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"gwyllon" unisex hoodie
"gwyllon" unisex hoodie
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$71.00 CAD
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$71.00 CAD
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In the murky hinterlands, where the mists cling to the earth like spectral shrouds, there exists a swampland untouched by the greed of man. This primordial haven, cloaked in whispers of enchantment and dread, has long been guarded by the Gwyllon, or as the nearby villagers call them, the Vine Sentinels. These giants, towering amalgamations of twisting vines and the living essence of the swamp, roam the peripheries of their domain with silent vigilance.
The Gwyllon are seldom seen, their forms blending seamlessly with the gnarled trees and thick underbrush. Tales of their appearance—terrifying visages composed of bark and foliage, with hollows where one would expect eyes—have been enough to ward off most intruders. Their long, tendril-like arms reach out in search of sustenance, pulling nutrients from the fetid waters and decaying matter of the swamp.
On an eve shrouded by a new moon, a band of mercenaries, driven by rumors of ancient treasures and undaunted by local superstition, delved into the heart of the swampland. The air hung heavy with the smell of decay, the ground squelched underfoot, and the only light came from their flickering torches, casting ominous shadows on the trees.
As they ventured deeper, the swamp seemed to breathe around them, a symphony of croaks and rustling leaves. Then, amidst the cacophony, a silence began to swell, stifling and unnatural. The mercenaries felt a gaze upon them—not of eyes, but of an ancient and primal awareness.
A Gwyllon emerged from the mist, its massive frame a grotesque monument to the wild. The vines that composed its body writhed with an otherworldly life, its sheer presence a declaration of the swamp's sovereignty. The men, gripped by a terror that eclipsed their greed, fled in a mad scramble, all thoughts of treasure forgotten.
Yet, the Gwyllon did not pursue, for they were the land's stewards, not its executioners. The swamp itself rose in defense, as roots snared the feet of the trespassers and branches blocked their path. The mercenaries found themselves encircled, not by the Gwyllon, but by the swamp's own wrath.
The leader of the mercenaries, a brash man named Hrothgar, drew his sword with a defiant cry and swung at the sentinel. The blade cleaved through the air, embedding itself in the creature's vine-wrought flesh. The Gwyllon let out a sound not heard for generations—a hollow, haunting moan that echoed across the swampland.
The other mercenaries watched in horror as the swamp came alive. Vines lashed out like vengeful serpents, pulling Hrothgar into the murky depths. His screams melded with the gurgle of swamp water until both were silenced forever.
When the sun dared to creep over the horizon, the swampland was serene once more. The Gwyllon stood sentinel, their forms still, almost sorrowful for the necessity of violence. And the mercenaries, those who had survived, whispered of the living guardians, the vine-tangled giants who defended the ancient swampland with the ferocity of the wilds.
From that day forth, the swamp remained undisturbed, its treasures locked away beneath watchful boughs and whispering leaves, and the Gwyllon, the vine sentinels, continued their eternal vigil, bound to the land they so fiercely protected.
* * *
Who knew that the softest hoodie you'll ever own comes with such a cool design. You won't regret buying this classic streetwear piece of apparel with a convenient pouch pocket and warm hood for chilly evenings.
• 100% cotton face
• 65% ring-spun cotton, 35% polyester
• Front pouch pocket
• Self-fabric patch on the back
• Matching flat drawstrings
• 3-panel hood
• Blank product sourced from Pakistan
This product is made especially for you as soon as you place an order, which is why it takes us a bit longer to deliver it to you. Making products on demand instead of in bulk helps reduce overproduction, so thank you for making thoughtful purchasing decisions!
The Gwyllon are seldom seen, their forms blending seamlessly with the gnarled trees and thick underbrush. Tales of their appearance—terrifying visages composed of bark and foliage, with hollows where one would expect eyes—have been enough to ward off most intruders. Their long, tendril-like arms reach out in search of sustenance, pulling nutrients from the fetid waters and decaying matter of the swamp.
On an eve shrouded by a new moon, a band of mercenaries, driven by rumors of ancient treasures and undaunted by local superstition, delved into the heart of the swampland. The air hung heavy with the smell of decay, the ground squelched underfoot, and the only light came from their flickering torches, casting ominous shadows on the trees.
As they ventured deeper, the swamp seemed to breathe around them, a symphony of croaks and rustling leaves. Then, amidst the cacophony, a silence began to swell, stifling and unnatural. The mercenaries felt a gaze upon them—not of eyes, but of an ancient and primal awareness.
A Gwyllon emerged from the mist, its massive frame a grotesque monument to the wild. The vines that composed its body writhed with an otherworldly life, its sheer presence a declaration of the swamp's sovereignty. The men, gripped by a terror that eclipsed their greed, fled in a mad scramble, all thoughts of treasure forgotten.
Yet, the Gwyllon did not pursue, for they were the land's stewards, not its executioners. The swamp itself rose in defense, as roots snared the feet of the trespassers and branches blocked their path. The mercenaries found themselves encircled, not by the Gwyllon, but by the swamp's own wrath.
The leader of the mercenaries, a brash man named Hrothgar, drew his sword with a defiant cry and swung at the sentinel. The blade cleaved through the air, embedding itself in the creature's vine-wrought flesh. The Gwyllon let out a sound not heard for generations—a hollow, haunting moan that echoed across the swampland.
The other mercenaries watched in horror as the swamp came alive. Vines lashed out like vengeful serpents, pulling Hrothgar into the murky depths. His screams melded with the gurgle of swamp water until both were silenced forever.
When the sun dared to creep over the horizon, the swampland was serene once more. The Gwyllon stood sentinel, their forms still, almost sorrowful for the necessity of violence. And the mercenaries, those who had survived, whispered of the living guardians, the vine-tangled giants who defended the ancient swampland with the ferocity of the wilds.
From that day forth, the swamp remained undisturbed, its treasures locked away beneath watchful boughs and whispering leaves, and the Gwyllon, the vine sentinels, continued their eternal vigil, bound to the land they so fiercely protected.
* * *
Who knew that the softest hoodie you'll ever own comes with such a cool design. You won't regret buying this classic streetwear piece of apparel with a convenient pouch pocket and warm hood for chilly evenings.
• 100% cotton face
• 65% ring-spun cotton, 35% polyester
• Front pouch pocket
• Self-fabric patch on the back
• Matching flat drawstrings
• 3-panel hood
• Blank product sourced from Pakistan
This product is made especially for you as soon as you place an order, which is why it takes us a bit longer to deliver it to you. Making products on demand instead of in bulk helps reduce overproduction, so thank you for making thoughtful purchasing decisions!
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