The faithful who linger too long beneath the beacon’s shine begin to unravel. The larval seed within them grows restless, devouring flesh and thought until only instinct remains. Their bodies twist into new forms, neither mortal nor insect, reshaped by the radiance they once worshiped.

Silken wings bloom through torn skin, dripping with dust that glows faintly in the dark. Faces split into masks of compound eyes and trembling mouths. They hum constantly, a low and mournful music that shivers through the fog. Their steps are erratic, their motions uncertain, as though still learning to live within their new flesh.

Metamorphs hunger for sweetness and rot alike, feeding from the swamp’s decay as if tasting the world for the first time. To them, every scent and sound is colored by the Waybeacon’s light. It is no longer a thing of faith, now always compelled to draw nearer to the flame.

When they move, the air fills with drifting dust and the faint flutter of half-born wings. They are worship given shape, devotion stripped of thought, and in their hollowed minds there remains only one desire: to reach the light, even if it consumes them.