of him lamented the fact they now came to blows, that they couldn't set their impersonal conflict aside and discuss their place in the world. They'd have a lot to talk about, he reasoned. Both of them had seen more than a few centuries of wonders that no one else had, surely.

The Rider made some remark beneath the mithsteel helm she wore, barely a whisper above the swiring gale around them. Nereus' armor picked the sound up, boosted it and translated it into something resembling Imperial Common; the cold words that filled his ears carried the latest of the Firstborn's attempts to demoralize and intimidate him.

He frowned. The legends were proving to be true: the Wild Hunt had indeed fallen from grace. Legendary warriors and cultivators once renowned for their compassion and patience, their hearts were now hardened and spiteful. He needed only look at the array of bones and other trophies adorning her form to see that. The grip on his weapon tightened, his aim adjusted and he bared his teeth beneath the porcelian features of his own warhelm.

The Rider saw this coming and had already leapt when he pulled the trigger. He died before hearing the awful sound of an injured Rider that followed. It was the sound of breaking ice and children's screams.

Here's another for Ashvaliaen Ashvaliaen !
...echoes and crackles of torchlight are your companions as you trace your way through the winding halls of the hypogean palace. Old stones tell a thousand stories of the once-grand nature of this place, their worn facets still clinging to a degree of majesty. Minutes pass and soon you find yourselves at the precipice of a chamber: beyond the broken archway and short stairways lies a wide-open space big enough to house a crowd of at least a hundred.

Broken masonry intermingles with thick vines and ferns here and there, interspaced with clusters of luminsecent mushrooms and other curious sights. Thrown in among them, too, are a sea of mossy bones that jut up here and there beneath the foliage.

Silence fills the space until you take your first steps forward; then hell follows on your heels an instant later.

Their eternal rest disturbed by your intrusion, the graveyard of untended remains stirs and the denizens make their displeasure known with a deep, throaty growl from places unseen. Plant matter is shredded as the various bits of once-persons fly from their hiding places and into the air; they collect together in a rapidly-growing clump of elongated, writhing nightmares that quickly begins to take a familiar shape.

A serpent. They're forming a serpent! It takes only moments for the transformation to complete; and when the hateful force has finished its work, a gurtled roar tears from its spiked throat. Rising high above you, the room is now filled with the great bulk of a vaguely-draconic serpent whose length is as wide as a windmills blades, and its teeth hundreds of corpse-wrought daggers.

It regards you with empty sockets of spiteful malice, ready to punish you for your intrusion into its domain.

Here's one for anon!
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