The Milk Marshes stretch endlessly in every direction.

Wide rivers of fresh milk flow slowly through the wetlands, their pale surfaces rippling lazily as bubbles of cream rise and pop. The air smells sweet, warm, and slightly sour, like milk left too long in the sun.

The banks are thick with damp cookie crumbs that stick to your boots with every step. Some areas are soft like wet dough, while others crunch loudly under your weight.

Broken biscuit islands drift quietly in the milk currents. Occasionally one bumps against the shore and crumbles into the water.

Everything is strangely calm.

Too calm.

You follow a narrow ridge of darker cookie crust along the edge of the river. It looks firmer than the rest of the marsh.

Crunch.

That step felt… thicker.

You glance down.

Your foot is resting on a long ridge of baked cookie crust studded with large chocolate chips.

The ridge moves.

Very slowly.

Cookie crumbs slide down into the milk with a wet splash.

The entire bank shifts beneath your weight.

A long snout pushes up from the mud, lined with jagged shards of white chocolate.

One eye opens.

The ground beneath you begins to move again.

You realize something important.

You are not standing on the riverbank.

You are standing on a Cookidile.