The Jabberwock - Monster Of The Tulgey Wood

[Huge Sized Model - 75mm Base]

[Presupported with LYS files in 32mm & 75mm Scale]

A manxome creature of the Tulgey Wood, known for its slithy hide and whiffling gait. The Jabberwock is a conjuration of Mallory, an uffish and gobblesome beast whose hunger has never once been sated. Those who wander beneath the wood's snatchety boughs find themselves easy meals should they be nicked by the forest’s vorpal thorns, for the Jabberwock galumphs and gyres to the scent of blood, burbling as it comes. The last sight its victims see are the claws and jaws of the famgering beast, who will frabjously dine on their flesh thereafter.

‘Twas brillig, at cusp of Sprautum when first the Jabberwock was roused in the Tulgey Wood. Mallory had wrought it from mome shadows and outgrabe wishes, weaving the beast in the deepwood's murkling heart, where the borogoves dared not nest and even the raths knew better than to whiffle. She needed a guardian for the wood's snatchety paths, a thing so manxome and gobblesome that no gimble-hearted hero might pass beneath its boughs and live to tulge about it. The Jabberwock came burbling into being with eyes of flame and a hunger that had no bottom to it, and Mallory, looking upon her frumious creation, declared it fitly done.

The beast made its lair in the tumtum groves at the wood's black centre, where the trees grow wabe-wise and the light comes through all slithy and wrong. There it galumphs in long circuits through the mimsy dark, gyring and gimbling between the trunks with a grace that so vast a creature has no business possessing. The vorpal thorns of the wood are its heralds and its servants, for whatsoever blood they nick comes drifting to the Jabberwock on the tulgey air, and once the scent is caught there is no unbeing caught. Hunters have heard it coming from a mile distant, a whiffling and a burbling that grows never louder nor softer until suddenly it is upon them, and the last thing they know of the world is the snicker-snack of jaws that bite and claws that catch.

What few have fled the wood alive speak of it in halfwise words, as though the beast cannot be held in ordinary language and must be approached slantly or not at all. They speak of wings too small for its bulk that bear it aloft regardless, of a neck that sways like something drowned and dreaming, of a chortle it makes over its kills that sounds fragmously like joy. The bravest of Grimmvale's knights have sworn to slay it, sharpening their blades and with boastment words of their own coming triumph. The Jabberwock does not mind them. It has eaten brave before, and found it toothsome, and it waits in the tulgey deep with uffish patience for the next fool to come seeking it, frabjous and unafraid, so certain the old rhyme will end the way it ended once before. It will not. Mallory has seen to that. Callooh, callay.