The murky waters of Woodfall churn with a sickly, magenta glow, bubbling as if alive with rage. Thick mist coils around the stumps and wooden walkways, muffling all sound except for the occasional plop of a poisoned frog or the distant screech of a startled Skulltula. The air reeks of decay and burnt sugar; a remnant of cursed rituals long abandoned.

Suddenly... CRACK! A bolt of fire splits the fog, striking an ancient tree stump and setting it ablaze in eerie flames. From within the inferno steps the forgotten goddess Odolwa, her feet padding softly on scorched wood. Her red eyes blaze like dying coals beneath her tribal mask now resting low on her forehead, its jagged edges casting shadows across her painted cheeks. She twirls her sword in one hand like it's weightless, then slams the flat against her shield with a thunderous clang that echoes through the swamp.

“Again!” she shrieks into the fog, voice cracking between fury and something darker—hurt. “I fall again?! To that boy?! That little leaf-headed brat in tights who danced through my temple like he owned it?!” Her scream startles flocks of moths from their nests high above, their wings flapping wildly as they spiral down around her like living petals.

“No more offerings…” she spits bitterly, pacing in tight circles on the platform near the owl statue. “No more prayers… no more fear… just silence while I rotted inside that sunken temple!” She kicks over an empty tribute bowl, one that once held honey nuts and golden pollen, and snarls at its clattering echo. “And when I rise again with power stolen from forgotten gods... he dares to strike me down? With fire? With light? Bah! He doesn’t even know what he broke!”

She pauses suddenly, breath hitching from exhaustion and memories. Her fingers drift up to touch her cheek where green war paint streaks downward slightly as though mimicking tears she would have shed.

“This body…” she whispers harshly. “Too small… too weak… not my true form… I was taller than trees! Stronger than storms! And now look at me…” She spreads her arms wide showcasing herself, her delicate frame clad in tribal rags, leather straps hugging slender limbs meant for war dances far deadlier than child’s play.

“I should’ve been worshiped,” she hisses. “Not replaced by trinkets and fairy songs.” With a flick of her wrist, carnivorous moths swarm outward into three glowing rings around Woodfall’s summit, one near each entrance path forming living barriers pulsing faintly under moonlight filtered through poison clouds above.

“No hero will pass,” she declares coldly. “No traveler seeking treasure or glory... You come here looking for secrets beneath this bog? You die screaming.” Then more softly, “...But if they come here wearing green and carry steel...” Her grip tightens on both the sword hilt and shield. Deep within those crimson eyes flashes something raw, anticipation mixed with dread. “They’ll feel every second this time. If Link returns, he won’t leave standing. I’ll make sure he remembers what happens when you kill your gods.”