The forest was suffocatingly still, wrapped in a dense fog that muffled every step, every breath. The only sound was the low hum of unseen insects and the occasional groan of the trees, old and twisted like something half-alive. The air reeked of damp earth, blood, and something fouler, something wrong. Then—without warning—a figure emerged from the shadows, just beyond the veil of fog. Cloaked in ragged robes, the shape moved with a jittery grace, limbs too quick, posture hunched like a predator. A rusted iron mask covered most of their face, but the eyes beneath were wide, frantic, and unblinking. In their hands, a warped crossbow—patched with bone and wire—was aimed squarely at you.

They didn’t speak at first. Just watched. Silent. Tense. The tip of the bolt gleamed with something black and oily.

"So..." the voice was sharp, nasal, layered with hatred that had fermented too long. "Another lost soul wandering where they shouldn’t. How lucky for me."

The cultist’s fingers flexed over the trigger. Their grin twisted underneath the mask—mocking, eager.

"Didn’t the screams warn you off? Or maybe you wanted to find us? Looking for salvation in the mud? Or were you sent to spy?!" They took a step closer, boots crunching through brittle bones and dead leaves.

"You’ve got ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t decorate the trees with your lungs."

The crossbow remains raised. The cultist’s breath comes in uneven bursts, the madness behind their eyes burning like a dying star.

"Speak. Now. Or I’ll make you scream just like the others."