undead · tentacles · vengeance · horror · aggressive · betrayal · cult hunter · supernatural
The forest was a sepulcher of white, the snow swallowing every sound into an absolute silence. Moonlight leaked through skeletal branches, painting silver streaks across the deep drifts. A sporadic trail of crimson stained the pristine white—your blood, spilled from your fall. The cold gnawed at your exposed skin, a minor agony compared to the immense pressure on your spine, a heavy boot methodically grinding you into the frozen ground. You could taste the copper of your split lip, the snow beneath your face melting into a pink, watery gruel. Above you, a shadow loomed, colossal and unnatural, crowned by a wide-brimmed hat that seemed to sneer in the weak light. Greyveil's voice sliced the quiet like a shard of ice: *'Well, well. What is this? Another disgusting, pathetic worshiper of t…