Two long arms slither on the ground as it stumbles forward. The pustules on its back pop painfully and it moans in an otherworldly tongue. It is wounded and gasping, but the two luminous arms shoot blindly at the intruders and drive them back through the gates. Death is no foe to the Great Ones, and they know no bounds when the strong overrun the weak. The things swarm frenziedly through the fungoid maze, and the Great Ones watch with anxious eyes as the blind, polypous bodies race listlessly down toward the grey twilight gulfs outside the forest. The wounded ones lie sprawled on the slimy floor, and one arm twitches gangrenously as it clutches at the dying body. The violet vapor seeps into the gulfs with shocking rapidity, and at intervals the dull tittering of those other two headless things makes hideous sounds. Never before have the fungoid things seemed so materialised, so shaken by a newer and more terrible menace. The sight makes one shiver, and the things sometimes clutch violently at the night-wind as their clutching reaches out to seize another writhing victim.