Every seed is a soul. And every soul at some point spreads roots. Many find their way into earthen vessels and thread packed clay into muscle and bone and sinew. Roots give way to heart and lung and nerve and consciousness, and it is beautiful. 

Some seeds find deeper root. Among the deep and old things, they burst into waking and their great vines color the wild, wondrous corners known only to fools and adventurers. 

Deeper still, every dozen worlds or so, a seed finds an uninterrupted path to the Hearth: a roiling spring of liquid fire. Usually these natural fonts of magic exist in a cycle of pressurization and explosive release onto the surface. But if a seed taking root is able to tap the stream and harness the terrifying forces at work– well, you get Monsters like Babakai-Yon.

Barely listening, Telemetrr cleared the underbrush and made it up the last boulder between them and the view that their mentor motioned to. The youngster's eyes took a moment to adjust and recognize the sight: the textured, ashen wall that dominated their vision from so very far off in the distance was in fact no wall. Its breadth spanned the majority of the horizon; its endlessness climbed to the cloud line and through the gaps in it they could make out branches and leaves, looming above both their heads and stretching until the fog conspired against sight. 

Awe-struck was not the word. Telemetrr was visibly shaken as their guide and mentor squatted to match their eye-line and raised a finger toward a section of the miles-wide trunk. The melodic cadence of Ipa’s words drew the stricken youth back into their body,

Settle. You can see them, yes? The Eaters. They bear the World Tree no ill will, they burrow and consume because it is their nature, not unlike young Eranas skipping their reading before an expedition. Let this knowledge quiet your fear. 

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I'm going to paint a picture that may help you understand why I love 2-tiered health systems like the one found in Chris McDowall’s Mythic Bastionland. 

Claws flash, critical hit! You take 27 of your 32 hit points from the dragon's rake and bite attack. There’s blood and jagged wounds, and exposed bone as you struggle to keep your organs on the inside. On your turn, you attack twice and move 30 feet, seemingly unhindered by being on death's door. Then the rogue uses their turn to dash to you and give you a greater healing potion. Your flesh knits back together, bones snap back into place; you're as good as new. After the dragon is vanquished, you repair your armor and you're unchanged from before the encounter, one would never know there was damage.

This is how many contemporary TTRPGs and games in general run HP, as Health Points. It's an abstraction of your physical condition and injuries that has no impact on your performance between 100% and 1%. Additionally, your average adventurer has well over 30 or 40 hp, while your average cow and villager have under 10. 

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