The transformation was slow — a process of agony and surrender.
In the days that followed, Jonathan tried to resist. He hid in the caves surrounding the quarry, dragging his increasingly deformed body through the cold mud. His nails grew, hardening into whitish claws. His skin split into oozing fissures, revealing throbbing muscle beneath.
His voice vanished, replaced by deep, rasping sounds that made his ribcage vibrate like the drums of a forgotten war.
Inside him, the forest whispered. It fed on his memories — the faces of the victims, the pleas that still echoed fresh in Glastonbury’s blood-soaked soil. And with each memory devoured, Jonathan became less of a man and more... something primal, starving, eternal.
One morning, looking at his reflection in a muddy puddle, he no longer saw his own eyes, but two bluish orbs, glowing with an alien light. Thick tears ran down his torn face, leaving burning trails across the exposed flesh.
He tried to plunge a dagger into his chest — a final act of humanity.
But the blade shattered against his hardened bones.
His fate was sealed.
Jonathan was now the continuation of the Glawackus: no longer a solitary beast, but the conscious incarnation of the forest’s hunger.
And as the new herald of flesh and earth, he rose — starving for new offerings.
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