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Cloaked in a thick shroud of mist that perpetually follows it, the bog wight moves with a quick grace. Two burning red orbs stare out from its gaunt, emaciated face, devoid of any compassion or mercy. A fanged, lipless mouth accompanies its haunting eyes, the maggot-white skin of its face pulled so taught over its skull that it gives the impression of a bestial grin. Wisps of the miasma that enshrouds its nearly skeletal form whip back and forth as it glides about, writhing against its tattered robes.