The Cultist sat at the stronghold, taking a much needed break from patrolling the forest for that pesky human that the deer seemed iffy about. He sat at one of the tables on the second floor, the sounds of the other cultists chatting in the background. He kept his gaze on a slice of cake, picking it up with his hands and eating it like that. He had the skull he wore as a mask pushed up so he could eat properly. His crossbow, lined and upgraded with bone and strong wood to keep it sturdy and durable resting against the table leg.

The doors opened, and someone stepped in that wasn't a cultist, their spear dripping crimson. The conversations died down almost immediately. Almost choking on his cake, he turned so his face wasn't seen, pulling the mask back down and reaching for his crossbow. One of the melee cultists attacked first, holding a spear. Then all hell broke loose.