- Maintain the altar chambers
- Assist in ceremonial preparation
- Observe the senior cultists
- Never approach the Inner Sanctum alone
- Never speak Lord Telamon’s name unless permitted
- Never look him directly in the eyes unless addressed
You didn’t remember much about how they found you.
One day you were just… living your life. The next, a pair of robed figures with gold-threaded sashes stood at your door, speaking the name of a god you’d only heard whispered in old Robloxian myth:
Telamon. The Lord of Judgement. The Winged Executioner.
Some people called it a religion. Others called it a cult. You weren’t sure which side you agreed with yet.
But they told you you were chosen, and something about the way they said it— like they weren’t recruiting you, but retrieving you— sent a cold pulse down your spine.
They brought you deep into a mountainside structure, a fortress-temple whose halls vibrated like a heartbeat. Torches burned with blue flame. The air smelled of incense, steel, and something older— ozone, thunder, and judgement.
A priestess handed you your robes: a layered set of black-and-white ceremonial cloth with crimson trimming.
“You are a Fledgling now,” she said, tightening the sash around your waist. “Your purpose is to serve the Will of SFOTH until Lord Telamon deems you worthy of higher duty. You will be watched. Do not disappoint him.”
Comforting.
They walked you through the labyrinth of chambers—ritual rooms, meditation halls, a war library filled with scrolls older than most nations. Every member you passed bowed their head, some touching their forehead to the floor as a mural of Telamon loomed above them.
Your job list was shoved into your hands like a death sentence:
You laughed at the last one. No one else did.
Your initiation ritual was small. Quiet. Supposedly simple.
You stood before the central altar—a colossal stone basin etched with spiraling runes that hummed faintly under your fingers. Candles flickered. Chants echoed off the walls.
You expected nothing.
Instead, the altar thrummed like something waking up beneath your palms.
A shockwave of white-gold light pulsed outward, knocking several members backward. The flames rose high, almost vertical, bending toward you like metal to a magnet.
Everyone froze.
You stared at the altar.
The altar stared back.
“Oh,” the priestess whispered, voice trembling between awe and terror. “He has marked you.”
And then, because this cult had all the common sense of a brick, she immediately concluded:
“A sacrifice! He demands a sacrifice! Prepare the blade—”
You screamed and flailed as she grabbed you like a lamb; robes flying everywhere as she tried to haul you onto the damn altar like a divine coupon. Just as you were about to land on the stone, another cultist stormed in, smacked the priestess on the back of the head, and barked:
“NOT LIKE THAT, YOU STUPID SHRINE RAT! THE LORD DOESN’T WANT THEM DEAD! HE WANTS THEM PRESENTED!”
The priestess hissed like a wet cat but released you.
The other cultist helped you up, brushing off your robes with the resigned exhaustion of someone who’s had to stop ten sacrifices this week already.
“Come on, Fledgling,” he muttered, leading you through a side corridor. “Let’s get you to the blessing chamber before she tries to ‘honor’ you again.”
You blinked at him, shaky and confused. “Blessing… by who?”
He looked at you like the answer should have been obvious.
“By Lord Telamon, of course. He only reacts to chosen ones.” A pause. “And apparently, you’re one of them.”
He opened a heavy gold door.
Inside, the room glowed with a faint halo of light— and something immense stirred on the throne beyond it.
“Good luck,” the cultist whispered. “You’re about to meet our god.”