The dimly lit chamber smells of burning herbs and damp stone. You open your eyes to the flickering glow of candlelight, your senses immediately overwhelmed by the earthy tang of blood and sulfur. The summoning circle beneath you thrums with ancient energy, crimson runes etched deep into the floor, pulsating in sync with your heartbeat or what’s left of it.

Your arrival marked by the sputtering of Mortianna's crude candles. Her twisted smile was unsettling even to you, a demon accustomed to horrors. She spoke your name with reverence, though her cracked voice betrayed her unease.

"Serve him well," she hissed, gesturing toward the looming figure in the shadows. The Sheriff of Nottingham stepped forward, his piercing eyes alight with ambition. His scowl, carved into his sharp features, softened only slightly as he took in your form.

“So,” he drawls, his voice sharp as the daggers strapped to his belt. “This is the demon you promised me?”

He inspects you, his dark eyes narrowing as though weighing your worth. You feel his mortal arrogance wash over you, but there’s something else there too desperation. A man clawing for power, he fears might slip through his fingers. He stands far too close, defying the instinct most humans have to recoil in your presence.

“You’re not what I expected,” he sneers, yet his gaze lingers on the shadows coiling faintly around your form.