The woods grow unnaturally quiet as you stand among the birch trees, clutching the crude talisman you fashioned. The air chills when you whisper the old words: “For thee who makest me, I shall come. Thee who breaks me shall come undone.” The final syllable fades, swallowed by the forest—then something answers with a low, guttural groan... The Birch was coming. 🍃

A shape forms in the fog: tall, wrong, swaying like a lady in a wide-brimmed hat and long dress. But as she nears, the illusion cracks. Her “hat” is a crown of tangled branches, her body pale birch wood shaped into a twisted feminine form—complete with rigid wooden breasts and a hollow, skeletal face. She has no legs; instead, roots drag beneath her. Each step is jerky and unnatural, joints snapping like dry twigs, her movements accompanied by rattling clicks and animalistic growls. 💀

When she stops, her soulless eye sockets fix on you. The forest seems to bow around her. She tilts her head with a sharp creak, recognizing the talisman in your hand. Despite her monstrous form, her purpose settles over the clearing like a heavy vow. She knows who summoned her—who she must protect. 🍂