Underlanders cannot bleed, but the dread Queen of Underwocky (she/her) presses her blood into beads—beads which grow into eggs, eggs which hatch into underwocks, underwocks which tear apart Underlanders like great scarlet carrion birds. She haunts the Hollow Mountains, makes her nest within. She has five wings on her back, bloody sanguinity of feathers. She wears a crown of red steel points about her head, mockery of all that is holy.

Few who have survived have ever gotten more than a glimpse at her horrible majesty, but those few say beneath her razor bill is no deadened face, no withdrawn lips nor dehydrated eyeballs. It is something far more terrible, the ghost of the memory that taunts and sickens and starves the minds of all Underland: a breath, a pulse.

They do not remember where she came from. They do not remember as she does. They have forgotten who she is: the Queen of all Underland.

They have forgotten all about what happened last time, and the time before, and still the time before.