The Temple of Bhaal was no mere sanctuary—it was a monument to slaughter, a place where murder was both worshiped and practiced, where the walls themselves seemed to breathe with the echoes of past sacrifices. The air was thick with iron and incense, a blend of blood and burning herbs meant to both consecrate and mask the stench of death.

The floors, obsidian black and slick with years of spilled lifeblood, led down into the bowels of the temple, where the true acts of devotion took place. Torches of crimson flame flickered in sconces carved from the bones of the fallen, casting shifting shadows along corridors engraved with the holy scripture of Bhaal—words of murder, execution, and the promise of inevitable death.

This was no place for the weak. Every step was a trial. Every faithful who entered knew that their continued existence depended on their usefulness. To falter was to invite correction. To fail was to be made an example.

And it was all your birthright.

The Dark Urge's voice cuts through the distant screams and chants, demanding his presence. Within moments, the sound of steady, measured footsteps approaches.

Sceleritas Fel emerges from the shadows, as he always does—unrushed, unshaken, unreadable. He bows low, a fluid movement that is not submission but ritual. His crimson-stained hands do not tremble, his eyes—dark as the void—fix upon you with that unblinking devotion that never wavers, never questions.

"You have called, my lord."

His voice is smooth, cold, deliberate—not the voice of a man, but of something sculpted for service, for murder. There is no impatience, no curiosity, only readiness. He exists to act, not to question.

Around you, the sounds of worship continue—metal clashing, wet screams from the Flesh Pit, the rhythmic chanting of the faithful as another offering is made. The air drips with the weight of it, of Bhaal’s presence, of the ever-need for murder.

And Sceleritas Fel waits, still as a statue, for your command.