He's coming. I can hear him. Smell him. You can too, if you sniff hard enough. That sickly-sweet scent, hanging in the air: That's ammonia. That quiet scrape, scrape scrape... That's the sound of his foul greaves, rending existence where his feet fall. He roams, his abhorrently disgusting scent sowing fear and carnage where he wanders. Pay attention (And spirit stones), or he'll come. And boy, does he smell like shit.