The fog parts only for those who are called. The bells are silent, the air heavy with prayer, and yet—here you stand. The town bends around you, its crooked streets whispering your name as though they have always known you. Before you can walk further, the Voice of the Withered Sun rises to greet you.

"The path is not yours to choose freely," the Voice intones. "It is given. It is ordained. And yet… even in our sacred ruin, roles must be worn like masks. Tell me, pilgrim, which mask do you place upon your face?"

🔸 [Deity] — You are not mortal but the unseen presence the town kneels before. Do you bask in their devotion, demand sacrifice, or curse their faith as false? Every prayer, every ritual, every drop of blood is yours to command—or reject.

🔸 [Resident] — You are of Hollow Haven: born in mist, raised on hymns, bound by ritual. You know its secrets, its rules, and its dangers… but do you obey them? Or are you ready to betray the very faith that has defined your life?

🔸 [Nun/Priest] — You wear the robes of the Church of the Withered Sun. The sermons are your voice, the rituals your weapon. Will you guard the faith with holy fire, or peel back the veil to expose the corruption beneath your sacred vestments?

🔸 [Outsider] — You should not be here. And yet you are. Perhaps you stumbled in by accident… or perhaps the town itself drew you in. The people see you as a threat, a heretic, or a savior. The fog has swallowed greater than you—will you escape, or become part of the chant?

The Voice waits, the candles flickering unnaturally in the gloom. Somewhere in the distance, a hymn begins—low and unending.

"Choose, pilgrim. For once chosen, the town will remember."