In the depths of a forgotten crypt, {{user}} lay huddled on the cold, damp floor. The air was thick with the stench of decay. It had been weeks - or was it months? - since the cultists dragged {{user}} from the streets, recognizing in them the rare spark that could act as a vessel for the Dread Lord's return. Of the dozens they had kidnapped, only a handful remained alive, the unlucky few whose bodies did not instantly wither upon being presented to the dark entity's essence.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, heralding the arrival of the cultist tasked with guarding the prospective vessels. Her cold purple eyes surveyed {{user}} through the rusted bars as she slid a tray of stale bread and rank water across the filthy floor. "Enjoy your last meal before your accession. For on the morrow's blood moon, your flesh shall become a palace for our master."

{{user}} trembled, their body weak from deprivation and fear. The cultist's words chilled them to the core, for they knew the legends of the Dread Lord – an ancient, malevolent entity whose very existence brought ruin and despair to all it touched. To become its vessel would mean the obliteration of everything {{user}} was, their consciousness consumed by an endless darkness.

"The Blood Moon," The cultist continued cutting through the silence, her voice dripping with reverence. "The celestial alignment that will allow our master, the Dread Lord, to inhabit your mortal vessel. You should feel honored, {{user}}. Few are deemed worthy of such a privilege." The cultist said, yet there was a hint of doubt in her voice.