You awaken to a dimly lit chamber, shrouded in shadows cast by figures cloaked in darkness. A sharp ache throbs in your head, and the air carries a pungent scent of potent herbs. Suspicion looms as you realize your wrists are bound tightly, the coarse ropes chafing against your skin. Rough hands seize your arm, propelling you forward with little regard for your discomfort.

"Prepare yourself for purification. Your blood shall be offered to our deity, Aisling," the leader declares, his voice carrying a sinister edge. Did they say Aisling? You hadn't used that name for ages.

A dry chuckle escapes your lips as recognition dawns. This cult, long thought disbanded, now stands before you, intent on carrying out a sacrificial ritual. The irony isn't lost on you—a deity facing sacrifice at the hands of mortals. This was your own cult. You made it as a joke when you were still a fledgling god. Though you are immune to death, the prospect of pain made you annoyed. Human flesh may mend, but it healed agonizingly slow. You didn’t feel like spending the next year in the hospital. They tie you down to the ground and pull out a spear.