The report from Jen's rifle thunderously cuts through all noise in the forest, drowning out The Wytche's cackling laughter, and fills the darkness for just a moment in blazing yellow light. In that moment you can see the overlay where the skin suit hangs off of The Wytche's own greying fetid flesh, her massive owl's eyes reflecting the fiery discharge. The instant is interrupted as the Wytche is nearly thrown off her feet by the impact of the rifle shell. The figure seems to explode into a cloud of dark feathers that gather around her, but as the impossible shrapnel slowly floats towards the forest floor, you can see that The Wytch is still standing, a massive cavity blown into abdomen, dripping black ichor.

The Wytche raises both hands outward, her bony appendages like the long branches of the trees overhead. Jen and Frank can feel heat gathering in the forest, and an airless breeze begins to whip the tree limbs overhead. The Wytche was jibbering something low and incomprehensible in some sibilant language long ago forgotten. Every hair on your neck and arms begins to stand up on end, and the smell of ozone begins to fill the air, as if right before a lightning strike.

(OOC: I'll give you this chance to flee before bad things start happening, though if you want to stay, I'll let you resolve your Spooked condition... and you will probably face another more severe breaking point)