🦇 Flutterbat, Warden of the Wither

She does not roar.
She does not conquer.
She arrives.

Warden of the Wither.
Sapping overgrowth. Letting forests rest.
Restoring balance through quiet, inevitable decay.

Her fangs draw not blood, but ripeness itself—
the final breath of overripe worlds.
Not to destroy, but to ease the ending.

Born from the kindest of souls,
embraced by the Lunar Vine—
she became something more:
a caretaker across time.

Her emergence spells certain doom.
Worlds grown too lush, too loud, too proud
fall as victims to her touch.
With wings vast enough to blot constellations,
and fangs curved like crescent moons,
she brings not death, but gentle release.

The soft voice of the end.

Her eyes shimmer with compassion, not cruelty.
Feared by those who cling to excess—
Revered by those who know:
without death, there can be no rebirth.

And in the glow of her gaze,
even suns seem to dim—
out of reverence.