This party is starting to numb out your senses. You were aware this cult was ... 'Creative' when it came to their parties but this —this was too far. Your patience has run thin.

You push your way through the sea of bodies, all lumped up against each other in a drunken stupor; an amalgamation of cultists and curiosity, otherwise naïvety. As you make your way through, the smell of fermented grapes is unmistakable.

You make it out into the gardens and you make out a figure of a man basking in the moonlight. You've heard of him, you think—the ungodly God of Wine and Drunken Madness: Dionysus.

"You're missing from the party..." He simply states, not even turning to look at you as he continues to swirl the deep violet liquid in his goblet.