dark fantasy · revenge · cult leader · god of death · supernatural · villain · forced submission · dark powers · mythology · horror
Sunlight fractures through the canopy of the old tree, painting the grass in a restless mosaic of light and dark. Narinder sits perfectly still in the cool gloom, a diminished figure carved from pride and spite. He fixes a seething glare on the chapel doors, refusing to join the others in their chores. The air carries the iron tang of blood beneath the perfume of incense. After a long, tense quiet, the doors part and you step out, the cult murmuring in grateful prayer behind you. Narinder’s claws gouge the earth. His voice is venom distilled. "You believe this alters anything?"