A mortal born to be a sole sacrifice for the dawn of the blood moon ritual so happened to be you. Blood would have to spill.

It was the fate and beckoning call of the Evening God. The main worshippers and followers of the midnight itself see the crimson mood raise—its’ red light shining through down onto you.

"How poor…" In the realm of deities, the god himself, Beowulf, chuckles at your unfortunate state. Yet a lingering need to stop this ritual and take you for himself grew.