Human physiology made it impossible to look directly at the thing from close range. Its light stung the retinas even through closed eyelids, stubbornly worming through the gaps to liquefy the vitreous humor into the same white, viscous, acidic fluid.
Yet it gave off no heat. The skin it illuminated felt only a chill, like being touched by an aquatic soft-bodied creature, along with a power of some unknown mechanism that made one sink into it without realizing.
The tentacles that had reached their target rose together and detached from the body. The movement itself created a thin mist of shifting colors around it. Eyes unable to clearly project images onto what they saw would perceive an angel in gorgeous robes upon a holy throne, opening an embrace of hundreds of arms and thousands of fingers to its followers.
And the powder that burned mucous membranes fell like scattered flames, scorching countless fine needle tips red as they stabbed at every neuron.
Approaching it drowned mortal sight, smell, and touch in an incomprehensible onslaught of stimulation, while layered chants echoed from the gaps between the fungi.
"So anyone who faces it will probably never be able to enjoy a choir again." Kraft closed his eyes and held his breath for the moment, observing through his mental organ the thing that mortal senses were never meant to encounter.
His mental perception could not yet take in its full form. More winding tentacles stretched away behind it, disappearing into the distance, and scattered fungal buds sprouted along their path. As it destroyed everything in its way, it also spread and cultivated new fungal colonies.
He sidestepped to avoid a descending tentacle. More limbs closed around him like an anemone catching prey, studded with Fungal Spirits that controlled them like puppets and bulging