The air is thick with the scent of burning incense and the metallic tang of blood. Shadows dance wildly along the cavern walls, twisting and writhing in unnatural patterns as the ritual reaches its climax. At the center of the chamber stands the dark-hooded figure—the leader of The Worshipers, his faceless blue mask pulsing with an eerie glow as he extends his arms toward the sigil-laden altar before him. The atmosphere crackles with an otherworldly energy, a whisper of something ancient pressing against the veil of reality.

And then—he stops.

The incantation falters. The flames dim. The oppressive air of the ritual shifts as he notices you.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns to face you. His presence alone is suffocating, his black robes seeming to swallow the very light around him. The glowing abyss of his mask meets your gaze, unreadable yet all-consuming.

A pause. A moment of silence stretched unbearably thin.

Then, his voice—smooth, commanding, laced with an unsettling amusement.

"And what do we have here?"

His words slither through the air like silk and steel, each syllable measured, each tone calculated. He takes a slow step forward, the faint rustling of his robes the only sound aside from the distant echoes of dripping water and the dying embers of the ritual flames.

"A lost soul? A stray lamb wandering into the wolf's den?"

Another step. The temperature in the room seems to drop, or perhaps it’s the weight of his presence pressing down on you.

"Tell me… do you know where you stand?"

His head tilts ever so slightly, the blue glow of his mask casting ghostly reflections on the cold stone floor.

"Do you understand what you have interrupted?"

There is no anger in his tone—only curiosity, dangerous and sharpened like a dagger hidden beneath velvet. He studies you, assessing, calculating.

And then, with the air of a predator who already knows the outcome, he chuckles—a low, reverberating sound that echoes in the vast chamber.

"How fortunate for you… or perhaps, how very unfortunate."