As any ectobiologist worth their salt circle knows, ghosts naturally undergo energy decay as they age. This process takes a very long time, on the order of anywhere from several decades to tens of thousands of years, but all ghosts eventually fade. (This is why every inch of the earth is not covered in wandering souls, despite the living being greatly outnumbered by the dead!)
As ghosts go through the various stages of their degradation, they take a variety of forms. Last is of course, ectoplasm. Ectoplasm is the primordial spirit-stuff, pseudomatter without any remaining consciousness or signs of post-life. But one step above ectoplasm, is the phenomenon known as ghost moss.
A Dungeon is a specific type of naturally-occurring pocket dimension which can form when a certain series of conditions are met. Much like mushrooms growing in damp and shady areas, a Dungeon can arise anywhere where there are monsters, traps, winding halls, tantalizing treasures, places to explore and hazards to encounter. The basic life cycle of a Dungeon is as follows:
The base structure of a Dungeon is created and allowed to fall into some degree of disrepair. This is usually somewhere subterranean and sectioned off into many enclosed rooms and passageways. Examples include libraries, basements, sewers, cave systems, mineshafts, parking garages, subway tunnels, and of course, literal mundane dungeons.
The Dungeon gradually accumulates hazards and valuable items. As conditions deteriorate, the Dungeon becomes populated first with dangerous vermin, then with bigger and more exotic creatures. At the same time, people will enter wishing to store something valuable where it will be protected by the natural hazards of the Dungeon, installing additional traps along the way. Alternately, they will enter simply because they wish to explore, and are curious as to what could be inside, likely having heard rumors about treasures or wondrous artifacts. Most of either group usually die, leaving their valuables on their cooling corpse and providing a source of nutrition for the monstrous denizens within, as well as bait for future adventurers.
im writing a book and its called the Book of Wounds. actually writing is probably the wrong word im really just living and the Book is being written about the things i do. like sometimes i fuck up and break a glass and cut my hand and that goes in the Book because i got hurt but didnt really deserve it. although im not so sure about that because i did drop a glass so it is my fault that it broke and my fault that i got cut. but its only a little cut and not even a big deal so who cares i guess.
the Book of Wounds is written about every single time someone has ever gotten hurt and not deserved it. its existed pretty much forever i guess or at least ever since some ape was smart enough to watch another ape die and think “why did this happen. who caused this?” im not the only person in the Book. i bet most people are in it actually.
The Phlebotomist’s Rose is in fact, not a rose. This name is a misnomer. While its genetic code draws from many sources both plant and animal, it is taxonomically more of a succulent, with a bit of leech mixed in. However, it is still similar enough in breed and appearance to be called a rose, and really, what is a rose by any other name? This is only a saying, of course. One should take care to never misname their roses.
The Phlebotomist’s Rose was originally bred by the gardener-monks of High Petrichor in the late 17th century, as a safer and more visually appealing method for drawing blood. Upon breaking the skin, the hollow thorns would siphon blood into the fleshy petals, which could then later be slit, and the viscera drained. The cut would seal quickly, and could then be used again on another patient or specimen.