Claunthe

It doesn't take long before a strange, inky substance begins pooling on the cobblestone, thick and viscous and shiny, growing ever larger until all at once black tendrils twist up from the ground in a helix and fall in on themselves at the height of a person. A head and neck emerge from the ooze like someone pulling clothing over their head, and arms follow shortly after, long and spindly.

A woman with rich periwinkle skin and eyes like emeralds, wearing a dress comprised of shifting, dripping sludge moving freely about her body, stand before Maxwell. "You rang, sweetheart?"