The Lump and his lumplings for Turnip28

In the swamps of Cist, among rotting roots and thick mist, a hut on chicken legs wanders. Its inhabitants call it Gibber. And it’s not because of the creaking doors or the dangling weather vane. The hut talks. Well, sort of tries to.

Its voice is a mix of creaking wood, the whisper of wind, and strange sobs. “Whaaa-whooo's theeeere? Kwaar-r?” it mutters, moving on its chicken legs covered in mud. Each step it takes is a dramaaaaaa. One leg veers to the left, the other stumbles to the right, and the hut barely manages to avoid toppling into another swamp.

Around it, its “children” constantly fuss—tiny birdhouses with little legs. They squeak, scurry about, and try to catch flies. One of them, a particularly cheeky one, once stole half of a dried pie from the hut and now runs around with it like a trophy, terrifying the swamp toads.