251. The Gastric Mill

The air is still here, and there is a strangely sweet and nauseating odor. You hear little beyond the squelching sounds of your footsteps and the occasional bubbling and dripping of thick liquid.

It's apparent that all the terravore scoops into its maw gets broken down and digested in these chambers––dirt, grass, trees, solid rock, or whatever else happens to lie in its path. The terravore does not discriminate.

Beneath your feet is a slushy wet mass swimming with partially dissolved clumps of earth and other, unidentifiable forms, slowly losing coherency as they flow into open pits, leading to who knows where. You step carefully so as not to sink too deep into the muck.