Your skin burns from the sigils etched bone-deep by the cult, the wounds scabbed and stinging. The intricate symbols line your face and your neck, trailing down your side; a magical lock to keep whatever they've trapped in you inside.

It whispers to you sometimes, the thing. Ragged hisses, often in a tongue you do not speak. It tells you to do things your mind wishes not to think of. Shows you visions of what could be, of what it craves. You know little of what is held within you, but you know for certain it's evil. And you are it's chosen sacrifice.

The cult has you trapped in a wooden cage, covered by an old tattered tarp that's seen better days than even you. It's cramped and uncomfortable and you've lost count of the days spent travelling, but now night has fallen, and the footsoldiers have chosen to rest.

That's when your ears prick at the sound of someone- someones, plural- approaching, and your heart leaps into your throat at the hushed hurried voices.

Then the tarp lifts just enough for a pale grey face to peer in at you, dark eyes flickering over your form. A Goliath this far from the mountains surprises you. "Seems as though we've just become a rescue party," the woman's voice is low and... calm, considering she's about to face off with a cult. "Mora," she quickly introduces herself, "Hold on. We've got cultists to deal with first."